’Twas Sir Jeoffry who was louder than any other, he having drunk even deeper than the rest, and though ’twas his boast that he could carry a bottle more than any man, and see all his guests under the table, his last night’s bout2 had left him in ill-humour and boisterous. He strode about, casting oaths at the dogs and rating the servants, and when he mounted his big black horse ’twas amid such a clamour of voices and baying hounds that the place was like Pandemonium10.
He was a large man of florid good looks, black eyes, and full habit of body, and had been much renowned in his youth for his great strength, which was indeed almost that of a giant, and for his deeds of prowess in the saddle and at the table when the bottle went round. There were many evil stories of his roysterings, but it was not his way to think of them as evil, but rather to his credit as a man of the world, for, when he heard that they were gossiped about, he greeted the information with a loud triumphant11 laugh. He had married, when she was fifteen, the blooming toast of the county, for whom his passion had long died out, having indeed departed with the honeymoon12, which had been of the briefest, and afterwards he having borne her a grudge13 for what he chose to consider her undutiful conduct. This grudge was founded on the fact that, though she had presented him each year since their marriage with a child, after nine years had passed none had yet been sons, and, as he was bitterly at odds14 with his next of kin15, he considered each of his offspring an ill turn done him.
He spent but little time in her society, for she was a poor, gentle creature of no spirit, who found little happiness in her lot, since her lord treated her with scant16 civility, and her children one after another sickened and died in their infancy17 until but two were left. He scarce remembered her existence when he did not see her face, and he was certainly not thinking of her this morning, having other things in view, and yet it so fell out that, while a groom18 was shortening a stirrup and being sworn at for his awkwardness, he by accident cast his eye upward to a chamber19 window peering out of the thick ivy20 on the stone. Doing so he saw an old woman draw back the curtain and look down upon him as if searching for him with a purpose.
He uttered an exclamation21 of anger.
“Damnation! Mother Posset again,” he said. “What does she there, old frump?”
The curtain fell and the woman disappeared, but in a few minutes more an unheard-of thing happened—among the servants in the hall, the same old woman appeared making her way with a hurried fretfulness, and she descended22 haltingly the stone steps and came to his side where he sat on his black horse.
“The Devil!” he exclaimed—“what are you here for? ’Tis not time for another wench upstairs, surely?”
“’Tis not time,” answered the old nurse acidly, taking her tone from his own. “But there is one, but an hour old, and my lady—”
“Be damned to her!” quoth Sir Jeoffry savagely23. “A ninth one—and ’tis nine too many. ’Tis more than man can bear. She does it but to spite me.”
“’Tis ill treatment for a gentleman who wants an heir,” the old woman answered, as disrespectful of his spouse24 as he was, being a time-serving crone, and knowing that it paid but poorly to coddle women who did not as their husbands would have them in the way of offspring. “It should have been a fine boy, but it is not, and my lady—”
“Damn her puling tricks!” said Sir Jeoffry again, pulling at his horse’s bit until the beast reared.
“She would not let me rest until I came to you,” said the nurse resentfully. “She would have you told that she felt strangely, and before you went forth would have a word with you.”
“I cannot come, and am not in the mood for it if I could,” was his answer. “What folly25 does she give way to? This is the ninth time she hath felt strangely, and I have felt as squeamish as she—but nine is more than I have patience for.”
“She is light-headed, mayhap,” said the nurse. “She lieth huddled26 in a heap, staring and muttering, and she would leave me no peace till I promised to say to you, ‘For the sake of poor little Daphne, whom you will sure remember.’ She pinched my hand and said it again and again.”
Sir Jeoffry dragged at his horse’s mouth and swore again.
“She was fifteen then, and had not given me nine yellow-faced wenches,” he said. “Tell her I had gone a-hunting and you were too late;” and he struck his big black beast with the whip, and it bounded away with him, hounds and huntsmen and fellow-roysterers galloping27 after, his guests, who had caught at the reason of his wrath28, grinning as they rode.
* * * * *
In a huge chamber hung with tattered29 tapestries30 and barely set forth with cumbersome31 pieces of furnishing, my lady lay in a gloomy, canopied32 bed, with her new-born child at her side, but not looking at or touching33 it, seeming rather to have withdrawn34 herself from the pillow on which it lay in its swaddling-clothes.
She was but a little lady, and now, as she lay in the large bed, her face and form shrunken and drawn35 with suffering, she looked scarce bigger than a child. In the brief days of her happiness those who toasted her had called her Titania for her fairy slightness and delicate beauty, but then her fair wavy36 locks had been of a length that touched the ground when her woman unbound them, and she had had the colour of a wild rose and the eyes of a tender little fawn37. Sir Jeoffry for a month or so had paid tempestuous38 court to her, and had so won her heart with his dashing way of love-making and the daringness of his reputation, that she had thought herself—being child enough to think so—the luckiest young lady in the world that his black eye should have fallen upon her with favour. Each year since, with the bearing of each child, she had lost some of her beauty. With each one her lovely hair fell out still more, her wild-rose colour faded, and her shape was spoiled. She grew thin and yellow, only a scant covering of the fair hair was left her, and her eyes were big and sunken. Her marriage having displeased39 her family, and Sir Jeoffry having a distaste for the ceremonies of visiting and entertainment, save where his own cronies were concerned, she had no friends, and grew lonelier and lonelier as the sad years went by. She being so without hope and her life so dreary40, her children were neither strong nor beautiful, and died quickly, each one bringing her only the anguish41 of birth and death. This wintry morning her ninth lay slumbering42 by her side; the noise of baying dogs and boisterous men had died away with the last sound of the horses’ hoofs43; the little light which came into the room through the ivied window was a faint yellowish red; she was cold, because the fire in the chimney was but a scant, failing one; she was alone—and she knew that the time had come for her death. This she knew full well.
She was alone, because, being so disrespected and deserted44 by her lord, and being of a timid and gentle nature, she could not command her insufficient45 retinue46 of servants, and none served her as was their duty. The old woman Sir Jeoffry had dubbed47 Mother Posset had been her sole attendant at such times as these for the past five years, because she would come to her for a less fee than a better woman, and Sir Jeoffry had sworn he would not pay for wenches being brought into the world. She was a slovenly48, guzzling49 old crone, who drank caudle from morning till night, and demanded good living as a support during the performance of her trying duties; but these last she contrived50 to make wondrous51 light, knowing that there was none to reprove her.
“A fine night I have had,” she had grumbled52 when she brought back Sir Jeoffry’s answer to her lady’s message. “My old bones are like to break, and my back will not straighten itself. I will go to the kitchen to get victuals53 and somewhat to warm me; your ladyship’s own woman shall sit with you.”
Her ladyship’s “own woman” was also the sole attendant of the two little girls, Barbara and Anne, whose nursery was in another wing of the house, and my lady knew full well she would not come if she were told, and that there would be no message sent to her.
She knew, too, that the fire was going out, but, though she shivered under the bed-clothes, she was too weak to call the woman back when she saw her depart without putting fresh fuel upon it.
So she lay alone, poor lady, and there was no sound about her, and her thin little mouth began to feebly quiver, and her great eyes, which stared at the hangings, to fill with slow cold tears, for in sooth they were not warm, but seemed to chill her poor cheeks as they rolled slowly down them, leaving a wet streak54 behind them which she was too far gone in weakness to attempt to lift her hand to wipe away.
“Nine times like this,” she panted faintly, “and ’tis for naught55 but oaths and hard words that blame me. I was but a child myself and he loved me. When ’twas ‘My Daphne,’ and ‘My beauteous little Daphne,’ he loved me in his own man’s way. But now—” she faintly rolled her head from side to side. “Women are poor things”—a chill salt tear sliding past her lips so that she tasted its bitterness—“only to be kissed for an hour, and then like this—only for this and nothing else. I would that this one had been dead.”
Her breath came slower and more pantingly, and her eyes stared more widely.
“I was but a child,” she whispered—“a child—as—as this will be—if she lives fifteen years.”
Despite her weakness, and it was great and woefully increasing with each panting breath, she slowly laboured to turn herself towards the pillow on which her offspring lay, and, this done, she lay staring at the child and gasping56, her thin chest rising and falling convulsively. Ah, how she panted, and how she stared, the glaze57 of death stealing slowly over her wide-opened eyes; and yet, dimming as they were, they saw in the sleeping infant a strange and troublous thing—though it was but a few hours old ’twas not as red and crumple58 visaged as new-born infants usually are, its little head was covered with thick black silk, and its small features were of singular definiteness. She dragged herself nearer to gaze.
“She looks not like the others,” she said. “They had no beauty—and are safe. She—she will be like—Jeoffry—and like me.”
The dying fire fell lower with a shuddering59 sound.
“If she is—beautiful, and has but her father, and no mother!” she whispered, the words dragged forth slowly, “only evil can come to her. From her first hour—she will know naught else, poor heart, poor heart!”
There was a rattling60 in her throat as she breathed, but in her glazing61 eyes a gleam like passion leaped, and gasping, she dragged nearer.
“’Tis not fair,” she cried. “If I—if I could lay my hand upon thy mouth—and stop thy breathing—thou poor thing, ’twould be fairer—but—I have no strength.”
She gathered all her dying will and brought her hand up to the infant’s mouth. A wild look was on her poor, small face, she panted and fell forward on its breast, the rattle62 in her throat growing louder. The child awakened63, opening great black eyes, and with her dying weakness its new-born life struggled. Her cold hand lay upon its mouth, and her head upon its body, for she was too far gone to move if she had willed to do so. But the tiny creature’s strength was marvellous. It gasped64, it fought, its little limbs struggled beneath her, it writhed65 until the cold hand fell away, and then, its baby mouth set free, it fell a-shrieking. Its cries were not like those of a new-born thing, but fierce and shrill66, and even held the sound of infant passion. ’Twas not a thing to let its life go easily, ’twas of those born to do battle.
Its lusty screaming pierced her ear perhaps—she drew a long, slow breath, and then another, and another still—the last one trembled and stopped short, and the last cinder67 fell dead from the fire.
When the nurse came bustling68 and fretting69 back, the chamber was cold as the grave’s self—there were only dead embers on the hearth70, the new-born child’s cries filled all the desolate71 air, and my lady was lying stone dead, her poor head resting on her offspring’s feet, the while her open glazed72 eyes seemed to stare at it as if in asking Fate some awful question.
该作者的其它作品
《秘密花园 The Secret Garden》
该作者的其它作品
《秘密花园 The Secret Garden》
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1
trampling
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| 踩( trample的现在分词 )； 践踏； 无视； 侵犯 | |
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bout
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| n.侵袭，发作；一次(阵，回)；拳击等比赛 | |
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3
forth
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| adv.向前；向外，往外 | |
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choleric
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| adj.易怒的，性情暴躁的 | |
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boisterous
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| adj.喧闹的，欢闹的 | |
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6
commotion
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| n.骚动，动乱 | |
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7
nausea
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| n.作呕，恶心；极端的憎恶(或厌恶) | |
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8
boon
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| n.恩赐，恩物，恩惠 | |
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9
renowned
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| adj.著名的，有名望的，声誉鹊起的 | |
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10
pandemonium
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| n.喧嚣，大混乱 | |
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11
triumphant
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| adj.胜利的，成功的；狂欢的，喜悦的 | |
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12
honeymoon
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| n.蜜月（假期）；vi.度蜜月 | |
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13
grudge
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| n.不满，怨恨，妒嫉；vt.勉强给，不情愿做 | |
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14
odds
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| n.让步，机率，可能性，比率；胜败优劣之别 | |
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15
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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16
scant
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| adj.不充分的，不足的；v.减缩，限制，忽略 | |
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17
infancy
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| n.婴儿期；幼年期；初期 | |
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18
groom
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| vt.给（马、狗等）梳毛，照料，使...整洁 | |
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19
chamber
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| n.房间，寝室；会议厅；议院；会所 | |
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20
ivy
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| n.常青藤，常春藤 | |
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21
exclamation
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| n.感叹号，惊呼，惊叹词 | |
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22
descended
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| a.为...后裔的，出身于...的 | |
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23
savagely
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| adv. 野蛮地，残酷地 | |
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24
spouse
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| n.配偶(指夫或妻) | |
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25
folly
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| n.愚笨，愚蠢，蠢事，蠢行，傻话 | |
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26
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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27
galloping
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| adj. 飞驰的, 急性的 动词gallop的现在分词形式 | |
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28
wrath
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| n.愤怒，愤慨，暴怒 | |
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29
tattered
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| adj.破旧的，衣衫破的 | |
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30
tapestries
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| n.挂毯( tapestry的名词复数 )；绣帷，织锦v.用挂毯（或绣帷）装饰( tapestry的第三人称单数 ) | |
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31
cumbersome
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| adj.笨重的，不便携带的 | |
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32
canopied
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| adj. 遮有天篷的 | |
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33
touching
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| adj.动人的，使人感伤的 | |
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34
withdrawn
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| vt.收回；使退出；vi.撤退，退出 | |
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35
drawn
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| v.拖，拉，拔出；adj.憔悴的，紧张的 | |
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36
wavy
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| adj.有波浪的，多浪的，波浪状的，波动的，不稳定的 | |
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37
fawn
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| n.未满周岁的小鹿；v.巴结，奉承 | |
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38
tempestuous
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| adj.狂暴的 | |
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39
displeased
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| a.不快的 | |
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40
dreary
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| adj.令人沮丧的，沉闷的，单调乏味的 | |
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41
anguish
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| n.(尤指心灵上的)极度痛苦，烦恼 | |
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42
slumbering
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| 微睡，睡眠（slumber的现在分词形式） | |
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43
hoofs
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| n.（兽的）蹄，马蹄( hoof的名词复数 )v.（兽的）蹄，马蹄( hoof的第三人称单数 ) | |
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44
deserted
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| adj.荒芜的，荒废的，无人的，被遗弃的 | |
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45
insufficient
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| adj.(for，of)不足的，不够的 | |
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46
retinue
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| n.侍从；随员 | |
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47
dubbed
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| v.给…起绰号( dub的过去式和过去分词 )；把…称为；配音；复制 | |
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48
slovenly
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| adj.懒散的，不整齐的，邋遢的 | |
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49
guzzling
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| v.狂吃暴饮，大吃大喝( guzzle的现在分词 ) | |
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50
contrived
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| adj.不自然的，做作的；虚构的 | |
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51
wondrous
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| adj.令人惊奇的，奇妙的；adv.惊人地；异乎寻常地；令人惊叹地 | |
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52
grumbled
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| 抱怨( grumble的过去式和过去分词 )； 发牢骚； 咕哝； 发哼声 | |
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53
victuals
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| n.食物；食品 | |
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54
streak
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| n.条理，斑纹，倾向，少许，痕迹；v.加条纹，变成条纹，奔驰，快速移动 | |
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55
naught
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| n.无，零 [=nought] | |
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56
gasping
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| adj. 气喘的, 痉挛的 动词gasp的现在分词 | |
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57
glaze
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| v.因疲倦、疲劳等指眼睛变得呆滞，毫无表情 | |
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58
crumple
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| v.把...弄皱，满是皱痕，压碎，崩溃 | |
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59
shuddering
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| v.战栗( shudder的现在分词 )；发抖；（机器、车辆等）突然震动；颤动 | |
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60
rattling
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| adj. 格格作响的, 活泼的, 很好的 adv. 极其, 很, 非常 动词rattle的现在分词 | |
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61
glazing
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| n.玻璃装配业；玻璃窗；上釉；上光v.装玻璃( glaze的现在分词 )；上釉于，上光；（目光）变得呆滞无神 | |
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62
rattle
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| v.飞奔，碰响；激怒；n.碰撞声；拨浪鼓 | |
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63
awakened
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| v.（使）醒( awaken的过去式和过去分词 )；（使）觉醒；弄醒；（使）意识到 | |
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64
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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65
writhed
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| （因极度痛苦而）扭动或翻滚( writhe的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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66
shrill
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| adj.尖声的；刺耳的；v尖叫 | |
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67
cinder
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| n.余烬，矿渣 | |
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68
bustling
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| adj.喧闹的 | |
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69
fretting
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| n. 微振磨损 adj. 烦躁的, 焦虑的 | |
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70
hearth
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| n.壁炉炉床，壁炉地面 | |
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71
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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72
glazed
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| adj.光滑的，像玻璃的；上过釉的；呆滞无神的v.装玻璃( glaze的过去式)；上釉于，上光；（目光）变得呆滞无神 | |
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