There was a garden-chair placed out here under the window of the drawing-room, where Mrs Ogilvy used to sit during a great part of the summer evenings—those long summer evenings of Scotland, which are so lingering and so sweet. To sit “at the doors” is so natural a thing for the women. They do it everywhere, in all climates and regions. Ladies who were critical said that this was a bad habit, and that there was nothing so becoming for a woman as to sit in her own drawing-room, in her own chair, where she could always be found when she was wanted. But a seat that was just under the drawing-room window, was not that as little different from being inside as could{4} be? I agree, however, with the critics that the sentiment was quite different, and that to go indoors at the right time and have your lamp lighted, and sit down in your comfortable chair, denotes, perhaps, a more contented12 mind and a spirit reconciled to fate.
It would have been hard, however, to have looked upon the face of Mrs James Ogilvy as she went about her little household duties in the morning, or took her walks about the garden, or knitted her stocking in the placid13 afternoon, and to have thought of her as discontented or struggling with fate. She was about sixty, a little woman but trim in figure, with a pleasant colour, and eyes still bright with animation14 and interest. Perhaps you will think it ridiculous to be asked to interest yourself in the character and proceedings15 of an old woman of sixty when there are so many younger and prettier things in the world: which I allow is quite true in the general: yet there may be advantages in it, once in a way. She wore much the same dress all the year through, which was a black silk gown of varying degrees of richness (her best could “stand alone,” it was so good), or rather of newness—for the best gown of one year was the everyday dress of another, not so fresh perhaps, but wearing to the last thread, and always looking good to the last, as a good black silk ought to do. Over this she wore a white shawl, which on superior occasions{5} was of China crape beautifully embroidered16, a thing to be remembered—but often of humbler material. I recollect18 one of fine wool with a coloured border printed in what was called an Indian pine pattern in those days. But whatever the kind was, she always wore a white shawl. Her cap was also all white, lace for best, but net for everydays, trimmed with white ribbons, and tied under the chin with the same. This dress had been old-fashioned when she assumed it, and was more than old-fashioned now; but it suited her very well, as unusual dresses, it may be remarked, usually do.
And she was kind as kind could be. She could not refuse either beggar or borrower, unless the one was a sturdy beggar presuming on the supposed loneliness of the house and unaware19 of Andrew in the background, upon whom she would flash forth indignant, sending him off “with a flee in his lug,” as Janet said: or the other a professional spendthrift of other people’s money. Short of these two classes—and even to them her heart had moments of melting—she refused nobody within her humble17 means. But I will not deceive you by pretending that she was a woman who went a great deal among the poor. That fashion of charity had not come into use in her days. The Scotch20 poor are farouche, they are arrogant21, and stand tremendously on their dignity—which is thought by many people a fine thing, though, I confess, I don’t{6} think it so; but it was no doubt cultivated more or less by good people like Mrs Ogilvy, who never visited among them, yet was ready to give with a liberality which was more like that of a Roman Catholic lady “making her soul” by such means, than a Scotch Puritan looking upon all she herself said or did as unworthy of regard. They came to her when they were in want; they came for food, for clothes, for coals; for money to pay an urgent debt; for all things that could affect family peace. And they very seldom were sent empty away. It was for this, perhaps, that the other ladies thought a woman should be found in her own chair in a corner of her own drawing-room. But if so, it certainly did not matter much, for Mrs Ogilvy’s seat outside answered quite as well.
There was a dining-room and a drawing-room inside, one on each side of the door. The latter was usually called the parlour. It was full of curious things, not exactly of the kind that are considered curious now,—Mrs Ogilvy was not acquainted with bric-à-brac,—but there had been two or three sailors in the family, and they had brought unsophisticated wonders, shells, pieces of coral, bowls, sometimes china and precious, sometimes wood and of no value at all: but all esteemed22 pretty much alike, and given an equal place among the treasures of the house. There was some good china besides of her own, one good portrait, vaguely23 believed or hoped by the minister and some other{7} connoisseurs24 of the village to be a Rubens (which meant, I suppose, even in their sanguine25 imaginations, a copy); and a row of black silhouettes26, representing various members of the family, over the mantelpiece. Therefore it will be seen there was great impartiality27 in respect to artistic28 value. The carpet was partially8 covered with a grey linen29 cloth to preserve it, which gave the room a somewhat chilly30 look. It was in the dining-room that Mrs Ogilvy chiefly sat. She would have found it a great trouble to change from one to another at every meal. The large dining-table had been placed against the wall, which was a concession31 to comfort for which many friends blamed her during these years when Mrs Ogilvy had been alone. A smaller round table stood near the fire, her chair, her little old-fashioned stand for book and her work and her occasional newspaper, in the corner. It was all very comfortable, especially on the wintry evenings when the fire sparkled and the lamp burned softly, and everything felt warm and looked bright—as bright as Mrs Ogilvy’s face with her white hair under her white cap, and her white shawl upon her shoulders. It might have been a symphony in white, had anybody heard of anything so grand and superior in these days.
It seldom happened, however, that one of the long evenings passed without the entrance of Janet, who at a certain hour in the placid night began always to wonder audibly what the mistress was doing, and{8} to divine that she would be the better of a word with somebody, “if it was only you or me.” Perhaps this meant that Janet herself by that time had become bored by the society of Andrew, her husband and constant companion, who was a taciturn person, and who, even if he could have been persuaded to utter more than one word in half an hour, had no new subject upon which he could discourse32, but only themes which Janet knew by heart. They were a most peaceable couple, never quarrelling, working into each other’s hands as the neighbours said, keeping the Hewan outside and inside as bright as a new pin; and I have no doubt that the sincerest affection, as well as every tie of habit and long companionship, bound them together: but still there were moments very probably when Janet, without using the word or probably understanding it, was bored. The “fore-night” was long, and the ticking of the clock, so offensively distinct when nothing is being said, got on Janet’s nerves; and then she bethought herself of the mistress sitting all alone in the silence. “I’ll just go ben and see if she wants onything,” she said. “Aweel: I’ll take a look at Sandy and see if he’s comfortable,” replied Andrew. Sandy was a sleek33 old pony34 with which Mrs Ogilvy drove in to Eskholm when she had occasion, and sometimes even to Edinburgh, and he held a high place in Andrew’s affections. The one visit was as invariable as the other; and{9} Sandy, to whom perhaps also the fore-night was long, probably expected it too.
“Well, Janet,” Mrs Ogilvy would say, putting aside the newspaper. She did not put aside her stocking, which went on by itself mechanically, but she turned her countenance35 towards her old servant always with the shining on it of a friendly smile.
“Well, mem—I just came in to see if ye maybe were wanting onything. Andrew he’s away taking a look at Sandy. You would think he is a Christian36 to see the troke there is between that beast and my man.”
“Andrew’s a good creature, mindful of everybody’s comfort,” said Mrs Ogilvy.
“I’m saying nothing against that; but it micht be more cheery for me if he were a wee less preceese about what he hears and sees. A man is mair about, he canna miss what might be ca’ed the events of the day. But you and me, mem, we miss them a’ up here.”
“That’s true, Janet; a man that brings in the news is more entertainment in a house than the newspaper itself.”
“Whiles,” said Janet, moderating the expression. “It’s no the clashes and clavers of the toun that I’m wanting, but when onything important is stirring—there’s another muckle paper-mill to be set up on our water. It brings wark for the lads—and the lasses{10} too—and ye daurna say, just for the sake of Esk, that is no living thing——”
“I have more courage than you, Janet, for I daur to say it. What! my bonnie Esk no a living thing! What was ever more living than the bonnie running water? Eh, woman, running water is not like anything else in the world! It’s just life itself! It sees everything happen and flows on—no stopping for the like of us creatures of a day. It heartens me to think that there’s aye some bairns sitting playing by it, or some young thing dreaming her dream, or some woman with her little weans—not you and me, for our time is past, but just other folk.”
“I’m no like you, mem. I get little comfort out of that. It’s a bonnie stream, and I like the sough of it coming up through the trees; but none of the paper-mills would stop that. And when you think that it will bring siller into the place and wark, and more comfort for the poor folk——”
“Will it do that? God forbid that I should go against what brings work and comfort. It will bring new families, Janet, and strange men to sit and drink, and roar their dreadful songs at the public-house door; and more publics, and more dirty wives and miserable37 weans. I’m just for doing the best we can with what we have,—and that is not an easy thing.”{11}
“And I’m for ganging forward,” cried Janet. “The more ye produce the better off ye are—that’s what the books ca’ an axiom. I carena for the new folk; but it is a grand thing to be making something, and putting work into men’s hands to do. Thae poor Millers38 themselves get but little out of it. They say there’s another of them, the little one with the curly head, that is just going like the rest.”
“Oh, Janet, the Lord forbid! the little blue-eyed one, that was just the comfort of the house?”
“That’s what folk say. I’m no answering for it. In an unfortunate family like that, ye canna have a sair finger but they’ll say it’s the auld39 trouble breaking out.”
“Poor man, poor man!” cried Mrs Ogilvy. “My heart is wae for him, Janet. He is like the man in the Bible that built Jericho. He has laid his foundations in his first-born, and established his gates on his youngest son. You must tell Andrew that I will want him and Sandy to-morrow to go and inquire. No the bonnie little one that was his comfort!—oh, not her, not her, Janet!”
“Mem, it is aye the Lord that kens40 best.”
“I am not misdoubting that; but I’ve had many a thought—I would not aye be blaming the Lord. When the seed is put into the ground, we should be prepared for what it will bring forth, and no look for leaves of silver and apples of gold; but{12} why should I speak? for there is little meaning in words, and we are a strange race—oh, just a strange race—following our wild ways.”
Mrs Ogilvy had dropped her stocking by this time into her lap, and she wrung41 her slender hands as she spoke42, with a look that was not like the calm of the place. Whether Janet noted43 this or merely followed the instinct of her wandering record of events, it was impossible to tell from her steady countenance, which did not change.
“And there’s to be a wedding up the water at Greenha’. You will mind, mem, Thomoseen, that was once in our ain house here as the girrl, and an awfu’ time I had with her, for she would learn nothing. She’s grown the biggest woman on a’ Eskside, and they call her Muckle Tammy, and mony an adventure she’s had since she left my kitchen—having broken, ye will maybe mind, mem, every dish we had. And for her ain sake, thinking it would maybe be a lesson to her, I wanted you to take it off her wages——”
“Yes, yes, I mind. The things would not stay in her hands; they were too big. We have had our experiences with our girrls, Janet,” Mrs Ogilvy said, with a smile. She had taken up her knitting again, and recovered her tranquil44 looks.
“That we have, mem! if I was to make out a chronicle—but some of them have turned out no so{13} ill after a’. Weel, Muckle Tammy, she has gotten a man.”
“He will likely be some small bit creature,” the mistress said.
“They say no—a clever chield, and grand wi’ a garden, and meaning to grow vegetables for the market at Edinburgh; for she is a lass with a tocher, her mother’s kailyard and her bit cottage, and nothing for him to do but draw in a chair and sit down.”
“I doubt there’ll be but little comfort inside,” said Mrs Ogilvy. “If it had been her to look after the kail and the cabbages, and him to keep everything clean and trig; but there’s no telling. A change like that works many ferlies. You must just see, Janet, if there is anything she is wanting for her plenishing—some linen, or a few silver teaspoons45, or a set of china, or a new gown.”
“They a’ ken10 there will be something for them in the coffers at the Hewan,” said Janet; “but, mem, if ye will be guided by me, you will let it be no too much. If only one of these dishes had been stoppit off her wages it would have been a grand lesson: but ye will never hear a word! A set of chiney! they would a’ be broken afore ever she got them hame.”
“Let it be the silver spoons then, Janet; they are the things that last the best. And now, if you{14} were to cry in Andrew, we might read our chapter, and get ready for our beds.”
This was the invariable conclusion of these evening colloquies46. And Janet went “ben” to her kitchen and then to the garden door, and “cried upon” Andrew, still conversing47 with the pony in the stable. And then there was a great turning of keys and drawing of bolts, and the house was closed up for the night. And finally the pair went into the parlour, where Mrs Ogilvy, with her clear little educated voice read “the chapter,” usually from one of the Gospels, and read in sequence night by night. Janet was of opinion that she never understood so well as when her mistress read, and indeed Mrs Ogilvy had a little pride in her reading, which was very clear and distinct with its broad vowels48. The little prayer which was read out of a book did not please Andrew so much, who was of opinion that prayers ought never to be previously49 invented and written, but come, as he said, “straught from the hairt.” He had himself indeed thought on occasion that he could have poured forth the sentiments that moved the family with more unction and expression than was in the sometimes faltering51 voice and pause for breath which affected52 his mistress when she read these “cauld words out of a book”; but Andrew knew his own place: or if he did not know, Janet did.{15}
What was there to catch the breath, and make the voice falter50, in the printed words and amid all that deep calm of waning53 life? It was at the prayer for the absent that Mrs Ogilvy for fifteen years past had always broken down. Nay54, not broken down: she was too deeply sensible that to make an exhibition of private feeling while leading the family devotions would have been irreverent and unseemly, but she was not capable of going on quite smoothly55 without a pause over that petition, “Those who are absent of this family, be Thou with them to bless them, and bring them home in Thy good time if it be Thy blessed will.” Every night there came to Janet’s eyes as she knelt a secret tear; and every night it seemed to Andrew that if he might speak “straught from the hairt” instead of that cauld prayer that was printed, the Lord would hear. I need not say that even in a Scotch book of domestic worship the words were varied56 from day to day, but the meaning was always the same. They left the mistress of the house in a certain commotion57 of mind when her old servants had bidden her good night and withdrawn58. She had a way then of walking about the room, sometimes pausing as if to listen. There was deep silence about the Hewan, uplifted on its little brae, and with few houses near,—nothing to be heard except the distant murmur of the Esk, and the rustling59 of the trees. But{16} the night has strange mysteries of sound for which no one can account. Sometimes something came that seemed like a step on the gravel60 outside, sometimes, fainter in the distance, what might have been the swing of the gate, sometimes a muffled61 knock as at the door. She knew them all well, and had been deceived by them a thousand times; nor was she undeceived yet, but would stop and raise her head and hold her breath, waiting for perhaps some second sound to follow to give meaning to it. But there never came any second sound, or at least there never was, never had been, any meaning in them. She listened, holding up her head, and then drooped62 it again, going on upon her little measured walk. “At ainy moment!” she would say sometimes to herself.
Over the front door of the cottage, which was not without a little pretension63, there was what we used to call a fanlight: and in this summer and winter every night a light burned till morning. People shook their heads at it as a piece of foolish sentiment and very extravagant64; and Andrew grudged65 a little the trouble it caused him. But there it burned all the year round, every night through.
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1
predecessors
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| n.前任( predecessor的名词复数 )；前辈；（被取代的）原有事物；前身 | |
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belongings
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| n.私人物品，私人财物 | |
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foisted
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| 强迫接受，把…强加于( foist的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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plunging
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| adj.跳进的，突进的v.颠簸( plunge的现在分词 )；暴跌；骤降；突降 | |
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forth
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| adv.向前；向外，往外 | |
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clump
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| n.树丛，草丛；vi.用沉重的脚步行走 | |
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impartially
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| adv.公平地，无私地 | |
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partially
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| adv.部分地，从某些方面讲 | |
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cascades
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| 倾泻( cascade的名词复数 )； 小瀑布（尤指一连串瀑布中的一支）； 瀑布状物； 倾泻（或涌出）的东西 | |
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ken
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| n.视野，知识领域 | |
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murmur
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| n.低语，低声的怨言；v.低语，低声而言 | |
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contented
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| adj.满意的，安心的，知足的 | |
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placid
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| adj.安静的，平和的 | |
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animation
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| n.活泼，兴奋，卡通片／动画片的制作 | |
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proceedings
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| n.进程，过程，议程；诉讼(程序)；公报 | |
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embroidered
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| adj．绣花的 | |
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humble
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| adj.谦卑的，恭顺的；地位低下的；v.降低，贬低 | |
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recollect
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| v.回忆，想起，记起，忆起，记得 | |
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unaware
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| a.不知道的，未意识到的 | |
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scotch
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| n.伤口，刻痕；苏格兰威士忌酒；v.粉碎，消灭，阻止；adj.苏格兰(人)的 | |
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arrogant
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| adj.傲慢的，自大的 | |
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esteemed
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| adj.受人尊敬的v.尊敬( esteem的过去式和过去分词 )；敬重；认为；以为 | |
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vaguely
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| adv.含糊地，暖昧地 | |
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connoisseurs
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| n.鉴赏家，鉴定家，行家( connoisseur的名词复数 ) | |
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sanguine
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| adj.充满希望的，乐观的，血红色的 | |
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silhouettes
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| 轮廓( silhouette的名词复数 )； （人的）体形； （事物的）形状； 剪影 | |
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impartiality
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| n. 公平, 无私, 不偏 | |
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artistic
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| adj.艺术(家)的，美术(家)的；善于艺术创作的 | |
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linen
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| n.亚麻布，亚麻线，亚麻制品；adj.亚麻布制的，亚麻的 | |
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chilly
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| adj.凉快的，寒冷的 | |
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concession
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| n.让步，妥协；特许(权) | |
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discourse
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| n.论文，演说；谈话；话语；vi.讲述，著述 | |
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sleek
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| adj.光滑的，井然有序的；v.使光滑，梳拢 | |
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pony
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| adj.小型的；n.小马 | |
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countenance
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| n.脸色，面容；面部表情；vt.支持，赞同 | |
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Christian
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| adj.基督教徒的；n.基督教徒 | |
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miserable
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| adj.悲惨的，痛苦的；可怜的，糟糕的 | |
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millers
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| n.（尤指面粉厂的）厂主( miller的名词复数 )；磨房主；碾磨工；铣工 | |
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auld
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| adj.老的，旧的 | |
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kens
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| vt.知道（ken的第三人称单数形式） | |
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wrung
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| 绞( wring的过去式和过去分词 )； 握紧（尤指别人的手）； 把（湿衣服）拧干； 绞掉（水） | |
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42
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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noted
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| adj.著名的，知名的 | |
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tranquil
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| adj. 安静的, 宁静的, 稳定的, 不变的 | |
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45
teaspoons
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| n.茶匙( teaspoon的名词复数 )；一茶匙的量 | |
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46
colloquies
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| n.谈话，对话( colloquy的名词复数 ) | |
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conversing
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| v.交谈，谈话( converse的现在分词 ) | |
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48
vowels
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| n.元音，元音字母( vowel的名词复数 ) | |
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49
previously
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| adv.以前，先前（地） | |
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50
falter
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| vi.(嗓音)颤抖，结巴地说；犹豫；蹒跚 | |
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51
faltering
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| 犹豫的，支吾的，蹒跚的 | |
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52
affected
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| adj.不自然的，假装的 | |
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53
waning
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| adj.（月亮）渐亏的，逐渐减弱或变小的n.月亏v.衰落( wane的现在分词 )；（月）亏；变小；变暗淡 | |
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54
nay
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| adv.不；n.反对票，投反对票者 | |
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55
smoothly
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| adv.平滑地，顺利地，流利地，流畅地 | |
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56
varied
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| adj.多样的，多变化的 | |
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57
commotion
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| n.骚动，动乱 | |
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58
withdrawn
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| vt.收回；使退出；vi.撤退，退出 | |
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59
rustling
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| n. 瑟瑟声，沙沙声 adj. 发沙沙声的 | |
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60
gravel
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| n.砂跞；砂砾层；结石 | |
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61
muffled
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| adj.（声音）被隔的；听不太清的；（衣服）裹严的；蒙住的v.压抑，捂住( muffle的过去式和过去分词 )；用厚厚的衣帽包着（自己） | |
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62
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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63
pretension
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| n.要求；自命，自称；自负 | |
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64
extravagant
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| adj.奢侈的；过分的；(言行等)放肆的 | |
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65
grudged
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| 怀恨（grudge的过去式与过去分词形式） | |
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