Picture me then idle, basking9, plump, and happy, stretched on a cushioned deck, warmed with constant sunshine, rocked by breezes indolently soft. However, it cannot be concealed10 that, in that case, I must somehow have fallen overboard, or that there must have been wreck11 at last. I too well remember a time — a long time — of cold, of danger, of contention12. To this hour, when I have the nightmare, it repeats the rush and saltness of briny13 waves in my throat, and their icy pressure on my lungs. I even know there was a storm, and that not of one hour nor one day. For many days and nights neither sun nor stars appeared; we cast with our own hands the tackling out of the ship; a heavy tempest lay on us; all hope that we should be saved was taken away. In fine, the ship was lost, the crew perished.
As far as I recollect14, I complained to no one about these troubles. Indeed, to whom could I complain? Of Mrs. Bretton I had long lost sight. Impediments, raised by others, had, years ago, come in the way of our intercourse15, and cut it off. Besides, time had brought changes for her, too: the handsome property of which she was left guardian16 for her son, and which had been chiefly invested in some joint-stock undertaking17, had melted, it was said, to a fraction of its original amount. Graham, I learned from incidental rumours18, had adopted a profession; both he and his mother were gone from Bretton, and were understood to be now in London. Thus, there remained no possibility of dependence19 on others; to myself alone could I look. I know not that I was of a self-reliant or active nature; but self-reliance and exertion20 were forced upon me by circumstances, as they are upon thousands besides; and when Miss Marchmont, a maiden21 lady of our neighbourhood, sent for me, I obeyed her behest, in the hope that she might assign me some task I could undertake.
Miss Marchmont was a woman of fortune, and lived in a handsome residence; but she was a rheumatic cripple, impotent, foot and hand, and had been so for twenty years. She always sat upstairs: her drawing-room adjoined her bed-room. I had often heard of Miss Marchmont, and of her peculiarities22 (she had the character of being very eccentric), but till now had never seen her. I found her a furrowed23, grey-haired woman, grave with solitude24, stern with long affliction, irritable25 also, and perhaps exacting26. It seemed that a maid, or rather companion, who had waited on her for some years, was about to be married; and she, hearing of my bereaved27 lot, had sent for me, with the idea that I might supply this person’s place. She made the proposal to me after tea, as she and I sat alone by her fireside.
“It will not be an easy life;” said she candidly28, “for I require a good deal of attention, and you will be much confined; yet, perhaps, contrasted with the existence you have lately led, it may appear tolerable.”
I reflected. Of course it ought to appear tolerable, I argued inwardly; but somehow, by some strange fatality29, it would not. To live here, in this close room, the watcher of suffering — sometimes, perhaps, the butt30 of temper — through all that was to come of my youth; while all that was gone had passed, to say the least, not blissfully! My heart sunk one moment, then it revived; for though I forced myself to realise evils, I think I was too prosaic32 to idealise, and consequently to exaggerate them.
“My doubt is whether I should have strength for the undertaking,” I observed.
“That is my own scruple,” said she; “for you look a worn-out creature.”
So I did. I saw myself in the glass, in my mourning-dress, a faded, hollow-eyed vision. Yet I thought little of the wan33 spectacle. The blight34, I believed, was chiefly external: I still felt life at life’s sources.
“What else have you in view — anything?”
“Nothing clear as yet: but I may find something.”
“So you imagine: perhaps you are right. Try your own method, then; and if it does not succeed, test mine. The chance I have offered shall be left open to you for three months.”
This was kind. I told her so, and expressed my gratitude35. While I was speaking, a paroxysm of pain came on. I ministered to her; made the necessary applications, according to her directions, and, by the time she was relieved, a sort of intimacy36 was already formed between us. I, for my part, had learned from the manner in which she bore this attack, that she was a firm, patient woman (patient under physical pain, though sometimes perhaps excitable under long mental canker); and she, from the good-will with which I succoured her, discovered that she could influence my sympathies (such as they were). She sent for me the next day; for five or six successive days she claimed my company. Closer acquaintance, while it developed both faults and eccentricities37, opened, at the same time, a view of a character I could respect. Stern and even morose38 as she sometimes was, I could wait on her and sit beside her with that calm which always blesses us when we are sensible that our manners, presence, contact, please and soothe39 the persons we serve. Even when she scolded me — which she did, now and then, very tartly40 — it was in such a way as did not humiliate41, and left no sting; it was rather like an irascible mother rating her daughter, than a harsh mistress lecturing a dependant42: lecture, indeed, she could not, though she could occasionally storm. Moreover, a vein43 of reason ever ran through her passion: she was logical even when fierce. Ere long a growing sense of attachment44 began to present the thought of staying with her as companion in quite a new light; in another week I had agreed to remain.
Two hot, close rooms thus became my world; and a crippled old woman, my mistress, my friend, my all. Her service was my duty — her pain, my suffering — her relief, my hope — her anger, my punishment — her regard, my reward. I forgot that there were fields, woods, rivers, seas, an ever-changing sky outside the steam-dimmed lattice of this sick chamber45; I was almost content to forget it. All within me became narrowed to my lot. Tame and still by habit, disciplined by destiny, I demanded no walks in the fresh air; my appetite needed no more than the tiny messes served for the invalid46. In addition, she gave me the originality47 of her character to study: the steadiness of her virtues48, I will add, the power of her passions, to admire; the truth of her feelings to trust. All these things she had, and for these things I clung to her.
For these things I would have crawled on with her for twenty years, if for twenty years longer her life of endurance had been protracted49. But another decree was written. It seemed I must be stimulated50 into action. I must be goaded51, driven, stung, forced to energy. My little morsel52 of human affection, which I prized as if it were a solid pearl, must melt in my fingers and slip thence like a dissolving hailstone. My small adopted duty must be snatched from my easily contented53 conscience. I had wanted to compromise with Fate: to escape occasional great agonies by submitting to a whole life of privation and small pains. Fate would not so be pacified54; nor would Providence55 sanction this shrinking sloth56 and cowardly indolence.
One February night — I remember it well — there came a voice near Miss Marchmont’s house, heard by every inmate57, but translated, perhaps, only by one. After a calm winter, storms were ushering58 in the spring. I had put Miss Marchmont to bed; I sat at the fireside sewing. The wind was wailing59 at the windows; it had wailed60 all day; but, as night deepened, it took a new tone — an accent keen, piercing, almost articulate to the ear; a plaint, piteous and disconsolate61 to the nerves, trilled in every gust62.
“Oh, hush63! hush!” I said in my disturbed mind, dropping my work, and making a vain effort to stop my ears against that subtle, searching cry. I had heard that very voice ere this, and compulsory64 observation had forced on me a theory as to what it boded65. Three times in the course of my life, events had taught me that these strange accents in the storm — this restless, hopeless cry — denote a coming state of the atmosphere unpropitious to life. Epidemic66 diseases, I believed, were often heralded67 by a gasping68, sobbing69, tormented70, long-lamenting east wind. Hence, I inferred, arose the legend of the Banshee. I fancied, too, I had noticed — but was not philosopher enough to know whether there was any connection between the circumstances — that we often at the same time hear of disturbed volcanic71 action in distant parts of the world; of rivers suddenly rushing above their banks; and of strange high tides flowing furiously in on low sea-coasts. “Our globe,” I had said to myself, “seems at such periods torn and disordered; the feeble amongst us wither72 in her distempered breath, rushing hot from steaming volcanoes.”
I listened and trembled; Miss Marchmont slept.
About midnight, the storm in one half-hour fell to a dead calm. The fire, which had been burning dead, glowed up vividly73. I felt the air change, and become keen. Raising blind and curtain, I looked out, and saw in the stars the keen sparkle of a sharp frost.
Turning away, the object that met my eyes was Miss Marchmont awake, lifting her head from the pillow, and regarding me with unusual earnestness.
“Is it a fine night?” she asked.
I replied in the affirmative.
“I thought so,” she said; “for I feel so strong, so well. Raise me. I feel young to-night,” she continued: “young, light-hearted, and happy. What if my complaint be about to take a turn, and I am yet destined74 to enjoy health? It would be a miracle!”
“And these are not the days of miracles,” I thought to myself, and wondered to hear her talk so. She went on directing her conversation to the past, and seeming to recall its incidents, scenes, and personages, with singular vividness.”
“I love Memory to-night,” she said: “I prize her as my best friend. She is just now giving me a deep delight: she is bringing back to my heart, in warm and beautiful life, realities — not mere75 empty ideas, but what were once realities, and that I long have thought decayed, dissolved, mixed in with grave-mould. I possess just now the hours, the thoughts, the hopes of my youth. I renew the love of my life — its only love — almost its only affection; for I am not a particularly good woman: I am not amiable. Yet I have had my feelings, strong and concentrated; and these feelings had their object; which, in its single self, was dear to me, as to the majority of men and women, are all the unnumbered points on which they dissipate their regard. While I loved, and while I was loved, what an existence I enjoyed! What a glorious year I can recall — how bright it comes back to me! What a living spring — what a warm, glad summer — what soft moonlight, silvering the autumn evenings — what strength of hope under the ice-bound waters and frost-hoar fields of that year’s winter! Through that year my heart lived with Frank’s heart. O my noble Frank — my faithful Frank — my good Frank! so much better than myself — his standard in all things so much higher! This I can now see and say: if few women have suffered as I did in his loss, few have enjoyed what I did in his love. It was a far better kind of love than common; I had no doubts about it or him: it was such a love as honoured, protected, and elevated, no less than it gladdened her to whom it was given. Let me now ask, just at this moment, when my mind is so strangely clear — let me reflect why it was taken from me? For what crime was I condemned76, after twelve months of bliss31, to undergo thirty years of sorrow?
“I do not know,” she continued after a pause: “I cannot — cannot see the reason; yet at this hour I can say with sincerity77, what I never tried to say before, Inscrutable God, Thy will be done! And at this moment I can believe that death will restore me to Frank. I never believed it till now.”
“He is dead, then?” I inquired in a low voice.
“My dear girl,” she said, “one happy Christmas Eve I dressed and decorated myself, expecting my lover, very soon to be my husband, would come that night to visit me. I sat down to wait. Once more I see that moment — I see the snow twilight78 stealing through the window over which the curtain was not dropped, for I designed to watch him ride up the white walk; I see and feel the soft firelight warming me, playing on my silk dress, and fitfully showing me my own young figure in a glass. I see the moon of a calm winter night, float full, clear, and cold, over the inky mass of shrubbery, and the silvered turf of my grounds. I wait, with some impatience79 in my pulse, but no doubt in my breast. The flames had died in the fire, but it was a bright mass yet; the moon was mounting high, but she was still visible from the lattice; the clock neared ten; he rarely tarried later than this, but once or twice he had been delayed so long.
“Would he for once fail me? No — not even for once; and now he was coming — and coming fast-to atone80 for lost time. ‘Frank! you furious rider,’ I said inwardly, listening gladly, yet anxiously, to his approaching gallop81, ‘you shall be rebuked82 for this: I will tell you it is my neck you are putting in peril83; for whatever is yours is, in a dearer and tenderer sense, mine.’ There he was: I saw him; but I think tears were in my eyes, my sight was so confused. I saw the horse; I heard it stamp — I saw at least a mass; I heard a clamour. Was it a horse? or what heavy, dragging thing was it, crossing, strangely dark, the lawn. How could I name that thing in the moonlight before me? or how could I utter the feeling which rose in my soul?
“I could only run out. A great animal — truly, Frank’s black horse — stood trembling, panting, snorting before the door; a man held it Frank, as I thought.
“‘What is the matter?’ I demanded. Thomas, my own servant, answered by saying sharply, ‘Go into the house, madam.’ And then calling to another servant, who came hurrying from the kitchen as if summoned by some instinct, ‘Ruth, take missis into the house directly.’ But I was kneeling down in the snow, beside something that lay there — something that I had seen dragged along the ground — something that sighed, that groaned84 on my breast, as I lifted and drew it to ms. He was not dead; he was not quite unconscious. I had him carried in; I refused to be ordered about and thrust from him. I was quite collected enough, not only to be my own mistress but the mistress of others. They had begun by trying to treat me like a child, as they always do with people struck by God’s hand; but I gave place to none except the surgeon; and when he had done what he could, I took my dying Frank to myself. He had strength to fold me in his arms; he had power to speak my name; he heard me as I prayed over him very softly; he felt me as I tenderly and fondly comforted him.
“‘Maria,’ he said, ‘I am dying in Paradise.’ He spent his last breath in faithful words for me. When the dawn of Christmas morning broke, my Frank was with God.
“And that,” she went on, “happened thirty years ago. I have suffered since. I doubt if I have made the best use of all my calamities85. Soft, amiable natures they would have refined to saintliness; of strong, evil spirits they would have made demons86; as for me, I have only been a woe-struck and selfish woman.”
“You have done much good,” I said; for she was noted87 for her liberal almsgiving.
“I have not withheld88 money, you mean, where it could assuage89 affliction. What of that? It cost me no effort or pang90 to give. But I think from this day I am about to enter a better frame of mind, to prepare myself for reunion with Frank. You see I still think of Frank more than of God; and unless it be counted that in thus loving the creature so much, so long, and so exclusively, I have not at least blasphemed the Creator, small is my chance of salvation91. What do you think, Lucy, of these things? Be my chaplain, and tell me.”
This question I could not answer: I had no words. It seemed as if she thought I had answered it.
“Very right, my child. We should acknowledge God merciful, but not always for us comprehensible. We should accept our own lot, whatever it be, and try to render happy that of others. Should we not? Well, to-morrow I will begin by trying to make you happy. I will endeavour to do something for you, Lucy: something that will benefit you when I am dead. My head aches now with talking too much; still I am happy. Go to bed. The clock strikes two. How late you sit up; or rather how late I, in my selfishness, keep you up. But go now; have no more anxiety for me; I feel I shall rest well.”
She composed herself as if to slumber7. I, too, retired92 to my crib in a closet within her room. The night passed in quietness; quietly her doom93 must at last have come: peacefully and painlessly: in the morning she was found without life, nearly cold, but all calm and undisturbed. Her previous excitement of spirits and change of mood had been the prelude94 of a fit; one stroke sufficed to sever95 the thread of an existence so long fretted96 by affliction.
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1
conjecture
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| n./v.推测，猜测 | |
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conjectured
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| 推测，猜测，猜想( conjecture的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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3
bosom
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| n.胸，胸部；胸怀；内心；adj.亲密的 | |
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amiable
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| adj.和蔼可亲的，友善的，亲切的 | |
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nay
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| adv.不；n.反对票，投反对票者 | |
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slumbering
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| 微睡，睡眠（slumber的现在分词形式） | |
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slumber
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| n.睡眠，沉睡状态 | |
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halcyon
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| n.平静的，愉快的 | |
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basking
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| v.晒太阳，取暖( bask的现在分词 )；对…感到乐趣；因他人的功绩而出名；仰仗…的余泽 | |
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10
concealed
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| a.隐藏的，隐蔽的 | |
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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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contention
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| n.争论，争辩，论战；论点，主张 | |
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briny
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| adj.盐水的；很咸的；n.海洋 | |
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14
recollect
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| v.回忆，想起，记起，忆起，记得 | |
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15
intercourse
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| n.性交；交流，交往，交际 | |
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16
guardian
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| n.监护人；守卫者，保护者 | |
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undertaking
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| n.保证，许诺，事业 | |
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rumours
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| n.传闻( rumour的名词复数 )；风闻；谣言；谣传 | |
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dependence
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| n.依靠，依赖；信任，信赖；隶属 | |
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exertion
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| n.尽力，努力 | |
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maiden
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| n.少女，处女；adj.未婚的，纯洁的，无经验的 | |
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peculiarities
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| n. 特质, 特性, 怪癖, 古怪 | |
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furrowed
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| v.犁田，开沟( furrow的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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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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irritable
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| adj.急躁的；过敏的；易怒的 | |
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exacting
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| adj.苛求的，要求严格的 | |
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bereaved
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| adj.刚刚丧失亲人的v.使失去（希望、生命等）( bereave的过去式和过去分词)；（尤指死亡）使丧失（亲人、朋友等）；使孤寂；抢走（财物） | |
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candidly
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| adv.坦率地，直率而诚恳地 | |
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fatality
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| n.不幸，灾祸，天命 | |
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butt
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| n.笑柄；烟蒂；枪托；臀部；v.用头撞或顶 | |
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bliss
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| n.狂喜，福佑，天赐的福 | |
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prosaic
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| adj.单调的，无趣的 | |
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wan
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| (wide area network)广域网 | |
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blight
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| n.枯萎病；造成破坏的因素；vt.破坏，摧残 | |
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gratitude
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| adj.感激，感谢 | |
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intimacy
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| n.熟悉，亲密，密切关系，亲昵的言行 | |
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eccentricities
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| n.古怪行为( eccentricity的名词复数 )；反常；怪癖 | |
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morose
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| adj.脾气坏的，不高兴的 | |
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soothe
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| v.安慰；使平静；使减轻；缓和；奉承 | |
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tartly
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| adv.辛辣地，刻薄地 | |
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41
humiliate
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| v.使羞辱，使丢脸[同]disgrace | |
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42
dependant
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| n.依靠的，依赖的，依赖他人生活者 | |
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vein
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| n.血管，静脉；叶脉，纹理；情绪；vt.使成脉络 | |
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attachment
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| n.附属物，附件；依恋；依附 | |
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45
chamber
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| n.房间，寝室；会议厅；议院；会所 | |
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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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originality
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| n.创造力，独创性；新颖 | |
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48
virtues
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| 美德( virtue的名词复数 )； 德行； 优点； 长处 | |
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49
protracted
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| adj.拖延的；延长的v.拖延“protract”的过去式和过去分词 | |
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50
stimulated
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| a.刺激的 | |
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51
goaded
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| v.刺激( goad的过去式和过去分词 )；激励；（用尖棒）驱赶；驱使（或怂恿、刺激）某人 | |
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52
morsel
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| n.一口，一点点 | |
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53
contented
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| adj.满意的，安心的，知足的 | |
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54
pacified
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| 使（某人）安静( pacify的过去式和过去分词 )； 息怒； 抚慰； 在（有战争的地区、国家等）实现和平 | |
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55
providence
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| n.深谋远虑，天道，天意；远见；节约；上帝 | |
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56
sloth
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| n.[动]树懒；懒惰，懒散 | |
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57
inmate
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| n.被收容者；(房屋等的)居住人；住院人 | |
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58
ushering
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| v.引，领，陪同( usher的现在分词 ) | |
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59
wailing
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| v.哭叫，哀号( wail的现在分词 )；沱 | |
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60
wailed
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| v.哭叫，哀号( wail的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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61
disconsolate
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| adj.忧郁的，不快的 | |
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62
gust
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| n.阵风，突然一阵（雨、烟等），（感情的）迸发 | |
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hush
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| int.嘘，别出声；n.沉默，静寂；v.使安静 | |
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compulsory
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| n.强制的，必修的；规定的，义务的 | |
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65
boded
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| v.预示，预告，预言( bode的过去式和过去分词 )；等待，停留( bide的过去分词 )；居住；（过去式用bided）等待 | |
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epidemic
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| n.流行病；盛行；adj.流行性的，流传极广的 | |
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67
heralded
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| v.预示( herald的过去式和过去分词 )；宣布（好或重要） | |
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68
gasping
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| adj. 气喘的, 痉挛的 动词gasp的现在分词 | |
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sobbing
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| <主方>Ⅰ adj.湿透的 | |
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70
tormented
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| 饱受折磨的 | |
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71
volcanic
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| adj.火山的；象火山的；由火山引起的 | |
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72
wither
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| vt.使凋谢，使衰退，(用眼神气势等)使畏缩；vi.枯萎，衰退，消亡 | |
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73
vividly
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| adv.清楚地，鲜明地，生动地 | |
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destined
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| adj.命中注定的；(for)以…为目的地的 | |
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mere
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| adj.纯粹的；仅仅，只不过 | |
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76
condemned
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| adj. 被责难的, 被宣告有罪的 动词condemn的过去式和过去分词 | |
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sincerity
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| n.真诚，诚意；真实 | |
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78
twilight
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| n.暮光，黄昏；暮年，晚期，衰落时期 | |
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impatience
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| n.不耐烦，急躁 | |
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atone
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| v.赎罪，补偿 | |
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81
gallop
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| v./n.(马或骑马等)飞奔；飞速发展 | |
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82
rebuked
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| 责难或指责( rebuke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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84
groaned
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| v.呻吟( groan的过去式和过去分词 )；发牢骚；抱怨；受苦 | |
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85
calamities
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| n.灾祸，灾难( calamity的名词复数 )；不幸之事 | |
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demons
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| n.恶人( demon的名词复数 )；恶魔；精力过人的人；邪念 | |
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noted
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| adj.著名的，知名的 | |
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withheld
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| withhold过去式及过去分词 | |
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assuage
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| v.缓和，减轻，镇定 | |
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90
pang
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| n.剧痛，悲痛，苦闷 | |
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91
salvation
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| n.（尤指基督）救世，超度，拯救，解困 | |
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retired
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| adj.隐退的，退休的，退役的 | |
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doom
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| n.厄运，劫数；v.注定，命定 | |
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94
prelude
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| n.序言，前兆，序曲 | |
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95
sever
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| v.切开，割开；断绝，中断 | |
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fretted
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| 焦躁的，附有弦马的，腐蚀的 | |
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