The dreary1 March evening is rapidly passing from murky2 gloom to obscurity. Gusts3 of icy rain and sleet4 are sweeping5 full against a man who, though driving, bows his head so low that he cannot see his horses. The patient beasts, however, plod6 along the miry road, unerringly taking their course to the distant stable door. The highway sometimes passes through a grove9 on the edge of a forest, and the trees creak and groan10 as they writhe11 in the heavy blasts. In occasional groups of pines there is sighing and moaning almost human in suggestiveness of trouble. Never had Nature been in a more dismal12 mood, never had she been more prodigal13 of every element of discomfort14, and never had the hero of my story been more cast down in heart and hope than on this chaotic15 day which, even to his dull fancy, appeared closing in harmony with his feelings and fortune. He is going home, yet the thought brings no assurance of welcome and comfort. As he cowers16 upon the seat of his market wagon17, he is to the reader what he is in the fading light--a mere18 dim outline of a man. His progress is so slow that there will be plenty of time to relate some facts about him which will make the scenes and events to follow more intelligible19.
James Holcroft is a middle-aged20 man and the owner of a small, hilly farm. He had inherited his rugged21 acres from his father, had always lived upon them, and the feeling had grown strong with the lapse22 of time that he could live nowhere else. Yet he knew that he was, in the vernacular23 of the region, "going down-hill." The small savings24 of years were slowly melting away, and the depressing feature of this truth was that he did not see how he could help himself. He was not a sanguine25 man, but rather one endowed with a hard, practical sense which made it clear that the down-hill process had only to continue sufficiently26 long to leave him landless and penniless. It was all so distinct on this dismal evening that he groaned27 aloud.
"If it comes to that, I don't know what I'll do--crawl away on a night like this and give up, like enough."
Perhaps he was right. When a man with a nature like his "gives up," the end has come. The low, sturdy oaks that grew so abundantly along the road were types of his character--they could break, but not bend. He had little suppleness28, little power to adapt himself to varied29 conditions of life. An event had occurred a year since, which for months, he could only contemplate30 with dull wonder and dismay. In his youth he had married the daughter of a small farmer. Like himself, she had always been accustomed to toil31 and frugal32 living. From childhood she had been impressed with the thought that parting with a dollar was a serious matter, and to save a dollar one of the good deeds rewarded in this life and the life to come. She and her husband were in complete harmony on this vital point. Yet not a miserly trait entered into their humble33 thrift34. It was a necessity entailed35 by their meager36 resources; it was inspired by the wish for an honest independence in their old age.
There was to be no old age for her. She took a heavy cold, and almost before her husband was aware of her danger, she had left his side. He was more than grief-stricken, he was appalled38. No children had blessed their union, and they had become more and more to each other in their simple home life. To many it would have seemed a narrow and even a sordid39 life. It could not have been the latter, for all their hard work, their petty economies and plans to increase the hoard40 in the savings bank were robbed of sordidness41 by an honest, quiet affection for each other, by mutual42 sympathy and a common purpose. It undoubtedly43 was a meager life, which grew narrower with time and habit. There had never been much romance to begin with, but something that often wears better--mutual respect and affection. From the first, James Holcroft had entertained the sensible hope that she was just the girl to help him make a living from his hillside farm, and he had not hoped for or even thought of very much else except the harmony and good comradeship which bless people who are suited to each other. He had been disappointed in no respect; they had toiled44 and gathered like ants; they were confidential45 partners in the homely46 business and details of the farm; nothing was wasted, not even time. The little farmhouse47 abounded48 in comfort, and was a model of neatness and order. If it and its surroundings were devoid49 of grace and ornament50, they were not missed, for neither of its occupants had ever been accustomed to such things. The years which passed so uneventfully only cemented the union and increased the sense of mutual dependence37. They would have been regarded as exceedingly matter-of-fact and undemonstrative, but they were kind to each other and understood each other. Feeling that they were slowly yet surely getting ahead, they looked forward to an old age of rest and a sufficiency for their simple needs. Then, before he could realize the truth, he was left alone at her wintry grave; neighbors dispersed51 after the brief service, and he plodded52 back to his desolate53 home. There was no relative to step in and partially54 make good his loss. Some of the nearest residents sent a few cooked provisions until he could get help, but these attentions soon ceased. It was believed that he was abundantly able to take care of himself, and he was left to do so. He was not exactly unpopular, but had been much too reticent55 and had lived too secluded56 a life to find uninvited sympathy now. He was the last man, however, to ask for sympathy or help; and this was not due to misanthropy, but simply to temperament57 and habits of life. He and his wife had been sufficient for each other, and the outside world was excluded chiefly because they had not time or taste for social interchanges. As a result, he suffered serious disadvantages; he was misunderstood and virtually left to meet his calamity58 alone.
But, indeed he could scarcely have met it in any other way. Even to his wife, he had never formed the habit of speaking freely of his thoughts and feelings. There had been no need, so complete was the understanding between them. A hint, a sentence, reveled to each other their simple and limited processes of thought. To talk about her now to strangers was impossible. He had no language by which to express the heavy, paralyzing pain in his heart.
For a time he performed necessary duties in a dazed, mechanical way. The horses and live stock were fed regularly, the cows milked; but the milk stood in the dairy room until it spoiled. Then he would sit down at his desolate hearth60 and gaze for hours into the fire, until it sunk down and died out. Perhaps no class in the world suffers from such a terrible sense of loneliness as simple-natured country people, to whom a very few have been all the company they required.
At last Holcroft partially shook off his stupor61, and began the experiment of keeping house and maintaining his dairy with hired help. For a long year he had struggled on through all kinds of domestic vicissitude62, conscious all the time that things were going from bad to worse. His house was isolated63, the region sparsely64 settled, and good help difficult to be obtained under favoring auspices65. The few respectable women in the neighborhood who occasionally "lent a hand" in other homes than their own would not compromise themselves, as they expressed it, by "keepin' house for a widower66." Servants obtained from the neighboring town either could not endure the loneliness, or else were so wasteful67 and ignorant that the farmer, in sheer desperation, discharged them. The silent, grief-stricken, rugged-featured man was no company for anyone. The year was but a record of changes, waste, and small pilferings. Although he knew he could not afford it, he tried the device of obtaining two women instead of one, so that they might have society in each other; but either they would not stay or else he found that he had two thieves to deal with instead of one--brazen, incompetent68 creatures who knew more about whisky than milk, and who made his home a terror to him.
Some asked good-naturedly, "Why don't you marry again?" Not only was the very thought repugnant, but he knew well that he was not the man to thrive on any such errand to the neighboring farmhouses69. Though apparently70 he had little sentiment in his nature, yet the memory of his wife was like his religion. He felt that he could not put an ordinary woman into his wife's place, and say to her the words he had spoken before. Such a marriage would be to him a grotesque72 farce73, at which his soul revolted.
At last he was driven to the necessity of applying for help to an Irish family that had recently moved into the neighborhood. The promise was forbidding, indeed, as he entered the squalid abode74 in which were huddled75 men, women, and children. A sister of the mistress of the shanty76 was voluble in her assurances of unlimited77 capability78.
"Faix I kin8 do all the wourk, in doors and out, so I takes the notion," she had asserted.
There certainly was no lack of bone and muscle in the big, red-faced, middle-aged woman who was so ready to preside at his hearth and glean79 from his diminished dairy a modicum80 of profit; but as he trudged81 home along the wintry road, he experienced strong feelings of disgust at the thought of such a creature sitting by the kitchen fire in the place once occupied by his wife.
During all these domestic vicissitudes82 he had occupied the parlor83, a stiff, formal, frigid84 apartment, which had been rarely used in his married life. He had no inclination86 for the society of his help; in fact, there had been none with whom he could associate. The better class of those who went out to service could find places much more to their taste than the lonely farmhouse. The kitchen had been the one cozy87, cheerful room of the house, and, driven from it, the farmer was an exile in his own home. In the parlor he could at least brood over the happy past, and that was about all the solace88 he had left.
Bridget came and took possession of her domain89 with a sangfroid90 which appalled Holcroft from the first. To his directions and suggestions, she curtly91 informed him that she knew her business and "didn't want no mon around, orderin' and interferin'."
In fact, she did appear, as she had said, capable of any amount of work, and usually was in a mood to perform it; but soon her male relatives began to drop in to smoke a pipe with her in the evening. A little later on, the supper table was left standing59 for those who were always ready to "take a bite."--The farmer had never heard of the camel who first got his head into the tent, but it gradually dawned upon him that he was half supporting the whole Irish tribe down at the shanty. Every evening, while he shivered in his best room, he was compelled to hear the coarse jests and laughter in the adjacent apartment. One night his bitter thoughts found expression: "I might as well open a free house for the keeping of man and beast."
He had endured this state of affairs for some time simply because the woman did the essential work in her offhand92, slapdash style, and left him unmolested to his brooding as long as he did not interfere93 with her ideas of domestic economy. But his impatience94 and the sense of being wronged were producing a feeling akin7 to desperation. Every week there was less and less to sell from the dairy; chickens and eggs disappeared, and the appetites of those who dropped in to "kape Bridgy from bein' a bit lonely" grew more voracious95.
Thus matters had drifted on until this March day when he had taken two calves96 to market. He had said to the kitchen potentate97 that he would take supper with a friend in town and therefore would not be back before nine in the evening. This friend was the official keeper of the poorhouse and had been a crony of Holcroft's in early life. He had taken to politics instead of farming, and now had attained98 to what he and his acquaintances spoke71 of as a "snug99 berth100." Holcroft had maintained with this man a friendship based partly on business relations, and the well-to-do purveyor101 for paupers102 always gave his old playmate an honest welcome to his private supper table, which differed somewhat from that spread for the town's pensioners103.
On this occasion the gathering104 storm had decided105 Holcroft to return without availing himself of his friend's hospitality, and he is at last entering the lane leading from the highway to his doorway106. Even as he approaches his dwelling107 he hears the sound of revelry and readily guesses what is taking place.
Quiet, patient men, when goaded108 beyond a certain point, are capable of terrible ebullitions of anger, and Holcroft was no exception. It seemed to him that night that the God he had worshiped all his life was in league with man against him. The blood rushed to his face, his chilled form became rigid85 with a sudden passionate109 protest against his misfortunes and wrongs. Springing from the wagon, he left his team standing at the barn door and rushed to the kitchen window. There before him sat the whole tribe from the shanty, feasting at his expense. The table was loaded with coarse profusion110. Roast fowls111 alternated with fried ham and eggs, a great pitcher112 of milk was flanked by one of foaming113 cider, while the post of honor was occupied by the one contribution of his self-invited guests--a villainous-looking jug114.
They had just sat down to the repast when the weazen-faced patriarch of the tribe remarked, by way of grace, it may be supposed, "Be jabers, but isn't ould Holcroft givin' us a foine spread the noight! Here's bad luck to the glowerin' ould skinflint!" and he poured out a bumper115 from the jug.
The farmer waited to see and hear no more. Hastening to a parlor window, he raised it quietly and clambered in; then taking his rusty116 shotgun, which he kept loaded for the benefit of the vermin that prowled about his hen-roost, he burst in upon the startled group.
"Be off!" he shouted. "If you value your lives, get out of that door, and never show your faces on my place again. I'll not be eaten out of house and home by a lot of jackals!"
His weapon, his dark, gleaming eyes, and desperate aspect taught the men that he was not to be trifled with a moment, and they slunk away.
Bridget began to whine117, "Yez wouldn't turn a woman out in the noight and storm."
"You are not a woman!" thundered Holcroft, "you are a jackal, too! Get your traps and begone! I warn the whole lot of you to beware! I give you this chance to get off the premises118, and then I shall watch for you all, old and young!"
There was something terrible and flame-like in his anger, dismaying the cormorants119, and they hastened away with such alacrity120 that Bridget went down the lane screaming, "Sthop, I tell yees, and be afther waitin' for me!"
Holcroft hurled121 the jug after them with words that sounded like an imprecation. He next turned to the viands122 on the table with an expression of loathing123, gathered them up, and carried them to the hog124 pen. He seemed possessed125 by a feverish126 impatience to banish127 every vestige128 of those whom he had driven forth129, and to restore the apartment as nearly as possible to the aspect it had worn in former happy years. At last, he sat down where his wife had been accustomed to sit, unbuttoned his waistcoat and flannel130 shirt, and from against his naked breast took an old, worn daguerreotype131. He looked a moment at the plain, good face reflected there, them, bowing his head upon it, strong, convulsive sobs132 shook his frame, though not a tear moistened his eyes.
How long the paroxysm would have lasted it were hard to say, had not the impatient whinnying of his horses, still exposed to the storm, caught his attention. The lifelong habit of caring for the dumb animals in his charge asserted itself. He went out mechanically, unharnessed and stabled them as carefully as ever before in his life, then returned and wearily prepared himself a pot of coffee, which, with a crust of bread, was all the supper he appeared to crave133.
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dreary
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| adj.令人沮丧的，沉闷的，单调乏味的 | |
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murky
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| adj.黑暗的，朦胧的；adv.阴暗地，混浊地；n.阴暗；昏暗 | |
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gusts
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| 一阵强风( gust的名词复数 )； （怒、笑等的）爆发； （感情的）迸发； 发作 | |
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sleet
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| n.雨雪；v.下雨雪，下冰雹 | |
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sweeping
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| adj.范围广大的，一扫无遗的 | |
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plod
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| v.沉重缓慢地走，孜孜地工作 | |
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akin
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| adj.同族的，类似的 | |
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kin
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| n.家族，亲属，血缘关系；adj.亲属关系的，同类的 | |
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grove
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| n.林子，小树林，园林 | |
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groan
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| vi./n.呻吟，抱怨；(发出)呻吟般的声音 | |
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writhe
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| vt.挣扎，痛苦地扭曲；vi.扭曲，翻腾，受苦；n.翻腾，苦恼 | |
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dismal
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| adj.阴沉的，凄凉的，令人忧郁的，差劲的 | |
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prodigal
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| adj.浪费的，挥霍的，放荡的 | |
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discomfort
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| n.不舒服，不安，难过，困难，不方便 | |
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chaotic
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| adj.混沌的，一片混乱的，一团糟的 | |
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cowers
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| v.畏缩，抖缩( cower的第三人称单数 ) | |
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wagon
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| n.四轮马车，手推车，面包车；无盖运货列车 | |
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mere
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| adj.纯粹的；仅仅，只不过 | |
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intelligible
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| adj.可理解的，明白易懂的，清楚的 | |
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middle-aged
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| adj.中年的 | |
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rugged
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| adj.高低不平的，粗糙的，粗壮的，强健的 | |
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lapse
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| n.过失，流逝，失效，抛弃信仰，间隔；vi.堕落，停止，失效，流逝；vt.使失效 | |
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vernacular
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| adj.地方的，用地方语写成的；n.白话；行话；本国语；动植物的俗名 | |
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savings
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| n.存款，储蓄 | |
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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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sufficiently
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| adv.足够地，充分地 | |
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groaned
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| v.呻吟( groan的过去式和过去分词 )；发牢骚；抱怨；受苦 | |
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suppleness
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| 柔软； 灵活； 易弯曲； 顺从 | |
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varied
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| adj.多样的，多变化的 | |
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contemplate
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| vt.盘算，计议；周密考虑；注视，凝视 | |
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toil
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| vi.辛劳工作，艰难地行动；n.苦工，难事 | |
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frugal
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| adj.节俭的，节约的，少量的，微量的 | |
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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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thrift
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| adj.节约，节俭；n.节俭，节约 | |
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entailed
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| 使…成为必要( entail的过去式和过去分词 )； 需要； 限定继承； 使必需 | |
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meager
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| adj.缺乏的，不足的，瘦的 | |
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dependence
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| n.依靠，依赖；信任，信赖；隶属 | |
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appalled
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| v.使惊骇，使充满恐惧( appall的过去式和过去分词)adj.惊骇的；丧胆的 | |
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sordid
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| adj.肮脏的，不干净的，卑鄙的，暗淡的 | |
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hoard
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| n./v.窖藏，贮存，囤积 | |
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sordidness
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| n.肮脏；污秽；卑鄙；可耻 | |
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mutual
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| adj.相互的，彼此的；共同的，共有的 | |
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undoubtedly
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| adv.确实地，无疑地 | |
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toiled
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| 长时间或辛苦地工作( toil的过去式和过去分词 )； 艰难缓慢地移动，跋涉 | |
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confidential
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| adj.秘（机）密的，表示信任的，担任机密工作的 | |
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homely
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| adj.家常的，简朴的；不漂亮的 | |
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farmhouse
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| n.农场住宅（尤指主要住房） | |
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abounded
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| v.大量存在，充满，富于( abound的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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devoid
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| adj.全无的，缺乏的 | |
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ornament
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| v.装饰，美化；n.装饰，装饰物 | |
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dispersed
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| adj. 被驱散的, 被分散的, 散布的 | |
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52
plodded
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| v.沉重缓慢地走（路）( plod的过去式和过去分词 )；努力从事；沉闷地苦干；缓慢进行（尤指艰难枯燥的工作） | |
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desolate
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| adj.荒凉的，荒芜的；孤独的，凄凉的；v.使荒芜，使孤寂 | |
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partially
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| adv.部分地，从某些方面讲 | |
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reticent
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| adj.沉默寡言的；言不如意的 | |
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secluded
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| adj.与世隔绝的；隐退的；偏僻的v.使隔开，使隐退( seclude的过去式和过去分词) | |
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temperament
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| n.气质，性格，性情 | |
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calamity
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| n.灾害，祸患，不幸事件 | |
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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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hearth
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| n.壁炉炉床，壁炉地面 | |
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stupor
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| v.昏迷；不省人事 | |
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vicissitude
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| n.变化，变迁，荣枯，盛衰 | |
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isolated
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| adj.与世隔绝的 | |
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sparsely
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| adv.稀疏地；稀少地；不足地；贫乏地 | |
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auspices
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| n.资助，赞助 | |
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widower
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| n.鳏夫 | |
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wasteful
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| adj.（造成）浪费的，挥霍的 | |
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incompetent
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| adj.无能力的，不能胜任的 | |
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69
farmhouses
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| n.农舍，农场的主要住房( farmhouse的名词复数 ) | |
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70
apparently
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| adv.显然地；表面上，似乎 | |
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71
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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72
grotesque
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| adj.怪诞的，丑陋的；n.怪诞的图案，怪人（物） | |
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73
farce
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| n.闹剧，笑剧，滑稽戏；胡闹 | |
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74
abode
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| n.住处，住所 | |
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75
huddled
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| 挤在一起（huddle的过去式与过去分词形式） | |
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76
shanty
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| n.小屋，棚屋；船工号子 | |
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77
unlimited
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| adj.无限的，不受控制的，无条件的 | |
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78
capability
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| n.能力；才能；(pl)可发展的能力或特性等 | |
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79
glean
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| v.收集(消息、资料、情报等) | |
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80
modicum
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| n.少量，一小份 | |
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81
trudged
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| vt.& vi.跋涉，吃力地走（trudge的过去式与过去分词形式） | |
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82
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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83
parlor
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| n.店铺，营业室；会客室，客厅 | |
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84
frigid
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| adj.寒冷的，凛冽的；冷淡的；拘禁的 | |
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85
rigid
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| adj.严格的，死板的；刚硬的，僵硬的 | |
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86
inclination
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| n.倾斜；点头；弯腰；斜坡；倾度；倾向；爱好 | |
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87
cozy
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| adj.亲如手足的，密切的，暖和舒服的 | |
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88
solace
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| n.安慰；v.使快乐；vt.安慰(物)，缓和 | |
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89
domain
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| n.(活动等)领域，范围；领地，势力范围 | |
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90
sangfroid
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| n.沉着冷静 | |
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91
curtly
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| adv.简短地 | |
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92
offhand
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| adj.临时，无准备的；随便，马虎的 | |
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93
interfere
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| v.(in)干涉，干预；(with)妨碍，打扰 | |
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94
impatience
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| n.不耐烦，急躁 | |
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95
voracious
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| adj.狼吞虎咽的，贪婪的 | |
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96
calves
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| n.(calf的复数)笨拙的男子，腓；腿肚子( calf的名词复数 )；牛犊；腓；小腿肚v.生小牛( calve的第三人称单数 )；（冰川）崩解；生（小牛等），产（犊）；使（冰川）崩解 | |
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97
potentate
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| n.统治者；君主 | |
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98
attained
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| （通常经过努力）实现( attain的过去式和过去分词 )； 达到； 获得； 达到（某年龄、水平、状况） | |
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99
snug
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| adj.温暖舒适的，合身的，安全的；v.使整洁干净，舒适地依靠，紧贴；n.（英）酒吧里的私房 | |
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100
berth
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| n.卧铺，停泊地，锚位；v.使停泊 | |
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101
purveyor
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| n.承办商，伙食承办商 | |
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102
paupers
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| n.穷人( pauper的名词复数 )；贫民；贫穷 | |
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103
pensioners
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| n.领取退休、养老金或抚恤金的人( pensioner的名词复数 ) | |
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104
gathering
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| n.集会，聚会，聚集 | |
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105
decided
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| adj.决定了的，坚决的；明显的，明确的 | |
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106
doorway
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| n.门口，(喻)入门；门路，途径 | |
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107
dwelling
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| n.住宅，住所，寓所 | |
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108
goaded
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| v.刺激( goad的过去式和过去分词 )；激励；（用尖棒）驱赶；驱使（或怂恿、刺激）某人 | |
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109
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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110
profusion
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| n.挥霍；丰富 | |
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111
fowls
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| 鸟( fowl的名词复数 )； 禽肉； 既不是这； 非驴非马 | |
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112
pitcher
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| n.(有嘴和柄的)大水罐；(棒球)投手 | |
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113
foaming
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| adj.布满泡沫的；发泡 | |
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114
jug
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| n.(有柄，小口，可盛水等的)大壶，罐，盂 | |
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115
bumper
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| n.(汽车上的)保险杠；adj.特大的，丰盛的 | |
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116
rusty
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| adj.生锈的；锈色的；荒废了的 | |
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117
whine
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| v.哀号，号哭；n.哀鸣 | |
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118
premises
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| n.建筑物，房屋 | |
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119
cormorants
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| 鸬鹚，贪婪的人( cormorant的名词复数 ) | |
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120
alacrity
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| n.敏捷，轻快，乐意 | |
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121
hurled
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| v.猛投，用力掷( hurl的过去式和过去分词 )；大声叫骂 | |
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122
viands
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| n.食品，食物 | |
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123
loathing
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| n.厌恶，憎恨v.憎恨，厌恶( loathe的现在分词)；极不喜欢 | |
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124
hog
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| n.猪；馋嘴贪吃的人；vt.把…占为己有，独占 | |
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125
possessed
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| adj.疯狂的；拥有的，占有的 | |
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126
feverish
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| adj.发烧的，狂热的，兴奋的 | |
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127
banish
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| vt.放逐，驱逐；消除，排除 | |
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128
vestige
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| n.痕迹，遗迹，残余 | |
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129
forth
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| adv.向前；向外，往外 | |
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130
flannel
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| n.法兰绒；法兰绒衣服 | |
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131
daguerreotype
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| n.银板照相 | |
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132
sobs
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| 啜泣（声），呜咽（声）( sob的名词复数 ) | |
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133
crave
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| vt.渴望得到，迫切需要，恳求，请求 | |
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