But when the morn came dim and sad,
And chill with early showers,
Her quiet eyelids1 closed--she had Another morn than ours.
In the middle of that same night a neighbour of the Bartons was roused from her sound, well-earned sleep, by a knocking, which had at first made part of her dream; but starting up, as soon as she became convinced of its reality, she opened the window, and asked who was there?
"Me--John Barton," answered he, in a voice tremulous with agitation3. "My missis is in labour, and, for the love of God, step in while I run for th' doctor, for she's fearful bad."
While the woman hastily dressed herself, leaving the window still open, she heard the cries of agony, which resounded4 in the little court in the stillness of the night. In less than five minutes she was standing5 by Mrs Barton's bed-side, relieving the terrified Mary, who went about where she was told, like an automaton6; her eyes tearless, her face calm, though deadly pale, and uttering no sound, except when her teeth chattered7 for very nervousness.
The cries grew worse.
The doctor was very long in hearing the repeated rings at his night-bell, and still longer in understanding who it was that made this sudden call upon his services; and then he begged Barton just to wait while he dressed himself, in order that no time might be lost in finding the court and house. Barton absolutely stamped with impatience8, outside the doctor's door, before he came down; and walked so fast homewards, that the medical man several times asked him to go slower.
"Is she so very bad?" asked he.
"Worse, much worser than I ever saw her before," replied John.
No! she was not--she was at peace. The cries were still for ever. John had no time for listening. He opened the latched9 door, stayed not to light a candle for the mere10 ceremony of showing his companion up the stairs, so well known to himself; but, in two minutes, was in the room, where lay the dead wife, whom he had loved with all the power of his strong heart. The doctor stumbled upstairs by the fire-light, and met the awe-struck look of the neighbour, which at once told him the state of things. The room was still, as he, with habitual11 tip-toe step, approached the poor frail12 body, that nothing now could more disturb. Her daughter knelt by the bed-side, her face buried in the clothes, which were almost crammed13 into her mouth, to keep down the choking sobs14. The husband stood like one stupefied. The doctor questioned the neighbour in whispers, and then approaching Barton, said, "You must go downstairs. This is a great shock, but bear it like a man. Go down."
He went mechanically and sat down on the first chair. He had no hope. The look of death was too clear upon her face. Still, when he heard one or two unusual noises, the thought burst on him that it might only be a trance, a fit, a--he did not well know what,--but not death! Oh, not death! And he was starting up to go upstairs again, when the doctor's heavy cautious creaking footstep was heard on the stairs. Then he knew what it really was in the chamber15 above.
"Nothing could have saved her--there has been some shock to the system--" and so he went on; but to unheeding ears, which yet retained his words to ponder on; words not for immediate16 use in conveying sense, but to be laid by, in the store-house of memory, for a more convenient season. The doctor seeing the state of the case, grieved for the man; and, very sleepy, thought it best to go, and accordingly wished him good-night--but there was no answer, so he let himself out; and Barton sat on, like a stock or a stone, so rigid17, so still. He heard the sounds above, too, and knew what they meant. He heard the stiff unseasoned drawer, in which his wife kept her clothes, pulled open. He saw the neighbour come down, and blunder about in search of soap and water. He knew well what she wanted, and why she wanted them, but he did not speak, nor offer to help. At last she went, with some kindly-meant words (a text of comfort, which fell upon a deafened18 ear), and something about "Mary," but which Mary he could not tell, in his bewildered state.
He tried to realise it--to think it possible. And then his mind wandered off to other days, to far different times. He thought of their courtship; of his first seeing her, an awkward beautiful rustic19, far too shiftless for the delicate factory work to which she was apprenticed21; of his first gift to her, a bead22 neck-lace, which had long ago been put by, in one of the deep drawers of the dresser, to be kept for Mary. He wondered if it was there yet, and with a strange curiosity he got up to feel for it; for the fire by this time was well-nigh out, and candle he had none. His groping hand fell on the piled-up tea-things, which at his desire she had left unwashed till morning--they were all so tired. He was reminded of one of the daily little actions, which acquire such power when they have been performed for the last time, by one we love. He began to think over his wife's daily round of duties; and something in the remembrance that these would never more be done by her, touched the source of tears, and he cried aloud. Poor Mary, meanwhile, had mechanically helped the neighbour in all the last attentions to the dead; and when she was kissed and spoken to soothingly23, tears stole quietly down her cheeks: but she reserved the luxury of a full burst of grief till she should be alone. She shut the chamber-door softly, after the neighbour had gone, and then shook the bed by which she knelt with her agony of sorrow. She repeated, over and over again, the same words; the same vain, unanswered address to her who was no more. "Oh, mother! mother, are you really dead! Oh, mother, mother!"
At last she stopped, because it flashed across her mind that her violence of grief might disturb her father. All was still below. She looked on the face so changed, and yet so strangely like. She bent24 down to kiss it. The cold, unyielding flesh struck a shudder25 to her heart, and hastily obeying her impulse, she grasped the candle, and opened the door. Then she heard the sobs of her father's grief; and quickly, quietly, stealing down the steps, she knelt by him, and kissed his hand. He took no notice at first, for his burst of grief would not be controlled. But when her shriller sobs, her terrified cries (which she could not repress), rose upon his ear, he checked himself.
"Child, we must be all to one another now she is gone," whispered he.
"Oh, father, what can I do for you? Do tell me! I'll do anything."
"I know thou wilt26. Thou must not fret27 thyself ill, that's the first thing I ask. Thou must leave me, and go to bed now, like a good girl as thou art."
"Leave you, father I oh, don't say so."
"Ay, but thou must! thou must go to bed, and try and sleep; thou'lt have enough to do and to bear, poor wench, tomorrow."
Mary got up, kissed her father, and sadly went upstairs to the little closet, where she slept. She thought it was of no use undressing, for that she could never, Lever sleep, so threw herself on her bed in her clothes, and before ten minutes had passed away, the passionate28 grief of youth had subsided29 into sleep.
Barton had been roused by his daughter's entrance, both from his stupor30 and from his uncontrollable sorrow. He could think on what was to be done, could plan for the funeral, could calculate the necessity of soon returning to his work, as the extravagance of the past night would leave them short of money, if he long remained away from the mill. He was in a club, so that money vas provided for the burial. These things settled in us own mind, he recalled the doctor's words, and bitterly thought of the shock his poor wife had so recently had, in the mysterious disappearance31 of her cherished sister. His feelings towards Esther almost amounted to curses. It was she who had brought on all this sorrow. Her giddiness, her lightness of conduct, had wrought32 this woe33. His previous thoughts about her had been tinged34 with wonder and pity, but now he hardened his heart against her for ever.
One of the good influences over John Barton's life had departed that night. One of the ties which bound him down to the gentle humanities of earth was loosened, and henceforward the neighbours all remarked he was a changed man. His gloom and his sternness became habitual instead of occasional. He was more obstinate35. But never to Mary. Between the father and the daughter there existed in full force that mysterious bond which unites those who have been loved by one who is now dead and gone. While he was harsh and silent to others, he humoured Mary with tender love; she had more of her own way than is common in any rank with girls of her age. Part of this was the necessity of the case; for, of course, all the money went through her hands, and the household arrangements were guided by her will and pleasure. But part was her father's indulgence, for he left her, with full trust in her unusual sense and spirit, to choose her own associates, and her own times for seeing them.
With all this, Mary had not her father's confidence in the matters which now began to occupy him, heart and soul; she was aware that he had joined clubs, and become an active member of a trades' union, but it was hardly likely that a girl of Mary's age (even when two or three years had elapsed since her mother's death) should care much for the differences between the employers and the employed,--an eternal subject for agitation in the manufacturing districts, which, however it may be lulled36 for a time, is sure to break forth37 again with fresh violence at any depression of trade, showing that in its apparent quiet, the ashes had still smouldered in the breasts of a few.
Among these few was John Barton. At all times it is a bewildering thing to the poor weaver38 to see his employer removing from house to house, each one grander than the last, till he ends in building one more magnificent than all, or withdraws his money from the concern, or sells his mill, to buy an estate in the country, while all the time the weaver, who thinks he and his fellows are the real makers39 of this wealth, is struggling on for bread for his children, through the vicissitudes40 of lowered wages, short hours, fewer hands employed, etc. And when he knows trade is bad, and could understand (at least partially) that there are not buyers enough in the market to purchase the goods already made, and consequently that there is no demand for more; when he would bear and endure much without complaining, could he also see that his employers were bearing their share; he is, I say, bewildered and (to use his own word "aggravated41" to see that all goes on just as usual with the mill-owners. Large houses are still occupied, while spinners' and weavers42' cottages stand empty, because the families that once filled them are obliged to live in rooms or cellars. Carriages still roll along the streets, concerts are still crowded by subscribers, the shops for expensive luxuries still find daily customers, while the workman loiters away his unemployed43 time in watching these things, and thinking of the pale, uncomplaining wife at home, and the wailing44 children asking in vain for enough of food,--of the sinking health, of the dying life of those near and dear to him. The contrast is too great. Why should he alone suffer from bad times?
I know that this is not really the case; and I know what is the truth in such matters: but what I wish to impress is what the workman feels and thinks. True, that with child-like improvidence45, good times will often dissipate his grumbling46, and make him forget all prudence47 and foresight48.
But there are earnest men among these people, men who have endured wrongs without complaining, but without ever forgetting or forgiving those who (they believe) have caused all this woe.
Among these was John Barton. His parents had suffered; his mother had died from absolute want of the necessaries of life. He himself was a good, steady workman, and, as such, pretty certain of steady employment. But he spent all he got with the confidence (you may also call it improvidence) of one who was willing, and believed himself able, to supply all his wants by his own exertions49. And when his master suddenly failed, and all hands in the mill were turned back, one Tuesday morning, with the news that Mr Hunter had stopped, Barton had only a few shillings to rely on; but he had good heart of being employed at some other mill, and accordingly, before returning home, he spent some hours in going from factory to factory, asking for work. But at every mill was some sign of depression of trade; some were working short hours, some were turning off hands, and for weeks Barton was out of work, living on credit. It was during this time that his little son, the apple of his eye, the cynosure50 of all his strong power of love, fell ill of the scarlet51 fever. They dragged him through the crisis, but his life hung on a gossamer52 thread. Every thing, the doctor said, depended on good nourishment53, on generous living, to keep up the little fellow's strength, in the prostration54 in which the fever had left him. Mocking words! when the commonest food in the house would not furnish one little meal. Barton tried credit; but it was worn out at the little provision shops, which were now suffering in their turn. He thought it would be no sin to steal, and would have stolen; but he could not get the opportunity in the few days the child lingered. Hungry himself, almost to an animal pitch of ravenousness55, but with the bodily pain swallowed up in anxiety for his little sinking lad, he stood at one of the shop windows where all edible56 luxuries are displayed; haunches of venison, Stilton cheeses, moulds of jelly--all appetising sights to the common passer-by. And out of this shop came Mrs Hunter! She crossed to her carriage, followed by the
shopman loaded with purchases for a party. The door was quickly slammed to, and she drove away; and Barton returned home with a bitter spirit of wrath57 in his heart, to see his only boy a corpse58!
You can fancy, now, the hoards59 of vengeance60 in his heart against the employers. For there are never wanting those who, either in speech or in print, find it their interest to cherish such feelings in the working classes; who know how and when to rouse the dangerous power at their command; and who use their knowledge with unrelenting purpose to either party.
So while Mary took her own way, growing more spirited every day, and growing in her beauty too, her father was chairman at many a trades union meeting, a friend of delegates, and ambitious of being a delegate himself; a Chartist; and ready to do anything for his order.
But now times were good; and all these feelings were theoretical, not practical. His most practical thought was getting Mary apprenticed to a dress-maker; for he had never left off disliking a factory life for a girl, on more accounts than one.
Mary must do something. The factories being, as I said, out of the question, there were two things open--going out to service, and the dressmaking business; and against the first of these, Mary set herself with all the force of her strong will. What that will might have been able to achieve had her father been against her, I cannot tell; but he disliked the idea of parting with her, who was the light of his hearth61 the voice of his otherwise silent home. Besides, with his ideas and feelings towards the higher classes, he considered domestic servitude as a species of slavery; a pampering62 of artificial wants on the one side, a giving-up of every right of leisure by day and quiet rest by night on the other. How far his strong exaggerated feelings had any foundation in truth, it is for you to judge. I am afraid that Mary's determination not to go to service arose from far less sensible thoughts on the subject than her father's. Three years of independence of action (since her mother's death such a time had now elapsed) had little inclined her to submit to rules as to hours and associates, to regulate her dress by a mistress's ideas of propriety63, to Lose the dear feminine privileges of gossiping with a merry neighbour, and working night and day to help one who was sorrowful. Besides all this, the sayings of her absent, the mysterious aunt Esther, had an acknowledged influence over Mary. She knew she was very pretty; the factory people as they poured from the mills, and in their freedom told the truth (whatever it might be) to every passer-by, had early et Mary into the secret of her beauty. If their remarks had fallen on an unheeding ear, there were always young men enough, in a different rank from her own, who were willing to compliment the pretty weaver's daughter as they met her in the streets. Besides, trust a girl of sixteen for knowing it well if she is pretty; concerning her plainness she may be ignorant. So with this consciousness she had early determined64 that her beauty should make her a lady; the rank she co
veted the more for her father's abuse the rank to which she firmly believed her lost Aunt Esther had arrived. Now, while a servant must often drudge65 and be dirty, must be known as her servant by all who visited at her master's house, a dressmaker's apprentice20 must (or so Mary thought) be always dressed with a certain regard to appearance; must never soil her hands, and need never redden or dirty her face with hard labour. Before my telling you so truly what folly66 Mary felt or thought, injures her without redemption in your opinion, think what are the silly fancies of sixteen years of age in every class, and under all circumstances. The end of all the thoughts of father and daughter was, as I said before, Mary was to be a dressmaker; and her ambition prompted her unwilling67 father to apply at all the first establishments, to know on what terms of pains taking and zeal68 his daughter might be admitted into ever so humble69 a workwoman's situation. But high premiums70 were asked at all; poor man! he might have known that without giving up a day's work to ascertain71 the fact. He would have been indignant, indeed, had he known that if Mary had accompanied him, the case might have been rather different, as her beauty would have made her desirable as a show-woman. Then he tried second-rate places; at all the payment of a sum of money was necessary, and money he had none. Disheartened and angry he went home at night, declaring it was time lost; that dressmaking was at all events a troublesome business, and not worth learning. Mary saw that the grapes were sour, and the next day she set out herself, as her father could not afford to lose another day's work; and before night (as yesterday's experience had considerably72 lowered her ideas) she had engaged herself as apprentice (so called, though there were no deeds or indentures73 to the bond) to a certain Miss Simmonds, milliner and dressmaker, in a respectable little street leading off Ardwick Green, where her business was duly announced in gold letters on a black ground, enclosed in
a bird's-eve maple74 frame, and stuck in the front parlour window; where the workwomen were called "her young ladies"; and where Mary was to work for two years without any remuneration, on consideration of being taught the business; and where afterwards she was to dine and have tea, with a small quarterly salary (paid quarterly because so much more genteel than by week), a very small one, divisible into a minute weekly pittance75. In summer she was to be there by six, bringing her day's meals during the first two years; in winter she was not to come till after breakfast. Her time for returning home at night must always depend upon the quantity of work Miss Simmonds had to do.
And Mary was satisfied; and seeing this, her father was contented76 too, although his words were grumbling and morose77; but Mary knew his ways, and coaxed78 and planned for the future so cheerily, that both went to bed with easy if not happy hearts.
收听单词发音 |
1
eyelids
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| n.眼睑( eyelid的名词复数 )；眼睛也不眨一下；不露声色；面不改色 | |
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hood
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| n.头巾，兜帽，覆盖；v.罩上，以头巾覆盖 | |
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agitation
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| n.搅动；搅拌；鼓动，煽动 | |
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resounded
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| v.（指声音等）回荡于某处( resound的过去式和过去分词 )；产生回响；（指某处）回荡着声音 | |
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standing
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| n.持续，地位；adj.永久的，不动的，直立的，不流动的 | |
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automaton
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| n.自动机器，机器人 | |
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chattered
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| （人）喋喋不休( chatter的过去式 )； 唠叨； （牙齿）打战； （机器）震颤 | |
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impatience
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| n.不耐烦，急躁 | |
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latched
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| v.理解( latch的过去式和过去分词 )；纠缠；用碰锁锁上（门等）；附着（在某物上） | |
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mere
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| adj.纯粹的；仅仅，只不过 | |
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habitual
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| adj.习惯性的；通常的，惯常的 | |
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frail
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| adj.身体虚弱的；易损坏的 | |
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crammed
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| adj.塞满的，挤满的；大口地吃；快速贪婪地吃v.把…塞满；填入；临时抱佛脚( cram的过去式) | |
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sobs
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| 啜泣（声），呜咽（声）( sob的名词复数 ) | |
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chamber
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| n.房间，寝室；会议厅；议院；会所 | |
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immediate
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| adj.立即的；直接的，最接近的；紧靠的 | |
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rigid
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| adj.严格的，死板的；刚硬的，僵硬的 | |
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deafened
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| 使聋( deafen的过去式和过去分词 )； 使隔音 | |
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rustic
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| adj.乡村的，有乡村特色的；n.乡下人，乡巴佬 | |
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apprentice
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| n.学徒，徒弟 | |
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apprenticed
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| 学徒，徒弟( apprentice的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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bead
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| n.念珠；(pl.)珠子项链；水珠 | |
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soothingly
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| adv.抚慰地，安慰地；镇痛地 | |
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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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shudder
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| v.战粟，震动，剧烈地摇晃；n.战粟，抖动 | |
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wilt
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| v.(使)植物凋谢或枯萎；(指人)疲倦，衰弱 | |
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fret
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| v.(使)烦恼；(使)焦急；(使)腐蚀，(使)磨损 | |
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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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subsided
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| v.（土地）下陷（因在地下采矿）( subside的过去式和过去分词 )；减弱；下降至较低或正常水平；一下子坐在椅子等上 | |
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stupor
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| v.昏迷；不省人事 | |
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disappearance
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| n.消失，消散，失踪 | |
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wrought
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| v.引起；以…原料制作；运转；adj.制造的 | |
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woe
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| n.悲哀，苦痛，不幸，困难；int.用来表达悲伤或惊慌 | |
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tinged
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| v.（使）发丁丁声( ting的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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obstinate
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| adj.顽固的，倔强的，不易屈服的，较难治愈的 | |
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lulled
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| vt.使镇静，使安静（lull的过去式与过去分词形式） | |
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forth
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| adv.向前；向外，往外 | |
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weaver
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| n.织布工；编织者 | |
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makers
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| n.制造者，制造商（maker的复数形式） | |
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vicissitudes
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| n.变迁，世事变化；变迁兴衰( vicissitude的名词复数 )；盛衰兴废 | |
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aggravated
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| 使恶化( aggravate的过去式和过去分词 )； 使更严重； 激怒； 使恼火 | |
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weavers
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| 织工，编织者( weaver的名词复数 ) | |
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43
unemployed
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| adj.失业的，没有工作的；未动用的，闲置的 | |
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44
wailing
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| v.哭叫，哀号( wail的现在分词 )；沱 | |
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improvidence
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| n.目光短浅 | |
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grumbling
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| adj. 喃喃鸣不平的, 出怨言的 | |
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prudence
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| n.谨慎，精明，节俭 | |
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foresight
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| n.先见之明，深谋远虑 | |
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49
exertions
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| n.努力( exertion的名词复数 )；费力；（能力、权力等的）运用；行使 | |
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50
cynosure
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| n.焦点 | |
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51
scarlet
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| n.深红色，绯红色，红衣；adj.绯红色的 | |
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gossamer
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| n.薄纱，游丝 | |
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nourishment
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| n.食物，营养品；营养情况 | |
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prostration
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| n. 平伏, 跪倒, 疲劳 | |
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ravenousness
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edible
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| n.食品，食物；adj.可食用的 | |
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wrath
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| n.愤怒，愤慨，暴怒 | |
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corpse
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| n.尸体，死尸 | |
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hoards
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| n.（钱财、食物或其他珍贵物品的）储藏，积存( hoard的名词复数 )v.积蓄并储藏（某物）( hoard的第三人称单数 ) | |
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vengeance
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| n.报复，报仇，复仇 | |
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hearth
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| n.壁炉炉床，壁炉地面 | |
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pampering
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| v.纵容，宠，娇养( pamper的现在分词 ) | |
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propriety
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| n.正当行为；正当；适当 | |
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determined
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| adj.坚定的；有决心的 | |
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drudge
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| n.劳碌的人；v.做苦工，操劳 | |
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folly
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| n.愚笨，愚蠢，蠢事，蠢行，傻话 | |
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unwilling
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| adj.不情愿的 | |
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zeal
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| n.热心，热情，热忱 | |
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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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premiums
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| n.费用( premium的名词复数 )；保险费；额外费用；（商品定价、贷款利息等以外的）加价 | |
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ascertain
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| vt.发现，确定，查明，弄清 | |
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considerably
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| adv.极大地；相当大地；在很大程度上 | |
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indentures
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| vt.以契约束缚（indenture的第三人称单数形式） | |
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maple
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| n.槭树，枫树，槭木 | |
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pittance
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| n.微薄的薪水，少量 | |
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contented
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| adj.满意的，安心的，知足的 | |
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morose
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| adj.脾气坏的，不高兴的 | |
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coaxed
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| v.哄，用好话劝说( coax的过去式和过去分词 )；巧言骗取；哄劝，劝诱 | |
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