Mr. Loomis, true to his word, wrote a few days later that hehad enquired1 in vain in the work-shop for any news of Ramy; and asshe folded this letter and laid it between the leaves of her Bible,Ann Eliza felt that her last hope was gone. Miss Mellins, ofcourse, had long since suggested the mediation2 of the police, andcited from her favourite literature convincing instances of thesupernatural ability of the Pinkerton detective; but Mr. Hawkins,when called in council, dashed this project by remarking thatdetectives cost something like twenty dollars a day; and a vaguefear of the law, some half-formed vision of Evelina in the clutchof a blue-coated "officer," kept Ann Eliza from invoking3 the aid ofthe police.
After the arrival of Mr. Loomis's note the weeks followed eachother uneventfully. Ann Eliza's cough clung to her till late inthe spring, the reflection in her looking-glass grew more bent4 andmeagre, and her forehead sloped back farther toward the twist ofhair that was fastened above her parting by a comb of black India-rubber.
Toward spring a lady who was expecting a baby took up herabode at the Mendoza Family Hotel, and through the friendlyintervention of Miss Mellins the making of some of the baby-clotheswas entrusted5 to Ann Eliza. This eased her of anxiety for theimmediate future; but she had to rouse herself to feel any sense ofrelief. Her personal welfare was what least concerned her.
Sometimes she thought of giving up the shop altogether; andonly the fear that, if she changed her address, Evelina might notbe able to find her, kept her from carrying out this plan.
Since she had lost her last hope of tracing her sister, allthe activities of her lonely imagination had been concentrated onthe possibility of Evelina's coming back to her. The discovery ofRamy's secret filled her with dreadful fears. In the solitude7 ofthe shop and the back room she was tortured by vague pictures ofEvelina's sufferings. What horrors might not be hidden beneath hersilence? Ann Eliza's great dread6 was that Miss Mellins should wormout of her what she had learned from Mr. Loomis. She was sure MissMellins must have abominable8 things to tell about drug-fiends--things she did not have the strength to hear. "Drug-fiend"--thevery word was Satanic; she could hear Miss Mellins roll it on hertongue. But Ann Eliza's own imagination, left to itself, had begunto people the long hours with evil visions. Sometimes, in thenight, she thought she heard herself called: the voice was hersister's, but faint with a nameless terror. Her most peacefulmoments were those in which she managed to convince herself thatEvelina was dead. She thought of her then, mournfully but morecalmly, as thrust away under the neglected mound9 of some unknowncemetery, where no headstone marked her name, no mourner withflowers for another grave paused in pity to lay a blossom on hers.
But this vision did not often give Ann Eliza its negative relief;and always, beneath its hazy10 lines, lurked11 the dark conviction thatEvelina was alive, in misery12 and longing13 for her.
So the summer wore on. Ann Eliza was conscious that Mrs.
Hawkins and Miss Mellins were watching her with affectionateanxiety, but the knowledge brought no comfort. She no longer caredwhat they felt or thought about her. Her grief lay far beyondtouch of human healing, and after a while she became aware thatthey knew they could not help her. They still came in as often astheir busy lives permitted, but their visits grew shorter, and Mrs.
Hawkins always brought Arthur or the baby, so that there should besomething to talk about, and some one whom she could scold.
The autumn came, and the winter. Business had fallen offagain, and but few purchasers came to the little shop in thebasement. In January Ann Eliza pawned15 her mother's cashmere scarf,her mosaic16 brooch, and the rosewood what-not on which the clock hadalways stood; she would have sold the bedstead too, but for thepersistent vision of Evelina returning weak and weary, and notknowing where to lay her head.
The winter passed in its turn, and March reappeared with itsgalaxies of yellow jonquils at the windy street corners, remindingAnn Eliza of the spring day when Evelina had come home with a bunchof jonquils in her hand. In spite of the flowers which lent sucha premature17 brightness to the streets the month was fierce andstormy, and Ann Eliza could get no warmth into her bones.
Nevertheless, she was insensibly beginning to take up the healingroutine of life. Little by little she had grown used to beingalone, she had begun to take a languid interest in the one or twonew purchasers the season had brought, and though the thought ofEvelina was as poignant18 as ever, it was less persistently19 in theforeground of her mind.
Late one afternoon she was sitting behind the counter, wrappedin her shawl, and wondering how soon she might draw down the blindsand retreat into the comparative cosiness20 of the back room. Shewas not thinking of anything in particular, except perhaps in ahazy way of the lady with the puffed21 sleeves, who after her longeclipse had reappeared the day before in sleeves of a new cut, andbought some tape and needles. The lady still wore mourning, butshe was evidently lightening it, and Ann Eliza saw in this the hopeof future orders. The lady had left the shop about an hour before,walking away with her graceful22 step toward Fifth Avenue. She hadwished Ann Eliza good day in her usual affable way, and Ann Elizathought how odd it was that they should have been acquainted solong, and yet that she should not know the lady's name. From thisconsideration her mind wandered to the cut of the lady's newsleeves, and she was vexed23 with herself for not having noted24 itmore carefully. She felt Miss Mellins might have liked to knowabout it. Ann Eliza's powers of observation had never beenas keen as Evelina's, when the latter was not too self-absorbed toexert them. As Miss Mellins always said, Evelina could "takepatterns with her eyes": she could have cut that new sleeve out ofa folded newspaper in a trice! Musing25 on these things, Ann Elizawished the lady would come back and give her another look at thesleeve. It was not unlikely that she might pass that way, for shecertainly lived in or about the Square. Suddenly Ann Elizaremarked a small neat handkerchief on the counter: it must havedropped from the lady's purse, and she would probably come back toget it. Ann Eliza, pleased at the idea, sat on behind the counterand watched the darkening street. She always lit the gas as lateas possible, keeping the box of matches at her elbow, so that ifany one came she could apply a quick flame to the gas-jet. Atlength through the deepening dusk she distinguished26 a slim darkfigure coming down the steps to the shop. With a little warmth ofpleasure about her heart she reached up to light the gas. "I dobelieve I'll ask her name this time," she thought. She raised theflame to its full height, and saw her sister standing27 in the door.
There she was at last, the poor pale shade of Evelina, herthin face blanched28 of its faint pink, the stiff ripples29 gone fromher hair, and a mantle30 shabbier than Ann Eliza's drawn31 about hernarrow shoulders. The glare of the gas beat full on her as shestood and looked at Ann Eliza.
"Sister--oh, Evelina! I knowed you'd come!"Ann Eliza had caught her close with a long moan of triumph.
Vague words poured from her as she laid her cheek againstEvelina's--trivial inarticulate endearments32 caught from Mrs.
Hawkins's long discourses33 to her baby.
For a while Evelina let herself be passively held; then shedrew back from her sister's clasp and looked about the shop. "I'mdead tired. Ain't there any fire?" she asked.
"Of course there is!" Ann Eliza, holding her hand fast, drewher into the back room. She did not want to ask any questions yet:
she simply wanted to feel the emptiness of the room brimmed fullagain by the one presence that was warmth and light to her.
She knelt down before the grate, scraped some bits of coal andkindling from the bottom of the coal-scuttle, and drew one of therocking-chairs up to the weak flame. "There--that'll blaze up ina minute," she said. She pressed Evelina down on the fadedcushions of the rocking-chair, and, kneeling beside her, began torub her hands.
"You're stone-cold, ain't you? Just sit still and warmyourself while I run and get the kettle. I've got something youalways used to fancy for supper." She laid her hand on Evelina'sshoulder. "Don't talk--oh, don't talk yet!" she implored34. Shewanted to keep that one frail35 second of happiness between herselfand what she knew must come.
Evelina, without a word, bent over the fire, stretching herthin hands to the blaze and watching Ann Eliza fill the kettle andset the supper table. Her gaze had the dreamy fixity of a half-awakened child's.
Ann Eliza, with a smile of triumph, brought a slice of custardpie from the cupboard and put it by her sister's plate.
"You do like that, don't you? Miss Mellins sent it down to methis morning. She had her aunt from Brooklyn to dinner. Ain't itfunny it just so happened?""I ain't hungry," said Evelina, rising to approach the table.
She sat down in her usual place, looked about her with thesame wondering stare, and then, as of old, poured herself out thefirst cup of tea.
"Where's the what-not gone to?" she suddenly asked.
Ann Eliza set down the teapot and rose to get a spoon from thecupboard. With her back to the room she said: "The what-not? Why,you see, dearie, living here all alone by myself it only made onemore thing to dust; so I sold it."Evelina's eyes were still travelling about the familiar room.
Though it was against all the traditions of the Bunner family tosell any household possession, she showed no surprise at hersister's answer.
"And the clock? The clock's gone too.""Oh, I gave that away--I gave it to Mrs. Hawkins. She's kep'
awake so nights with that last baby.""I wish you'd never bought it," said Evelina harshly.
Ann Eliza's heart grew faint with fear. Without answering,she crossed over to her sister's seat and poured her out a secondcup of tea. Then another thought struck her, and she went back tothe cupboard and took out the cordial. In Evelina's absenceconsiderable draughts36 had been drawn from it by invalid37 neighbours;but a glassful of the precious liquid still remained.
"Here, drink this right off--it'll warm you up quicker thananything," Ann Eliza said.
Evelina obeyed, and a slight spark of colour came into hercheeks. She turned to the custard pie and began to eat with asilent voracity38 distressing39 to watch. She did not even look to seewhat was left for Ann Eliza.
"I ain't hungry," she said at last as she laid down her fork.
"I'm only so dead tired--that's the trouble.""then you'd better get right into bed. Here's my old plaiddressing-gown--you remember it, don't you?" Ann Eliza laughed,recalling Evelina's ironies41 on the subject of the antiquatedgarment. With trembling fingers she began to undo42 her sister'scloak. The dress beneath it told a tale of poverty that Ann Elizadared not pause to note. She drew it gently off, and as it slippedfrom Evelina's shoulders it revealed a tiny black bag hanging on aribbon about her neck. Evelina lifted her hand as though to screenthe bag from Ann Eliza; and the elder sister, seeing the gesture,continued her task with lowered eyes. She undressed Evelina asquickly as she could, and wrapping her in the plaid dressing-gownput her to bed, and spread her own shawl and her sister's cloakabove the blanket.
"Where's the old red comfortable?" Evelina asked, as she sankdown on the pillow.
"The comfortable? Oh, it was so hot and heavy I never used itafter you went--so I sold that too. I never could sleep under muchclothes."She became aware that her sister was looking at her moreattentively.
"I guess you've been in trouble too," Evelina said.
"Me? In trouble? What do you mean, Evelina?""You've had to pawn14 the things, I suppose," Evelina continuedin a weary unmoved tone. "Well, I've been through worse than that.
I've been to hell and back.""Oh, Evelina--don't say it, sister!" Ann Eliza implored,shrinking from the unholy word. She knelt down and began to rubher sister's feet beneath the bedclothes.
"I've been to hell and back--if I AM back," Evelinarepeated. She lifted her head from the pillow and began to talkwith a sudden feverish43 volubility. "It began right away, less thana month after we were married. I've been in hell all that time,Ann Eliza." She fixed44 her eyes with passionate45 intentness on AnnEliza's face. "He took opium46. I didn't find it out till longafterward--at first, when he acted so strange, I thought he drank.
But it was worse, much worse than drinking.""Oh, sister, don't say it--don't say it yet! It's so sweetjust to have you here with me again.""I must say it," Evelina insisted, her flushed face burningwith a kind of bitter cruelty. "You don't know what life's like--you don't know anything about it--setting here safe all the whilein this peaceful place.""Oh, Evelina--why didn't you write and send for me if it waslike that?""That's why I couldn't write. Didn't you guess I wasashamed?""How could you be? Ashamed to write to Ann Eliza?"Evelina raised herself on her thin elbow, while Ann Eliza,bending over, drew a corner of the shawl about her shoulder.
"Do lay down again. You'll catch your death.""My death? That don't frighten me! You don't know what I'vebeen through." And sitting upright in the old mahogany bed, withflushed cheeks and chattering47 teeth, and Ann Eliza's trembling armclasping the shawl about her neck, Evelina poured out her story.
It was a tale of misery and humiliation48 so remote from the eldersister's innocent experiences that much of it was hardlyintelligible to her. Evelina's dreadful familiarity with it all,her fluency49 about things which Ann Eliza half-guessed and quicklyshuddered back from, seemed even more alien and terrible thanthe actual tale she told. It was one thing--and heaven knewit was bad enough!--to learn that one's sister's husband was adrug-fiend; it was another, and much worse thing, to learn fromthat sister's pallid50 lips what vileness51 lay behind the word.
Evelina, unconscious of any distress40 but her own, sat upright,shivering in Ann Eliza's hold, while she piled up, detail bydetail, her dreary52 narrative53.
"The minute we got out there, and he found the job wasn't asgood as he expected, he changed. At first I thought he was sick--Iused to try to keep him home and nurse him. Then I saw it wassomething different. He used to go off for hours at a time, andwhen he came back his eyes kinder had a fog over them. Sometimeshe didn't har'ly know me, and when he did he seemed to hate me.
Once he hit me here." She touched her breast. "Do you remember,Ann Eliza, that time he didn't come to see us for a week--the timeafter we all went to Central Park together--and you and I thoughthe must be sick?"Ann Eliza nodded.
"Well, that was the trouble--he'd been at it then. Butnothing like as bad. After we'd been out there about a month hedisappeared for a whole week. They took him back at the store, andgave him another chance; but the second time they discharged him,and he drifted round for ever so long before he could get anotherjob. We spent all our money and had to move to a cheaper place.
Then he got something to do, but they hardly paid him anything, andhe didn't stay there long. When he found out about the baby--""The baby?" Ann Eliza faltered54.
"It's dead--it only lived a day. When he found out about it,he got mad, and said he hadn't any money to pay doctors' bills, andI'd better write to you to help us. He had an idea you had moneyhidden away that I didn't know about." She turned to her sisterwith remorseful55 eyes. "It was him that made me get that hundreddollars out of you.""Hush56, hush. I always meant it for you anyhow.""Yes, but I wouldn't have taken it if he hadn't been at me thewhole time. He used to make me do just what he wanted. Well, whenI said I wouldn't write to you for more money he said I'd bettertry and earn some myself. That was when he struck me. . . . Oh,you don't know what I'm talking about yet! . . . I tried to getwork at a milliner's, but I was so sick I couldn't stay. I wassick all the time. I wisht I'd ha' died, Ann Eliza.""No, no, Evelina.""Yes, I do. It kept getting worse and worse. We pawned thefurniture, and they turned us out because we couldn't pay the rent;and so then we went to board with Mrs. Hochmuller."Ann Eliza pressed her closer to dissemble her own tremor57.
"Mrs. Hochmuller?""Didn't you know she was out there? She moved out a monthafter we did. She wasn't bad to me, and I think she tried to keephim straight--but Linda--""Linda--?""Well, when I kep' getting worse, and he was always off, fordays at a time, the doctor had me sent to a hospital.""A hospital? Sister--sister!""It was better than being with him; and the doctors were realkind to me. After the baby was born I was very sick and had tostay there a good while. And one day when I was laying there Mrs.
Hochmuller came in as white as a sheet, and told me him and Lindahad gone off together and taken all her money. That's the last Iever saw of him." She broke off with a laugh and began to coughagain.
Ann Eliza tried to persuade her to lie down and sleep, but therest of her story had to be told before she could be soothed58 intoconsent. After the news of Ramy's flight she had had brain fever,and had been sent to another hospital where she stayed a longtime--how long she couldn't remember. Dates and days meant nothingto her in the shapeless ruin of her life. When she left thehospital she found that Mrs. Hochmuller had gone too. She waspenniless, and had no one to turn to. A lady visitor at thehospital was kind, and found her a place where she did housework;but she was so weak they couldn't keep her. Then she got a job aswaitress in a down-town lunch-room, but one day she fainted whileshe was handing a dish, and that evening when they paid herthey told her she needn't come again.
"After that I begged in the streets"--(Ann Eliza's grasp againgrew tight)--"and one afternoon last week, when the matinees wascoming out, I met a man with a pleasant face, something like Mr.
Hawkins, and he stopped and asked me what the trouble was. I toldhim if he'd give me five dollars I'd have money enough to buy aticket back to New York, and he took a good look at me and said,well, if that was what I wanted he'd go straight to the stationwith me and give me the five dollars there. So he did--and hebought the ticket, and put me in the cars."Evelina sank back, her face a sallow wedge in the white cleftof the pillow. Ann Eliza leaned over her, and for a long time theyheld each other without speaking.
They were still clasped in this dumb embrace when there was astep in the shop and Ann Eliza, starting up, saw Miss Mellins inthe doorway59.
"My sakes, Miss Bunner! What in the land are you doing? MissEvelina--Mrs. Ramy--it ain't you?"Miss Mellins's eyes, bursting from their sockets60, sprang fromEvelina's pallid face to the disordered supper table and the heapof worn clothes on the floor; then they turned back to Ann Eliza,who had placed herself on the defensive61 between her sister and thedress-maker.
"My sister Evelina has come back--come back on a visit. shewas taken sick in the cars on the way home--I guess she caughtcold--so I made her go right to bed as soon as ever she got here."Ann Eliza was surprised at the strength and steadiness of hervoice. Fortified62 by its sound she went on, her eyes on MissMellins's baffled countenance63: "Mr. Ramy has gone west on a trip--atrip connected with his business; and Evelina is going to stay withme till he comes back."
收听单词发音 |
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enquired
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| 打听( enquire的过去式和过去分词 )； 询问； 问问题； 查问 | |
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mediation
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| n.调解 | |
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invoking
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| v.援引( invoke的现在分词 )；行使（权利等）；祈求救助；恳求 | |
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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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entrusted
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| v.委托，托付( entrust的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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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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solitude
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| n. 孤独; 独居,荒僻之地,幽静的地方 | |
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abominable
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| adj.可厌的，令人憎恶的 | |
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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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hazy
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| adj.有薄雾的，朦胧的；不肯定的，模糊的 | |
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lurked
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| vi.潜伏，埋伏（lurk的过去式与过去分词形式） | |
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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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longing
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| n.（for）渴望 | |
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pawn
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| n.典当，抵押，小人物，走卒；v.典当，抵押 | |
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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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mosaic
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| n./adj.镶嵌细工的，镶嵌工艺品的，嵌花式的 | |
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premature
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| adj.比预期时间早的；不成熟的，仓促的 | |
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poignant
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| adj.令人痛苦的，辛酸的，惨痛的 | |
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persistently
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| ad.坚持地；固执地 | |
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cosiness
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| n.舒适，安逸 | |
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puffed
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| adj.疏松的v.使喷出( puff的过去式和过去分词 )；喷着汽（或烟）移动；吹嘘；吹捧 | |
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graceful
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| adj.优美的，优雅的；得体的 | |
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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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noted
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| adj.著名的，知名的 | |
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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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distinguished
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| adj.卓越的，杰出的，著名的 | |
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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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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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ripples
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| 逐渐扩散的感觉( ripple的名词复数 ) | |
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mantle
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| n.斗篷，覆罩之物，罩子；v.罩住，覆盖，脸红 | |
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drawn
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| v.拖，拉，拔出；adj.憔悴的，紧张的 | |
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endearments
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| n.表示爱慕的话语，亲热的表示( endearment的名词复数 ) | |
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discourses
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| 论文( discourse的名词复数 )； 演说； 讲道； 话语 | |
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implored
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| 恳求或乞求（某人）( implore的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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frail
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| adj.身体虚弱的；易损坏的 | |
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draughts
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| n. <英>国际跳棋 | |
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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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voracity
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| n.贪食，贪婪 | |
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distressing
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| a.使人痛苦的 | |
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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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ironies
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| n.反语( irony的名词复数 )；冷嘲；具有讽刺意味的事；嘲弄 | |
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undo
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| vt.解开，松开；取消，撤销 | |
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feverish
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| adj.发烧的，狂热的，兴奋的 | |
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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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passionate
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| adj.热情的，热烈的，激昂的，易动情的，易怒的，性情暴躁的 | |
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opium
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| n.鸦片；adj.鸦片的 | |
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47
chattering
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| n. （机器振动发出的）咔嗒声，(鸟等)鸣，啁啾 adj. 喋喋不休的，啾啾声的 动词chatter的现在分词形式 | |
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48
humiliation
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| n.羞辱 | |
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fluency
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| n.流畅，雄辩，善辩 | |
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50
pallid
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| adj.苍白的，呆板的 | |
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51
vileness
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| n.讨厌，卑劣 | |
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52
dreary
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| adj.令人沮丧的，沉闷的，单调乏味的 | |
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53
narrative
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| n.叙述，故事；adj.叙事的，故事体的 | |
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54
faltered
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| （嗓音）颤抖( falter的过去式和过去分词 )； 支吾其词； 蹒跚； 摇晃 | |
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55
remorseful
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| adj.悔恨的 | |
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56
hush
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| int.嘘，别出声；n.沉默，静寂；v.使安静 | |
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57
tremor
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| n.震动，颤动，战栗，兴奋，地震 | |
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58
soothed
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| v.安慰( soothe的过去式和过去分词 )；抚慰；使舒服；减轻痛苦 | |
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59
doorway
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| n.门口，(喻)入门；门路，途径 | |
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60
sockets
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| n.套接字，使应用程序能够读写与收发通讯协定(protocol)与资料的程序( Socket的名词复数 )；孔( socket的名词复数 )；（电器上的）插口；托座；凹穴 | |
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61
defensive
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| adj.防御的；防卫的；防守的 | |
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62
fortified
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| adj. 加强的 | |
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63
countenance
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| n.脸色，面容；面部表情；vt.支持，赞同 | |
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