Touch us gently, gentle Time!
We've not proud or soaring wings,
Our ambition, our content,
Lies in simple things;
O'er life's dim unsounded sea;
Touch us gently, gentle Time!
BARRY CORNWALL.
Not many days after John Barton's funeral was over, all was arranged respecting Jem's appointment at Toronto; and the time was fixed2 for his sailing. It was to take lace almost immediately; yet much remained to be done; many domestic preparations were to be made; and one great obstacle, anticipated by both Jem and Mary, to be removed. This was the opposition3 they expected from Mrs Wilson, to whom the plan had never yet been named.
They were most anxious that their home should continue ever to be hers, yet they feared that her dislike to a new country might he an insuperable objection to this. At last Jem took advantage of an evening of unusual placidity4, as he sat alone with his mother just before going to bed, to broach5 the subject; and to his surprise she acceded6 willingly to his proposition of her accompanying himself and his wife.
"To be sure 'Merica is a long way to flit to; beyond London a good bit I reckon; and quite in foreign parts; but I've never had no opinion of England, ever since they could be such fools as to take up a quiet chap like thee, and clap thee in prison. Where you go, I'll go. Perhaps in them Indian countries they'll know a well-behaved lad when they see him; ne'er speak a word more, lad, I'll go.
Their path became daily more smooth and easy; the resent was clear and practicable, the future was hopeful; they had leisure of mind enough to turn to the past.
"Jem!" said Mary to him, one evening as they sat in the twilight7, talking together in low happy voices till Margaret should come to keep Mary company through the night, "Jem! you've never yet told me how you came to know about my naughty ways with poor young Mr Carson." She blushed for shame atthe remembrance of her folly8, and hid her head on his shoulder while he made answer.
"Darling, I'm almost loath9 to tell you; your aunt Esther told me."
"Ah, I remember! but how did she know? I was so put about that night I did not think of asking her. Where did you see her? I've forgotten where she lives."
Mary said all this in so open and innocent a manner, that Jem felt sure she knew not the truth respecting Esther, and he half hesitated to tell her. At length he re lied,
"Where did you see Esther lately? When? Tell me, love, for you've never named it before and I can't make it out"
"Oh! it was that horrible night, which is like a dream." And she told him of Esther's midnight visit, concluding with, "We must go and see her before we leave, though I don't rightly know where to find her."
"Dearest Mary----'
"What, Jem!" exclaimed she, alarmed at his hesitation10.
"Your poor aunt Esther has no home:--she's one of them miserable11 creatures that walk the streets." And he in his turn told of his encounter with Esther, with so many details that Mary was forced to be convinced, although her heart rebelled against the belief.
"Jem, lad!" said she, vehemently12, "we must find her out,-we must hunt her up!" she rose as if she was going on the search there and then.
"What could we do, darling?" asked he, fondly restraining her.
"Do! Why! what could we not do, if we could but find her? She's none so happy in her ways, think ye, but what she'd turn from them, if any one would lend her a helping13 hand. Don't hold me, Jem, this is just the time for such as her to be out, and who knows but what I might find her close at hand."
"Stay, Mary, for a minute; I'll go out now and search for her if you wish, though it's but a wild chase. You must not go. It would be better to ask the police to-morrow. But if I should find her, how can I make her come with me? Once before she refused, and said she could not break off her drinking ways, come what might"
"You never will persuade her if you fear and doubt," said Mary, in tears. "Hope yourself, and trust to the good that must be in her. Speak to that,--she has it in her yet,--oh, bring her home, and we will love her so, we'll make her good."
"Yes!" said Jem, catching14 Mary's sanguine15 spirit; "she shall go to America with us; and we'll help her to get rid of her sins. I'll go now, my precious darling, and if I can't find her, it's but trying the police to-morrow. Take care of your own sweet self, Mary, said he, fondly kissing her before he went out.
It was not to be. Jem wandered far and wide that night, but never met Esther. The next day he applied16 to the police; and at last they recognised under his description of her, a woman known to them under the name of the "Butterfly," from the gaiety of her dress a year or two ago. By their help he traced out one of her haunts, a low lodging-house behind Peter Street. He and his companion, a kind-hearted policeman, were admitted, suspiciously enough, by the landlady17, who ushered18 them into a large garret, where twenty or thirty people of all ages and both sexes lay and dozed19 away the day, choosing the evening and night for their trades of beggary, thieving, and prostitution.
"I know the Butterfly was here," said she, looking round. "She came in, the night before last, and said she had not a penny to get a place for shelter; and that if she was far away in the country she could steal aside and die in a copse, or a clough, like the wild animals; but here the police would let no one alone in the streets, and she wanted a spot to die in, in peace. It's a queer sort of peace we have here, but that night the room was uncommon20 empty, and I'm not a hardhearted woman (I wish I were, I could ha' made a good thing out of it afore this if I were harder), so I sent her up,-but she's not here now, I think."
"Was she very bad?" asked Jem.
"Aye! nought21 but skin and bone, with a cough to tear her in two."
They made some inquiries22, and found that in the restlessness of approaching death, she had longed to be once more in the open air, and had gone forth,--where, no one seemed to be able to tell.
Leaving many messages for her, and directions that he was to be sent for if either the policeman or the landlady obtained any clue to her whereabouts, Jem bent23 his steps towards Mary's house; for he had not seen her all that long day of search. He told her of his proceedings24 and want of success; and both were saddened at the recital25, and sat silent for some time.
After awhile they began talking over their plans. In a day or two, Mary was to give up house, and go and live for a week or so with Job Legh, until the time of her marriage, which would take place immediately before sailing; they talked themselves back into silence and delicious reverie. Mary sat by Jem, his arm round her waist, her head on his shoulder; and thought over the scenes which had passed in that home she was so soon to leave for ever.
Suddenly she felt Jem start, and started too without knowing why; she tried to see his countenance26, but the shades of evening had deepened so much she could read no expression there. It was turned to the window; she looked and saw a white face pressed against the panes27 on the outside, gazing intently into the dusky chamber28.
While they watched, as if fascinated by the appearance, and unable to think or stir, a film came over the bright, feverish29, glittering eyes outside, and the form sank down to the ground without a struggle of instinctive30 resistance.
"It is Esther!" exclaimed they, both at once. They rushed outside; and, fallen into what appeared simply a heap of white or light-coloured clothes, fainting or dead, lay the poor crushed Butterfly-the once innocent Esther.
She had come (as a wounded deer drags its heavy limbs once more to the green coolness of the lair31 in which it was born, there to die), to see the place familiar to her innocence32, yet once again before her death. Whether she was indeed alive or dead, they knew not now.
Job came in with Margaret, for it was bedtime. He said Esther's pulse beat a little yet. They carried her upstairs and laid her on Mary's bed, not daring to undress her, lest any motion should frighten the trembling life away; but it was all in vain.
Towards midnight, she opened wide her eyes and looked around on the once familiar room Job Legh knelt by the bed, praying aloud and fervently33 for her, but he stopped as he saw her roused look. She sat up in bed with a sudden convulsive motion.
"Has it been a dream, then?" asked she, wildly. Then with a habit, which came like instinct even in that awful dying hour, her hand sought for a locket which hung concealed34 in her bosom35, and, finding that, she knew all was true which had befallen her since last she lay an innocent girl on that bed.
She fell back, and spoke36 word never more. She held the locket containing her child's hair still in her hand, and once or twice she kissed it with a long soft kiss. She cried feebly and sadly as long as she had any strength to cry, and then she died.
They laid her in one grave with John Barton. And there they lie without name, or initial, or date. Only this verse is inscribed37 upon the stone which covers the remains38 of these two wanderers.
Psalm39 ciii. v. 9.--"For He will not always chide40, neither will He keep His anger for ever."
I see a long low wooden house, with room enough and to spare. The old primeval trees are felled and gone for many a mile around; one alone remains to overshadow the gableend of the cottage. There is a garden around the dwelling41, and far beyond that stretches an orchard42. The glory of an Indian summer is over all, making the heart leap at the sight of its gorgeous beauty.
At the door of the house, looking towards the town, stands Mary, watching the return of her husband from his daily work; and while she watches, she listens, smiling,
"Clap hands, daddy comes,
With his pocket full of plums
And a cake for Johnnie."
Then comes a crow of delight from Johnnie. Then his grandmother carries him to the door, and glories in seeing him resist his mother's blandishments to cling to her.
"English letters! 'Twas that made me so late!"
"Oh, Jem, Jem! don't hold them so tight! What do they say?"
"Why, some good news. Come, give a guess what it is."
"Oh, tell me! I cannot guess," said Mary.
"Then you give it up, do you? What do you say, mother?"
Jane Wilson thought a moment.
"Will and Margaret are married?" asked she.
"Not exactly,--but very near. The old woman has twice the spirit of the young one. Come, Mary, give a guess!"
He covered his little boy's eyes with his hands for an instant, significantly, till the baby pushed them down, saying in his imperfect way,
"Tan't see."
"There now! Johnnie can see. Do you guess, Mary?"
"They've done something to Margaret to give her back her sight!" exclaimed she.
"They have. She had been couched, and can see as well as ever. She and Will are to be married on the twenty-fifth of this month, and he's bringing her out here next voyage; and Job Legh talks of coming too,--not to see you, Mary,--nor you, mother,--nor you, my little hero" (kissing him), "but to try and pick up a few specimens43 of Canadian insects, Will says. All the compliment is to the earwigs, you see, mother!"
"Dear Job Legh!" said Mary, softly and seriously.
(1848)
END
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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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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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opposition
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| n.反对，敌对 | |
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placidity
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| n.平静，安静，温和 | |
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broach
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| v.开瓶，提出(题目) | |
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acceded
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| v.（正式）加入( accede的过去式和过去分词 )；答应；（通过财产的添附而）增加；开始任职 | |
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7
twilight
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| n.暮光，黄昏；暮年，晚期，衰落时期 | |
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8
folly
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| n.愚笨，愚蠢，蠢事，蠢行，傻话 | |
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loath
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| adj.不愿意的；勉强的 | |
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hesitation
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| n.犹豫，踌躇 | |
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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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12
vehemently
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| adv. 热烈地 | |
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13
helping
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| n.食物的一份&adj.帮助人的，辅助的 | |
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14
catching
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| adj.易传染的，有魅力的，迷人的，接住 | |
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15
sanguine
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| adj.充满希望的，乐观的，血红色的 | |
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16
applied
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| adj.应用的；v.应用，适用 | |
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landlady
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| n.女房东，女地主 | |
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ushered
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| v.引，领，陪同( usher的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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dozed
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| v.打盹儿，打瞌睡( doze的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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uncommon
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| adj.罕见的，非凡的，不平常的 | |
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21
nought
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| n.／adj.无，零 | |
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inquiries
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| n.调查( inquiry的名词复数 )；疑问；探究；打听 | |
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23
bent
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| n.爱好，癖好；adj.弯的；决心的，一心的 | |
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24
proceedings
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| n.进程，过程，议程；诉讼(程序)；公报 | |
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25
recital
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| n.朗诵，独奏会，独唱会 | |
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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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27
panes
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| 窗玻璃( pane的名词复数 ) | |
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28
chamber
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| n.房间，寝室；会议厅；议院；会所 | |
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29
feverish
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| adj.发烧的，狂热的，兴奋的 | |
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30
instinctive
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| adj.(出于)本能的；直觉的；(出于)天性的 | |
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31
lair
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| n.野兽的巢穴；躲藏处 | |
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32
innocence
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| n.无罪；天真；无害 | |
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fervently
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| adv.热烈地，热情地，强烈地 | |
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34
concealed
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| a.隐藏的，隐蔽的 | |
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35
bosom
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| n.胸，胸部；胸怀；内心；adj.亲密的 | |
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36
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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37
inscribed
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| v.写，刻( inscribe的过去式和过去分词 )；内接 | |
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remains
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| n.剩余物，残留物；遗体，遗迹 | |
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psalm
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| n.赞美诗，圣诗 | |
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40
chide
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| v.叱责；谴责 | |
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41
dwelling
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| n.住宅，住所，寓所 | |
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42
orchard
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| n.果园，果园里的全部果树，(美俚)棒球场 | |
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43
specimens
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| n.样品( specimen的名词复数 )；范例；（化验的）抽样；某种类型的人 | |
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