The vehemence1 with which Susan Dixon threw herself into occupation could not last for ever. Times of languor2 and remembrance would come — times when she recurred3 with a passionate4 yearning5 to bygone days, the recollection of which was so vivid and delicious, that it seemed as though it were the reality, and the present bleak6 bareness the dream. She smiled anew at the magical sweetness of some touch or tone which in memory she felt and heard, and drank the delicious cup of poison, although at the very time she knew what the consequences of racking pain would be.
“This time, last year,” thought she, “we went nutting together — this very day last year; just such a day as today. Purple and gold were the lights on the hills; the leaves were just turning brown; here and there on the sunny slopes the stubble-fields looked tawny7; down in a cleft8 of yon purple slate-rock the beck fell like a silver glancing thread; all just as it is today. And he climbed the slender, swaying nut-trees, and bent9 the branches for me to gather; or made a passage through the hazel copses, from time to time claiming a toll10. Who could have thought he loved me so little?— who?— who?”
Or, as the evening closed in, she would allow herself to imagine that she heard his coming step, just that she might recall time feeling of exquisite11 delight which had passed by without the due and passionate relish12 at the time. Then she would wonder how she could have had strength, the cruel, self-piercing strength, to say what she had done; to stab himself with that stern resolution, of which the sear would remain till her dying day. It might have been right; but, as she sickened, she wished she had not instinctively13 chosen the right. How luxurious14 a life haunted by no stern sense of duty must be! And many led this kind of life; why could not she? O, for one hour again of his sweet company! If he came now, she would agree to whatever he proposed.
It was a fever of the mind. She passed through it, and came out healthy, if weak. She was capable once more of taking pleasure in following an unseen guide through briar and brake. She returned with tenfold affection to her protecting care of Willie. She acknowledged to herself that he was to he her all-inall in life. She made him her constant companion. For his sake, as the real owner of Yew15 Nook, and she as his steward16 and guardian17, she began that course of careful saving, and that love of acquisition, which afterwards gained for her the reputation of being miserly. She still thought that he might regain18 a scanty19 portion of sense — enough to require some simple pleasures and excitement, which would cost money. And money should not be wanting. Peggy rather assisted her in the formation of her parsimonious20 habits than otherwise; economy was the order of the district, and a certain degree of respectable avarice21 the characteristic of her age. Only Willie was never stinted22 nor hindered of anything that the two women thought could give him pleasure, for want of money.
There was one gratification which Susan felt was needed for the restoration of her mind to its more healthy state, after she had passed through the whirling fever, when duty was as nothing, and anarchy23 reigned24; a gratification that, somehow, was to be her last burst of unreasonableness25; of which she knew and recognised pain as the sure consequence. She must see him once more,— herself unseen.
The week before the Christmas of this memorable26 year, she went out in the dusk of the early winter evening, wrapped close in shawl and cloak. She wore her dark shawl under her cloak, putting it over her head in lieu of a bonnet27; for she knew that she might have to wait long in concealment28. Then she tramped over the wet fell-path, shut in by misty29 rain for miles and miles, till she came to the place where he was lodging30; a farm-house in Langdale, with a steep, stony31 lane leading up to it: this lane was entered by a gate out of the main road, and by the gate were a few bushes — thorns; but of them the leaves had fallen, and they offered no concealment: an old wreck32 of a yew-tree grew among them, however, and underneath33 that Susan cowered34 down, shrouding35 her face, of which the colour might betray her, with a corner of her shawl. Long did she wait; cold and cramped36 she became, too damp and stiff to change her posture37 readily. And after all, he might never come! But, she would wait till daylight, if need were; and she pulled out a crust, with which she had providently38 supplied herself. The rain had ceased,— a dull, still, brooding weather had succeeded; it was a night to hear distant sounds. She heard horses’ hoofs39 striking and splashing in the stones, and in the pools of the road at her back. Two horses; not well-ridden, or evenly guided, as she could tell.
Michael Hurst and a companion drew near: not tipsy, but not sober. They stopped at the gate to bid each other a maudlin40 farewell. Michael stooped forward to catch the latch41 with the hook of the stick which he carried; he dropped the stick, and it fell with one end close to Susan,— indeed, with the slightest change of posture she could have opened the gate for him. He swore a great oath, and struck his horse with his closed fist, as if that animal had been to blame; then he dismounted, opened the gate, and fumbled42 about for his stick. When he had found it (Susan had touched the other end) his first use of it was to flog his horse well, and she had much ado to avoid its kicks and plunges43. Then, still swearing, he staggered up the lane, for it was evident he was not sober enough to remount.
By daylight Susan was back and at her daily labours at Yew Nook. When the spring came, Michael Hurst was married to Eleanor Hebthwaite. Others, too, were married, and christenings made their firesides merry and glad; or they travelled, and came back after long years with many wondrous44 tales. More rarely, perhaps, a Dalesman changed his dwelling45. But to all households more change came than to Yew Nook. There the seasons came round with monotonous46 sameness; or, if they brought mutation47, it was of a slow, and decaying, and depressing kind. Old Peggy died. Her silent sympathy, concealed48 under much roughness, was a loss to Susan Dixon. Susan was not yet thirty when this happened, but she looked a middle-aged49, not to say an elderly woman. People affirmed that she had never recovered her complexion50 since that fever, a dozen years ago, which killed her father, and left Will Dixon an idiot. But besides her gray sallowness, the lines in her face were strong, and deep, and hard. The movements of her eyeballs were slow and heavy; the wrinkles at the corners of her mouth and eyes were planted firm and sure; not an ounce of unnecessary flesh was there on her bones — every muscle started strong and ready for use. She needed all this bodily strength, to a degree that no human creature, now Peggy was dead, knew of: for Willie had grown up large and strong in body, and, in general, docile51 enough in mind; but, every now and then, he became first moody52, and then violent. These paroxysms lasted but a day or two; and it was Susan’s anxious care to keep their very existence hidden and unknown. It is true, that occasional passers-by on that lonely road heard sounds at night of knocking about of furniture, blows, and cries, as of some tearing demon53 within the solitary54 farm-house; but these fits of violence usually occurred in the night; and whatever had been their consequence, Susan had tidied and redded up all signs of aught unusual before the morning. For, above all, she dreaded55 lest some one might find out in what danger and peril56 she occasionally was, and might assume a right to take away her brother from her care. The one idea of taking charge of him had deepened and deepened with years. It was graven into her mind as the object for which she lived. The sacrifice she had made for this object only made it more precious to her. Besides, she separated the idea of the docile, affectionate, loutish57, indolent Will, and kept it distinct from the terror which the demon that occasionally possessed58 him inspired her with. The one was her flesh and her blood — the child of her dead mother; the other was some fiend who came to torture and convulse the creature she so loved. She believed that she fought her brother’s battle in holding down those tearing hands, in binding59 whenever she could those uplifted restless arms prompt and prone60 to do mischief61. All the time she subdued62 him with her cunning or her strength, she spoke63 to him in pitying murmurs64, or abused the third person, the fiendish enemy, in no unmeasured tones. Towards morning the paroxysm was exhausted65, and he would fall asleep, perhaps only to waken with evil and renewed vigour66. But when he was laid down, she would sally out to taste the fresh air, and to work off her wild sorrow in cries and mutterings to herself. The early labourers saw her gestures at a distance, and thought her as crazed as the idiot-brother who made the neighbourhood a haunted place. But did any chance person call at Yew Nook later on in the day, he would find Susan Dixon cold, calm, collected; her manner curt67, her wits keen.
Once this fit of violence lasted longer than usual. Susan’s strength both of mind and body was nearly worn out; she wrestled68 in prayer that somehow it might end before she, too, was driven mad; or, worse, might be obliged to give up life’s aim, and consign69 Willie to a madhouse. From that moment of prayer (as she afterwards superstitiously70 thought) Willie calmed — and then he drooped71 — and then he sank — and, last of all, he died in reality from physical exhaustion72.
But he was so gentle and tender as he lay on his dying bed; such strange, child-like gleams of returning intelligence came over his face, long after the power to make his dull, inarticulate sounds had departed, that Susan was attracted to him by a stronger tie than she had ever felt before. It was something to have even an idiot loving her with dumb, wistful, animal affection; something to have any creature looking at her with such beseeching73 eyes, imploring74 protection from the insidious75 enemy stealing on. And yet she knew that to him death was no enemy, but a true friend, restoring light and health to his poor clouded mind. It was to her that death was an enemy; to her, the survivor76, when Willie died; there was no one to love her.
Worse doom77 still, there was no one left on earth for her to love.
You now know why no wandering tourist could persuade her to receive him as a lodger78; why no tired traveller could melt her heart to afford him rest and refreshment79; why long habits of seclusion80 had given her a moroseness81 of manner, and how care for the interests of another had rendered her keen and miserly.
But there was a third act in the drama of her life.
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vehemence
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| n.热切；激烈；愤怒 | |
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languor
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| n.无精力，倦怠 | |
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recurred
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| 再发生，复发( recur的过去式和过去分词 )； 治愈 | |
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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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yearning
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| a.渴望的；向往的；怀念的 | |
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bleak
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| adj.(天气)阴冷的；凄凉的；暗淡的 | |
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tawny
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| adj.茶色的，黄褐色的；n.黄褐色 | |
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cleft
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| n.裂缝；adj.裂开的 | |
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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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toll
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| n.过路(桥)费；损失，伤亡人数；v.敲(钟) | |
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exquisite
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| adj.精美的；敏锐的；剧烈的，感觉强烈的 | |
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relish
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| n.滋味，享受，爱好，调味品；vt.加调味料，享受，品味；vi.有滋味 | |
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instinctively
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| adv.本能地 | |
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luxurious
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| adj.精美而昂贵的；豪华的 | |
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yew
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| n.紫杉属树木 | |
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steward
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| n.乘务员，服务员；看管人；膳食管理员 | |
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guardian
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| n.监护人；守卫者，保护者 | |
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regain
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| vt.重新获得，收复，恢复 | |
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scanty
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| adj.缺乏的，仅有的，节省的，狭小的，不够的 | |
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parsimonious
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| adj.吝啬的，质量低劣的 | |
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avarice
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| n.贪婪；贪心 | |
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stinted
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| v.限制，节省（stint的过去式与过去分词形式） | |
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anarchy
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| n.无政府状态；社会秩序混乱，无秩序 | |
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reigned
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| vi.当政，统治（reign的过去式形式） | |
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unreasonableness
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| 无理性； 横逆 | |
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memorable
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| adj.值得回忆的，难忘的，特别的，显著的 | |
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bonnet
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| n.无边女帽；童帽 | |
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concealment
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| n.隐藏, 掩盖，隐瞒 | |
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misty
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| adj.雾蒙蒙的，有雾的 | |
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lodging
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| n.寄宿，住所；(大学生的)校外宿舍 | |
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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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wreck
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| n.失事，遇难；沉船；vt.(船等)失事，遇难 | |
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underneath
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| adj.在...下面，在...底下；adv.在下面 | |
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cowered
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| v.畏缩，抖缩( cower的过去式 ) | |
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shrouding
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| n.覆盖v.隐瞒( shroud的现在分词 )；保密 | |
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cramped
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| a.狭窄的 | |
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posture
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| n.姿势，姿态，心态，态度；v.作出某种姿势 | |
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providently
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| adv.有远虑地 | |
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hoofs
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| n.（兽的）蹄，马蹄( hoof的名词复数 )v.（兽的）蹄，马蹄( hoof的第三人称单数 ) | |
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maudlin
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| adj.感情脆弱的，爱哭的 | |
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latch
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| n.门闩，窗闩；弹簧锁 | |
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fumbled
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| （笨拙地）摸索或处理（某事物）( fumble的过去式和过去分词 )； 乱摸，笨拙地弄； 使落下 | |
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plunges
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| n.跳进，投入vt.使投入，使插入，使陷入vi.投入，跳进，陷入v.颠簸( plunge的第三人称单数 )；暴跌；骤降；突降 | |
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wondrous
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| adj.令人惊奇的，奇妙的；adv.惊人地；异乎寻常地；令人惊叹地 | |
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dwelling
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| n.住宅，住所，寓所 | |
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monotonous
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| adj.单调的，一成不变的，使人厌倦的 | |
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mutation
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| n.变化，变异，转变 | |
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concealed
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| a.隐藏的，隐蔽的 | |
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middle-aged
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| adj.中年的 | |
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complexion
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| n.肤色；情况，局面；气质，性格 | |
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docile
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| adj.驯服的，易控制的，容易教的 | |
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moody
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| adj.心情不稳的，易怒的，喜怒无常的 | |
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demon
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| n.魔鬼，恶魔 | |
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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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dreaded
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| adj.令人畏惧的；害怕的v.害怕，恐惧，担心( dread的过去式和过去分词) | |
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peril
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| n.(严重的)危险；危险的事物 | |
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loutish
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| adj.粗鲁的 | |
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possessed
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| adj.疯狂的；拥有的，占有的 | |
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binding
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| 有约束力的，有效的，应遵守的 | |
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prone
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| adj.(to)易于…的，很可能…的；俯卧的 | |
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mischief
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| n.损害，伤害，危害；恶作剧，捣蛋，胡闹 | |
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subdued
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| adj. 屈服的，柔和的，减弱的 动词subdue的过去式和过去分词 | |
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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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murmurs
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| n.低沉、连续而不清的声音( murmur的名词复数 )；低语声；怨言；嘀咕 | |
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exhausted
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| adj.极其疲惫的，精疲力尽的 | |
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vigour
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| （=vigor）n.智力，体力，精力 | |
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curt
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| adj.简短的，草率的 | |
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wrestled
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| v.（与某人）搏斗( wrestle的过去式和过去分词 )；扭成一团；扭打；（与…）摔跤 | |
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consign
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| vt.寄售（货品），托运，交托，委托 | |
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superstitiously
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| 被邪教所支配 | |
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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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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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beseeching
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| adj.恳求似的v.恳求，乞求（某事物）( beseech的现在分词 ) | |
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imploring
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| 恳求的，哀求的 | |
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insidious
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| adj.阴险的，隐匿的，暗中为害的，（疾病）不知不觉之间加剧 | |
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survivor
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| n.生存者，残存者，幸存者 | |
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doom
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| n.厄运，劫数；v.注定，命定 | |
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lodger
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| n.寄宿人，房客 | |
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refreshment
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| n.恢复，精神爽快，提神之事物；（复数）refreshments:点心，茶点 | |
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seclusion
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| n.隐遁，隔离 | |
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moroseness
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