How infinite the wealth of love and hope
Garnered1 in these same tiny treasure-houses!
And oh! what bankrupts in the world we feel,
When Death, like some remorseless creditor2,
Seizes on all we fondly thought our own.
The Twins.
The ghoul-like fever was not to be braved with impunity3, and balked5 of its prey6. The widow had reclaimed7 her children; her neighbours, in the good Samaritan sense of the word, had paid her little arrears9 of rent, and made her a few shillings beforehand with the world. She determined10 to flit from that cellar to another less full of painful associations, less haunted by mournful memories. The board, not so formidable as she had imagined, had inquired into her case; and, instead of sending her to Stoke Claypole, her husband's Buckinghamshire parish, as she had dreaded12, had agreed to pay her rent. So food for four mouths was all she was now required to find; only for three she would have said; for herself and the unweaned child were but reckoned as one in her calculation.
She had a strong heart, now her bodily strength had been recruited by a week or two of food, and she would not despair. So she took in some little children to nurse, who brought their daily food with them, which she cooked for them, without wronging their helplessness of a crumb14; and when she had restored them to their mothers at night, she set to work at plain sewing, "seam, and gusset, and band," and sat thinking how she might best cheat the factory inspector15, and persuade him that her strong, big, hungry Ben, was above thirteen. Her plan of living was so far arranged, when she heard, with keen sorrow, that Wilson's twin lads were ill of the fever.
They had never been strong. They were like many a pair of twins, and seemed to have but one life divided between them. One life, one strength, and in this instance, I might almost say, one brain; for they were helpless, gentle, silly children, but not the less dear to their parents and to their strong, active, manly16, elder brother. They were late on their feet, late in talking, late every way; had to be nursed and cared for when other lads of their age were tumbling about in the street, and losing themselves, and being taken to the police-office miles away from home.
Still want had never yet come in at the door to make love for these innocents fly out of the window. Nor was this the case even now, when Jem Wilson s earnings17, and his mother's occasional charings, were barely sufficient to give all the family their fill of food.
But when the twins, after ailing18 many days, and caring little for their meat, fell sick on the same after-noon, with the same heavy stupor19 of suffering, the three hearts that loved them so, each felt, though none acknowledged to the other, that they had little chance for life. It was nearly a week before the tale of their illness spread as far as the court where the Wilsons had once dwelt, and the Bartons yet lived.
Alice had heard of the sickness of her little nephews several days before, and had locked her cellar door, and gone off straight to her brother's house, in Ancoats; but she was often absent for days, sent for, as her neighbours knew, to help in some sudden emergency of illness or distress20, so that occasioned no surprise.
Margaret met Jem Wilson several days after his brothers were seriously ill, and heard from him the state of things at his home. She told Mary of it as she entered the court late that evening; and Mary listened with saddened heart to the strange contrast which such woful tidings presented to the gay and loving words she had been hearing on her walk home. She blamed herself for being so much taken up with visions of the golden future, that she had lately gone but seldom on Sunday afternoons, or other leisure time, to see Mrs Wilson, her mother's friend; and with hasty purpose of amendment21 she only stayed to leave a message for her father with the next-door neighbour, and then went off at a brisk pace on her way to the house of mourning.
She stopped with her hand on the latch22 of the Wilsons' door, to still her beating heart, and listened to the bushed23 quiet within. She opened the door softly there sat Mrs Wilson in the old rocking-chair, with one sick, death-like boy lying on her knee, crying without let or pause, but softly, gently, as fearing to disturb the troubled gasping24 child; while behind her, old Alice let her fast-dropping tears fall down on the dead body of the other twin, which she was laying out on a board placed on a sort of sofa-settee in a corner of the room. Over the child, which yet breathed, the father bent25, watching anxiously for some ground of hope, where ho e there was none. Mary stepped slowly and light y across to Alice.
"Aye, poor lad God has taken him early, Mary."
Mary could not speak; she did not know what to say; it was so much worse than she expected. At last she ventured to whisper,
"Is there any chance for the other one, think you?"
Alice shook her head, and told with a look that she believed there was none. She next endeavoured to lift the little body, and carry it to its old-accustomed bed in its parents' room. But earnest as the father was in watching the yet-living, he had eyes and ears for all that concerned the dead, and sprang gently up, and took his dead son on his hard couch in his arms with tender strength, and carried him up-stairs as if afraid of wakening him.
The other child gasped26 longer, louder, with more of effort.
"We mun get him away from his mother. He cannot die while she's wishing him."
"Wishing him?" said Mary, in a tone of inquiry27.
"Aye; donno ye know what wishing means? There's none can die in the arms of those who are wishing them sore to stay on earth. The soul o' them as holds them won't let the dying soul go free so it has a hard struggle for the quiet of death. We mun get him away fra' his mother, or he'll have a hard death, poor lile fellow."
So without circumlocution28 she went and offered to take the sinking child. But the mother would not let him go, and looking in Alice's face with brimming and imploring29 eyes, declared, in earnest whispers, that she was not wishing him, that she would fain have him released from his suffering. Alice and Mary stood by with eyes fixed30 on the poor child, whose struggles seemed to increase, till at last his mother said, with a choking voice,
"May happen yo'd better take him, Alice; I believe my heart's wishing him a' this while, for I cannot; no, I cannot bring mysel to let my two childer go in one day; I cannot help longing31 to keep him, and yet he sha'n't suffer longer for me."
She bent down, and fondly, oh with what passionate32 fondness, kissed her child, and then gave him up to Alice, who took him with tender care. Nature's struggles were soon exhausted33, and he breathed his little life away in peace.
Then the mother lifted up her voice and wept. Her cries brought her husband down to try with his aching heart to comfort hers. Again Alice laid out the dead, Mary helping34 with reverent35 fear. The father and mother carried him upstairs to the bed, where his little brother lay in calm repose36.
Mary and Alice drew near the fire, and stood in quiet sorrow for some time. Then Alice broke the silence by saying,
"It will be bad news for Jem, poor fellow, when he comes home."
"Where is he?" asked Mary.
"Working over-hours at th' shop. They'n getten a large order fra' forrin parts; and yo' know, Jem mun work, though his heart's well nigh breaking for these poor laddies."
Again they were silent in thought, and again Alice spoke37 first.
"I sometimes think the Lord is against planning. Whene'er I plan over-much, He is sure to send and mar8 all my plans, as if He would ha' me put the future into His hands. Afore Christmas-time I was as full as full could be, of going home for good and all; yo' han heard how I've wished it this terrible long time. And a young lass from behind Burton came into place in Manchester last Martinmas; so after awhile she had a Sunday out, and she comes to me, and tells me some cousins o' mine bid her find me out, and say how glad they should be to ha' me to bide38 wi' em, and look after th' childer, for they'n getten a big farm, and she's a deal to do among th' cows. So many a winter's night did I lie awake and think, that please God, come summer, I'd bid George and his wife good-bye, and go home at last. Little did I think how God Almighty39 would balk4 me, for not leaving my days in His hands, who had led me through the wilderness40 hitherto. Here's George out o' work, and more cast down than ever I seed him; wanting every chip o' comfort he can get, e'en afore this last heavy stroke; and now I'm thinking the Lord's finger points very clear to my fit abiding41 place; and I'm sure if George and Jane can say 'His will be done,' it's no more than what I'm beholden to do."
So saying, she fell to tidying the room, removing as much as she could every vestige42 of sickness; making up the fire, and setting on the kettle for a cup of tea for her sister-in-law, whose low moans and sobs43 were occasionally heard in the room below.
Mary helped her in all these little offices. They were busy in this way when the door was softly opened, and Jem came in, all grimed and dirty from his night-work, his soiled apron44 wrapped round his middle, in guise45 and apparel in which he would have been sorry at another time to have been seen by Mary. But just now he hardly saw her; he went straight up to Alice, and asked how the little chaps were. They had been a shade better at dinner-time, and he had been working away through the long afternoon, and far into the night, in the belief that they had taken the turn. He had stolen out during the half-hour allowed at the works for tea, to buy them an orange or two, which now puffed46 out his jacket pocket.
He would make his aunt speak: he would not understand her shake of the head and fast coursing tears.
"They're both gone," said she.
"Dead!"
"Aye! poor fellows. They took worse about two o'clock. Joe went first, as easy as a lamb, and Will died harder like."
"Both!"
"Aye, lad! both. The Lord has ta'en them from some evil to come, or he would na ha' made choice o' them. Ye may rest sure o' that."
Jem went to the cupboard, and quietly extricated47 from his pocket the oranges he had bought. But he stayed long there, and at last his sturdy frame shook with his strong agony. The two women were frightened, as women always are, on witnessing a man's overpowering grief. They cried afresh in company. Mary's heart melted within her as she witnessed Jem's sorrow, and she stepped gently up to the corner where he stood, with his back turned to them, and putting her hand softly on his arm, said,
"0, Jem, don't give way so; I cannot bear to see you."
Jem felt a strange leap of joy in his heart, and knew the power she had of comforting him. He did not speak, as though fearing to destroy by sound or motion the happiness of that moment, when her soft hand's touch thrilled through his frame, and her silvery voice was whispering tenderness in his ear. Yes ! it might be very wrong; he could almost hate himself for it; with death and woe48 so surrounding him, it yet was happiness, was bliss49, to be so spoken to by Mary.
"Don't Jem, please don't,' whispered she again, believing that his silence was only another form of grief.
He could not contain himself. He took her hand in his firm yet trembling grasp, and said, in tones that instantly produced a revulsion in her mood,
"Mary, I almost loathe50 myself when I feel I would not give up this minute, when my brothers lie dead, and father and mother are in such trouble, for all my life that's past and gone. And, Mary (as she tried to release her hand), you know what makes me feel so blessed."
She did know--he was right there. But as he turned to catch a look at her sweet face, he saw that it expressed unfeigned distress, almost amounting to vexation; a dread13 of him, that he thought was almost repugnance51.
He let her hand go, and she quickly went away to Alice's side.
"Fool that I was--nay, wretch52 that I was--to let myself take this time of trouble to tell her how I loved her; no wonder that she turns away from such a selfish beast."
Partly to relieve her from his presence, and partly from natural desire, and partly, perhaps, from a penitent53 wish to share to the utmost his parents' sorrow, he soon went upstairs to the chamber54 of death.
Mary mechanically helped Alice in all the duties she performed through the remainder of that long night, but she did not see Jem again. He remained up-stairs until after the early dawn showed Mary that she need have no fear of going home through the deserted55 and quiet streets, to try and get a little sleep before work-hour. So leaving kind messages to George and Jane Wilson, and hesitating whether she might dare to send a few kind words to Jem, and deciding that she had better not, she stepped out into the bright morning light, so fresh a contrast to the darkened room where death had been.
They had
Another morn than ours.
Mary lay down on her bed in her clothes; and whether it was this, or the broad daylight that poured in through the sky-window, or whether it was over-excitement, it was long before she could catch a wink56 of sleep. Her thoughts ran on Jem's manner and words; not but what she had known the tale they told I for many a day; but still she wished he had not put it so plainly.
"Oh dear," said she to herself, "I wish he would not mistake me so; I never dare to speak a common word o' kindness, but his eye brightens and his cheek flushes. It's very hard on me; for father and George Wilson are old friends; and Jem and I ha' known each other since we were quite children. I cannot think what possesses me, that I must always be wanting to comfort him when he's downcast, and that I must go meddling57 wi' him to-night, when sure enough it was his aunt's place to speak to him. I don't care for him, and yet, unless I'm always watching myself, I'm speaking to him in a loving voice. I think I cannot go right, for I either check myself till I'm downright cross to him, or else I speak just natural, and that's too kind and tender by half. And I'm as good as engaged to be married to another; and another far handsomer than Jem; only I think I like Jem's face best for all that; liking58's liking, and there's no help for it. Well, when I'm Mrs Harry59 Carson, may happen I can put some good fortune in Jem's way. But will he thank me for it? He's rather savage60 at times, that I can see, and perhaps kindness from me, when I'm another's, will only go against the grain. I'll not plague myself wi' thinking any more about him, that I won't."
So she turned on her pillow, and fell asleep, and dreamt of what was often in her waking thoughts; of the day when she should ride from church in her carriage, with wedding bells ringing, and take up her astonished father, and drive away from the old dim work-a-day court for ever, to live in a grand house, where her father should have newspapers, and pamphlets, and. pipes, and meat dinners, every day,-and all day long if he liked.
Such thoughts mingled61 in her predilection62 for the handsome young Mr Carson, who, unfettered by work-hours, let scarcely a day ass11 without contriving63 a meeting with the beautiful little milliner he had first seen while lounging in a shop where his sisters were making some purchases, and afterwards never rested till he had freely, though respectfully, made her acquaintance in her daily walks. He was, to use his own expression to himself; quite infatuated by her, and was restless each day till the time came when he had a chance, and, of late, more than a chance of meeting her. There was something of keen practical shrewdness about her, which contrasted very bewitchingly with the simple, foolish, unworldly ideas she had picked up from the romances which Miss Simmonds' young ladies were in the habit of recommending to each other.
Yes! Mary was ambitious, and did not favour Mr Carson the less because he was rich and a gentleman. The old leaven64, infused years ago by her aunt Esther, fermented65 in her little bosom66, and perhaps all the more, for her father's aversion to the rich and the gentle. Such is the contrariness of the human heart, from Eve downwards67, that we all, in our old-Adam state, fancy things forbidden sweetest. So Mary dwelt upon and enjoyed the idea of some day becoming a lady, and doing all the elegant nothings appertaining to lady hood68. It was a comfort to her, when scolded by Miss Simmonds, to think of the day when she would drive up to the door in her own carriage, to order her gowns from the hasty-tempered yet kind dressmaker. It was a pleasure to her to hear the general admiration69 of the two elder Miss Carsons, acknowledged beauties in ball-room and street, on horseback and on foot, and to think of the time when she should ride and walk with them in loving sisterhood. But the best of her plans, the holiest, that which in some measure redeemed70 the vanity of the rest, were those relating to her father her dear father, now oppressed with care, and always a disheartened, gloomy person. How she would surround him with every comfort she could devise (of course, he was to live with them), till he should acknowledge riches to be very pleasant things, and bless his lady-daughter! Every one who had shown her kindness in her low estate should then be repaid a hundred-fold.
Such were the castles in air, the Alnaschar-visions in which Mary indulged, and which she was doomed71 in after days to expiate72 with many tears.
Meanwhile, her words--or, even more, her tones--would maintain their hold on Jem Wilson's memory. A thrill would yet come over him when he remembered how her hand had rested on his arm. The thought of her mingled with all his grief, and it was profound, for the loss of his brothers.
收听单词发音 |
1
garnered
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| v.收集并（通常）贮藏（某物），取得，获得( garner的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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2
creditor
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| n.债仅人，债主，贷方 | |
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impunity
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| n.(惩罚、损失、伤害等的)免除 | |
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4
balk
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| n.大方木料；v.妨碍；不愿前进或从事某事 | |
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5
balked
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| v.畏缩不前，犹豫( balk的过去式和过去分词 )；（指马）不肯跑 | |
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prey
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| n.被掠食者，牺牲者，掠食；v.捕食，掠夺，折磨 | |
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7
reclaimed
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| adj.再生的；翻造的；收复的；回收的v.开拓( reclaim的过去式和过去分词 )；要求收回；从废料中回收（有用的材料）；挽救 | |
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mar
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| vt.破坏，毁坏，弄糟 | |
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arrears
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| n.到期未付之债，拖欠的款项；待做的工作 | |
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determined
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| adj.坚定的；有决心的 | |
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ass
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| n.驴；傻瓜，蠢笨的人 | |
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12
dreaded
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| adj.令人畏惧的；害怕的v.害怕，恐惧，担心( dread的过去式和过去分词) | |
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13
dread
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| vt.担忧，忧虑；惧怕，不敢；n.担忧，畏惧 | |
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14
crumb
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| n.饼屑，面包屑，小量 | |
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15
inspector
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| n.检查员，监察员，视察员 | |
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16
manly
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| adj.有男子气概的；adv.男子般地，果断地 | |
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17
earnings
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| n.工资收人；利润，利益，所得 | |
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18
ailing
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| v.生病 | |
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stupor
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| v.昏迷；不省人事 | |
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distress
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| n.苦恼，痛苦，不舒适；不幸；vt.使悲痛 | |
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21
amendment
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| n.改正，修正，改善，修正案 | |
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latch
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| n.门闩，窗闩；弹簧锁 | |
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23
bushed
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| adj.疲倦的 | |
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24
gasping
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| adj. 气喘的, 痉挛的 动词gasp的现在分词 | |
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25
bent
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| n.爱好，癖好；adj.弯的；决心的，一心的 | |
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26
gasped
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| v.喘气( gasp的过去式和过去分词 )；喘息；倒抽气；很想要 | |
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27
inquiry
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| n.打听，询问，调查，查问 | |
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28
circumlocution
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| n. 绕圈子的话，迂回累赘的陈述 | |
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29
imploring
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| 恳求的，哀求的 | |
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30
fixed
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| adj.固定的，不变的，准备好的；(计算机)固定的 | |
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31
longing
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| n.（for）渴望 | |
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32
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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33
exhausted
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| adj.极其疲惫的，精疲力尽的 | |
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34
helping
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| n.食物的一份&adj.帮助人的，辅助的 | |
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35
reverent
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| adj.恭敬的，虔诚的 | |
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36
repose
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| v.(使)休息；n.安息 | |
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37
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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38
bide
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| v.忍耐；等候；住 | |
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39
almighty
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| adj.全能的，万能的；很大的，很强的 | |
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40
wilderness
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| n.杳无人烟的一片陆地、水等，荒漠 | |
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41
abiding
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| adj.永久的，持久的，不变的 | |
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42
vestige
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| n.痕迹，遗迹，残余 | |
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43
sobs
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| 啜泣（声），呜咽（声）( sob的名词复数 ) | |
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44
apron
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| n.围裙；工作裙 | |
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45
guise
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| n.外表，伪装的姿态 | |
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46
puffed
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| adj.疏松的v.使喷出( puff的过去式和过去分词 )；喷着汽（或烟）移动；吹嘘；吹捧 | |
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47
extricated
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| v.使摆脱困难，脱身( extricate的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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48
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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49
bliss
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| n.狂喜，福佑，天赐的福 | |
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50
loathe
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| v.厌恶，嫌恶 | |
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51
repugnance
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| n.嫌恶 | |
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52
wretch
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| n.可怜的人，不幸的人；卑鄙的人 | |
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53
penitent
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| adj.后悔的；n.后悔者；忏悔者 | |
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54
chamber
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| n.房间，寝室；会议厅；议院；会所 | |
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55
deserted
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| adj.荒芜的，荒废的，无人的，被遗弃的 | |
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56
wink
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| n.眨眼，使眼色，瞬间；v.眨眼，使眼色，闪烁 | |
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57
meddling
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| v.干涉，干预（他人事务）( meddle的现在分词 ) | |
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58
liking
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| n.爱好；嗜好；喜欢 | |
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59
harry
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| vt.掠夺，蹂躏，使苦恼 | |
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savage
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| adj.野蛮的；凶恶的，残暴的；n.未开化的人 | |
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61
mingled
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| 混合，混入( mingle的过去式和过去分词 )； 混进，与…交往[联系] | |
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62
predilection
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| n.偏好 | |
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63
contriving
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| （不顾困难地）促成某事( contrive的现在分词 )； 巧妙地策划，精巧地制造（如机器）； 设法做到 | |
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64
leaven
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| v.使发酵；n.酵母；影响 | |
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65
fermented
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| v.（使）发酵( ferment的过去式和过去分词 )；（使）激动；骚动；骚扰 | |
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66
bosom
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| n.胸，胸部；胸怀；内心；adj.亲密的 | |
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67
downwards
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| adj./adv.向下的（地），下行的（地） | |
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68
hood
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| n.头巾，兜帽，覆盖；v.罩上，以头巾覆盖 | |
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69
admiration
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| n.钦佩，赞美，羡慕 | |
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70
redeemed
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| adj. 可赎回的，可救赎的 动词redeem的过去式和过去分词形式 | |
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71
doomed
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| 命定的 | |
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72
expiate
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| v.抵补，赎罪 | |
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