Her mother was ill--too unwell to leave her room. Henchard, who treated her kindly1, except in moments of irritation2, sent at once for the richest, busiest doctor, whom he supposed to be the best. Bedtime came, and they burnt a light all night. In a day or two she rallied.
Elizabeth, who had been staying up, did not appear at breakfast on the second morning, and Henchard sat down alone. He was startled to see a letter for him from Jersey3 in a writing he knew too well, and had expected least to behold4 again. He took it up in his hands and looked at it as at a picture, a vision, a vista5 of past enactments6; and then he read it as an unimportant finale to conjecture7.
The writer said that she at length perceived how impossible it would be for any further communications to proceed between them now that his re-marriage had taken place. That such reunion had been the only straightforward8 course open to him she was bound to admit.
"On calm reflection, therefore," she went on, "I quite forgive you for landing me in such a dilemma9, remembering that you concealed10 nothing before our ill-advised acquaintance; and that you really did set before me in your grim way the fact of there being a certain risk in intimacy11 with you, slight as it seemed to be after fifteen or sixteen years of silence on your wife's part. I thus look upon the whole as a misfortune of mine, and not a fault of yours.
"So that, Michael, I must ask you to overlook those letters with which I pestered12 you day after day in the heat of my feelings. They were written whilst I thought your conduct to me cruel; but now I know more particulars of the position you were in I see how inconsiderate my reproaches were.
"Now you will, I am sure, perceive that the one condition which will make any future happiness possible for me is that the past connection between our lives be kept secret outside this isle13. Speak of it I know you will not; and I can trust you not to write of it. One safe-guard more remains14 to be mentioned--that no writings of mine, or trifling15 articles belonging to me, should be left in your possession through neglect or forgetfulness. To this end may I request you to return to me any such you may have, particularly the letters written in the first abandonment of feeling.
"For the handsome sum you forwarded to me as a plaster to the wound I heartily16 thank you.
"I am now on my way to Bristol, to see my only relative. She is rich, and I hope will do something for me. I shall return through Casterbridge and Budmouth, where I shall take the packet-boat. Can you meet me with the letters and other trifles? I shall be in the coach which changes horses at the Antelope17 Hotel at half-past five Wednesday evening; I shall be wearing a Paisley shawl with a red centre, and thus may easily be found. I should prefer this plan of receiving them to having them sent.--I remain still, yours; ever,
LUCETTA
Henchard breathed heavily. "Poor thing--better you had not known me! Upon my heart and soul, if ever I should be left in a position to carry out that marriage with thee, I OUGHT to do it--I ought to do it, indeed!"
The contingency18 that he had in his mind was, of course, the death of Mrs. Henchard.
As requested, he sealed up Lucetta's letters, and put the parcel aside till the day she had appointed; this plan of returning them by hand being apparently19 a little ruse20 of the young lady for exchanging a word or two with him on past times. He would have preferred not to see her; but deeming that there could be no great harm in acquiescing21 thus far, he went at dusk and stood opposite the coach-office.
The evening was chilly22, and the coach was late. Henchard crossed over to it while the horses were being changed; but there was no Lucetta inside or out. Concluding that something had happened to modify her arrangements he gave the matter up and went home, not without a sense of relief. Meanwhile Mrs. Henchard was weakening visibly. She could not go out of doors any more. One day, after much thinking which seemed to distress23 her, she said she wanted to write something. A desk was put upon her bed with pen and paper, and at her request she was left alone. She remained writing for a short time, folded her paper carefully, called Elizabeth-Jane to bring a taper24 and wax, and then, still refusing assistance, sealed up the sheet, directed it, and locked it in her desk. She had directed it in these words:-
"MR. MICHAEL HENCHARD. NOT TO BE OPENED TILL ELIZABETHJANE'S WEDDING-DAY."
The latter sat up with her mother to the utmost of her strength night after night. To learn to take the universe seriously there is no quicker way than to watch--to be a "waker," as the country-people call it. Between the hours at which the last toss-pot went by and the first sparrow shook himself, the silence in Casterbridge--barring the rare sound of the watchman--was broken in Elizabeth's ear only by the time-piece in the bedroom ticking frantically25 against the clock on the stairs; ticking harder and harder till it seemed to clang like a gong; and all this while the subtlesouled girl asking herself why she was born, why sitting in a room, and blinking at the candle; why things around her had taken the shape they wore in preference to every other possible shape. Why they stared at her so helplessly, as if waiting for the touch of some wand that should release them from terrestrial constraint26; what that chaos27 called consciousness, which spun28 in her at this moment like a top, tended to, and began in. Her eyes fell together; she was awake, yet she was asleep.
A word from her mother roused her. Without preface, and as the continuation of a scene already progressing in her mind, Mrs. Henchard said: "You remember the note sent to you and Mr. Farfrae--asking you to meet some one in Durnover Barton-and that you thought it was a trick to make fools of you?"
"Yes."
"It was not to make fools of you--it was done to bring you together. 'Twas I did it."
"Why?" said Elizabeth, with a start.
"I--wanted you to marry Mr. Farfrae."
"O mother!" Elizabeth-Jane bent29 down her head so much that she looked quite into her own lap. But as her mother did not go on, she said, "What reason?"
"Well, I had a reason. 'Twill out one day. I wish it could have been in my time! But there--nothing is as you wish it! Henchard hates him."
"Perhaps they'll be friends again," murmured the girl.
"I don't know--I don't know." After this her mother was silent, and dozed30; and she spoke31 on the subject no more.
Some little time later on Farfrae was passing Henchard's house on a Sunday morning, when he observed that the blinds were all down. He rang the bell so softly that it only sounded a single full note and a small one; and then he was informed that Mrs. Henchard was dead--just dead--that very hour.
At the town-pump there were gathered when he passed a few old inhabitants, who came there for water whenever they had, as at present, spare time to fetch it, because it was purer from that original fount than from their own wells. Mrs. Cuxsom, who had been standing32 there for an indefinite time with her pitcher33, was describing the incidents of Mrs. Henchard's death, as she had learnt them from the nurse.
"And she was white as marble-stone," said Mrs. Cuxsom. "And likewise such a thoughtful woman, too--ah, poor soul--that a' minded every little thing that wanted tending. 'Yes,' says she, 'when I'm gone, and my last breath's blowed, look in the top drawer o' the chest in the back room by the window, and you'll find all my coffin34 clothes, a piece of flannel--that's to put under me, and the little piece is to put under my head; and my new stockings for my feet--they are folded alongside, and all my other things. And there's four ounce pennies, the heaviest I could find, a-tied up in bits of linen35, for weights--two for my right eye and two for my left,' she said. 'And when you've used 'em, and my eyes don't open no more, bury the pennies, good souls and don't ye go spending 'em, for I shouldn't like it. And open the windows as soon as I am carried out, and make it as cheerful as you can for Elizabeth-Jane.'"
"Ah, poor heart!"
"Well, and Martha did it, and buried the ounce pennies in the garden. But if ye'll believe words, that man, Christopher Coney, went and dug 'em up, and spent 'em at the Three Mariners36. 'Faith,' he said, 'why should death rob life o' fourpence? Death's not of such good report that we should respect 'en to that extent,' says he."
"'Twas a cannibal deed!" deprecated her listeners.
"Gad37, then I won't quite ha'e it," said Solomon Longways. "I say it to-day, and 'tis a Sunday morning, and I wouldn't speak wrongfully for a zilver zixpence at such a time. I don't see noo harm in it. To respect the dead is sound doxology; and I wouldn't sell skellintons--leastwise respectable skellintons--to be varnished38 for 'natomies, except I were out o' work. But money is scarce, and throats get dry. Why SHOULD death rob life o' fourpence? I say there was no treason in it."
"Well, poor soul; she's helpless to hinder that or anything now," answered Mother Cuxsom. "And all her shining keys will be took from her, and her cupboards opened; and little things a' didn't wish seen, anybody will see; and her wishes and ways will all be as nothing!"
点击收听单词发音
1 kindly | |
adj.和蔼的,温和的,爽快的;adv.温和地,亲切地 | |
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2 irritation | |
n.激怒,恼怒,生气 | |
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3 jersey | |
n.运动衫 | |
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4 behold | |
v.看,注视,看到 | |
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5 vista | |
n.远景,深景,展望,回想 | |
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6 enactments | |
n.演出( enactment的名词复数 );展现;规定;通过 | |
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7 conjecture | |
n./v.推测,猜测 | |
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8 straightforward | |
adj.正直的,坦率的;易懂的,简单的 | |
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9 dilemma | |
n.困境,进退两难的局面 | |
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10 concealed | |
a.隐藏的,隐蔽的 | |
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11 intimacy | |
n.熟悉,亲密,密切关系,亲昵的言行 | |
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12 pestered | |
使烦恼,纠缠( pester的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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13 isle | |
n.小岛,岛 | |
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14 remains | |
n.剩余物,残留物;遗体,遗迹 | |
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15 trifling | |
adj.微不足道的;没什么价值的 | |
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16 heartily | |
adv.衷心地,诚恳地,十分,很 | |
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17 antelope | |
n.羚羊;羚羊皮 | |
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18 contingency | |
n.意外事件,可能性 | |
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19 apparently | |
adv.显然地;表面上,似乎 | |
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20 ruse | |
n.诡计,计策;诡计 | |
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21 acquiescing | |
v.默认,默许( acquiesce的现在分词 ) | |
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22 chilly | |
adj.凉快的,寒冷的 | |
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23 distress | |
n.苦恼,痛苦,不舒适;不幸;vt.使悲痛 | |
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24 taper | |
n.小蜡烛,尖细,渐弱;adj.尖细的;v.逐渐变小 | |
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25 frantically | |
ad.发狂地, 发疯地 | |
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26 constraint | |
n.(on)约束,限制;限制(或约束)性的事物 | |
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27 chaos | |
n.混乱,无秩序 | |
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28 spun | |
v.纺,杜撰,急转身 | |
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29 bent | |
n.爱好,癖好;adj.弯的;决心的,一心的 | |
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30 dozed | |
v.打盹儿,打瞌睡( doze的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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31 spoke | |
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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32 standing | |
n.持续,地位;adj.永久的,不动的,直立的,不流动的 | |
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33 pitcher | |
n.(有嘴和柄的)大水罐;(棒球)投手 | |
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34 coffin | |
n.棺材,灵柩 | |
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35 linen | |
n.亚麻布,亚麻线,亚麻制品;adj.亚麻布制的,亚麻的 | |
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36 mariners | |
海员,水手(mariner的复数形式) | |
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37 gad | |
n.闲逛;v.闲逛 | |
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38 varnished | |
浸渍过的,涂漆的 | |
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