The case proceeded favorably, and to Griffith's surprise and joy, a healthy boy was born about two o'clock in the morning. The mother was reported rather feverish2, but nothing to cause alarm.
Griffith threw himself on two chairs and fell fast asleep.
Towards morning lie found himself shaken, and there was Ashley, the young doctor, standing3 beside him with a very grave face. Griffith started up, and cried, "What is wrong, in God's name?"
"Not dying. But she will infallibly sink unless some unusual circumstance occur to sustain vitality6."
Griffith laid hold of him. "Oh, sir, take my whole fortune, but save her! save her! save her!"
"Mr. Gaunt," said the young doctor, "be calm, or you will make matters worse. There is one chance to save her; but my professional brethren are prejudiced against it. However, they have consented, at my earnest request, to refer my proposal to you. She is sinking for want of blood: if you consent to my opening a vein7 and transfusing8 healthy blood from a living subject into hers, I will undertake the operation. You had better come and see her; you will be more able to judge."
"Let me lean on you," said Griffith. And the strong wrestler9 went tottering10 up the stairs. There they showed him poor Kate, white as the bed-clothes, breathing hard, and with a pulse that hardly moved.
Griffith looked at her horror-struck.
"Death has got hold of my darling," he screamed. "Snatch her away! for God's sake, snatch her from him!"
The young doctor whipped off his coat, and bared his arm.
"There," he cried, "Mr. Gaunt consents. Now, Come, be quick with the lancet, and hold this tube as I tell you; warm it first in that water."
Here came an interruption. Griffith Gaunt griped the young doctor's arm, and with an agonized12 and ugly expression of countenance13 cried out, "What? your blood! What right have you to lose blood for her?"
"The right of a man who loves his art better than his blood," cried Ashley, with enthusiasm.
Griffith tore off his coat and waistcoat, and bared his arm to the elbow. "Take every drop I have. No man's blood shall enter her veins14 but mine." And the creature seemed to swell15 to double his size, as with flushed cheek and sparkling eyes he held out a bare arm corded like a black-smith's, and white as a duchess's.
The young doctor eyed the magnificent limb a moment with rapture16: then fixed17 his apparatus18 and performed an operation which then, as now, was impossible in theory; only he did it. He sent some of Griffith Gaunt's bright red blood smoking hot into Kate Gaunt's veins.
This done, he watched his patient closely, and administered stimulants19 from time to time.
She hung between life and death for hours. But at noon next day she spoke20, and seeing Griffith sitting beside her, pale with anxiety and loss of blood, she said, "My dear, do not thou fret21. I died last night. I knew I should. But they gave me another life; and now I shall live to a hundred."
They showed her the little boy; and, at sight of him, the whole woman made up her mind to live.
And live she did. And, what is very remarkable22, her convalescence23 was more rapid than on any former occasion.
It was from a talkative nurse she first learned that Griffith had given his blood for her. She said nothing at the time, but lay with an angelic, happy smile, thinking of it.
The first time she saw him after that, she laid her hand on his arm, and looking Heaven itself into his eyes, she said, "My life is very dear to me now. 'Tis a present from thee."
She wanted a good excuse for loving him as frankly24 as before, and now he had given her one. She used to throw it in his teeth in the prettiest way. Whenever she confessed a fault, she was sure to turn slyly round and say, "but what could one expect of me? I have his blood in my veins."
But once she told Father Francis, quite seriously, that she had never been quite the same woman since she lived by Griffith's blood; she was turned jealous; and moreover it had given him a fascinating power over her; and she could tell blindfold25 when he was in the room. Which last fact indeed she once proved by actual experiment. But all this I leave to such as study the occult sciences in this profound age of ours.
Starting with this advantage, Time, the great curer, gradually healed a wound that looked incurable26.
Mrs. Gaunt became a better wife than she had ever been before. She studied her husband, and found he was not hard to please. She made his home bright and genial27; and so he never went abroad for the sunshine he could have at home.
And he studied her; he added a chapel28 to the house, and easily persuaded Francis to become the chaplain. Thus they had a peacemaker, and a friend, in the house, and a man severe in morals, but candid29 in religion, and an inexhaustible companion to them and their children.
And so, after that terrible storm, this pair pursued the even tenour of a peaceful united life, till the olive branches rising around them, and the happy years gliding30 on, almost obliterated31 that one dark passage, and made it seem a mere32 fantastical, incredible, dream.
Mercy Vint and her child went home in the coach. It was empty at starting, and, as Mrs. Gaunt had foretold33, a great sense of desolation fell upon her.
At the first stage a passenger got down from the outside, and entered the coach.
"What, George Neville!" said Mercy.
"The same," said he.
She expressed her surprise that he should be going her way.
"'Tis strange," said he; "but to me most agreeable."
"And to me too, for that matter," said she.
Sir George observed her eyes were red, and, to divert her mind and keep up her spirits, launched into a flow of small talk.
In the midst of it, Mercy leaned back in the coach, and began to cry bitterly. So much for that mode of consolation36.
Upon this he faced the situation, and begged her not to grieve. He praised the good action she had done, and told her how everybody admired her for it, especially himself.
At that she gave him her hand in silence, and turned away her pretty head. He carried her hand respectfully to his lips; and his manly37 heart began to yearn38 over this suffering virtue39; so grave, so dignified40, so meek41. He was no longer a young man; he began to talk to her like a friend. This tone, and the soft sympathetic voice in which a gentleman speaks to a woman in trouble, unlocked her heart, and for the first time in her life she was led to talk about herself.
She opened her heart to him. She told him she was not the woman to pine for any man. Her youth, her health, and love of occupation would carry her through. What she mourned was the loss of esteem42, and the blot43 upon her child. At that she drew the baby with inexpressible tenderness, and yet with a half defiant44 air, closer to her bosom45.
Sir George assured her she would lose the esteem of none but fools. "As for me," said he, "I always respected you, but now I revere46 you. You are a martyr47, and an angel."
"George," said Mercy, gravely, "be you my friend, not my enemy."
"I mean, our flatterers are our enemies."
Sir George took the hint, given, as it was, very gravely and decidedly; and henceforth showed her his respect by his acts; he paid her as much attention as if she had been a princess. He handed her out, and handed her in; and coaxed49 her to eat here, and to drink there; and at the inn where the passengers slept for the night, he showed his long purse, and secured her superior comforts. Console her he could not; but he broke the sense of utter desolation and loneliness with which she started from Carlisle. She told him so in the inn, and descanted on the goodness of God, who had sent her a friend in that bitter hour.
"You have been very kind to me, George," said she. "Now Heaven bless you for it, and give you many happy days, and well spent."
This, from one who never said a word she did not mean, sank deep into Sir George's; heart, and he went to sleep thinking of her, and asking himself, was there nothing he could do for her.
Next morning Sir George handed Mercy and her babe into the coach; and the villain50 tried an experiment to see what value she set on him. He did not get in, so Mercy thought she had seen the last of him.
"Farewell, good, kind George," said she; "alas51, there's nought52 but meeting and parting in this weary world."
The tears stood in her sweet eyes, and she thanked him, not with words only, but with the soft pressure of her womanly hand.
He slipped up behind the coach, and was ashamed of himself, and his heart warmed to her more and more.
As soon as the coach stopped, my lord opened the door for Mercy to alight. Her eyes were very red, he saw that. She started, and beamed with surprise and pleasure.
"Why, I thought I had lost you for good," said she. "Whither are you going? to Lancaster?"
"Not quite so far. I am going to the 'Packhorse.'"
Mercy opened her eyes, and blushed high. Sir George saw, and, to divert her suspicions, told her merrily to beware of making objections. "I am only a sort of servant in the matter. 'Twas Mrs. Gaunt ordered me."
"I might have guessed it," said Mercy. "Bless her; she knew I should be lonely."
"She was not easy till she had got rid of me, I assure you," said Sir George. "So let us make the best on't, for she is a lady that likes to have her own way."
"She is a noble creature. George, I shall never regret anything I have done for her. And she will not be ungrateful. Oh, the sting of ingratitude53: I have felt that. Have you?"
"No," said Sir George; "I have escaped that, by never doing any good actions."
"I doubt you are telling me a lie," said Mercy Vint.
She now looked upon Sir George as Mrs. Gaunt's representative, and prattled54 freely to him. Only now and then her trouble came over her, and then she took a quiet cry without ceremony.
As for Sir George, he sat and studied, and wondered at her.
Never in his life had he met such a woman as this, who was as candid with him as if he had been a woman. She seemed to have a window in her bosom, through which he looked, and saw the pure and lovely soul within.
In the afternoon they reached a little town, whence a cart conveyed them to the "Packhorse."
Here Mercy Vint disappeared, and busied herself with Sir George's comforts.
In the morning Mercy thought of course he would go.
But instead of that, he stayed, and followed her about, and began to court her downright.
But the warmer he got, the cooler she. And at last she said, mighty56 drily, "This is a very dull place for the likes of you."
"'Tis the sweetest place in England," said he; "at least to me; for it contains—the woman I love."
"I loved you the first day I saw you, and heard your voice. And now I love you ten times more. Let me dry thy tears for ever, sweet Mercy. Be my wife."
"You are mad," said Mercy. "What, would you wed11 a woman in my condition? I am more your friend than to take you at your word. And what do you think I am made of, to go from one man to another, like that?"
"Take your time, sweetheart; only give me your hand."
"George," said Mercy, very gravely, "I am beholden to you; but my duty it lies another way. There is a young man in these parts (Sir George groaned) that was my follower58 for two years and better. I wronged him for one I never name now. I must marry that poor lad, and make him happy, or else live and die as I am."
Sir George turned pale. "One word: do you love him?"
"I have a regard for him."
"Do you love him?"
Sir George bowed, and retired60 sick at heart, and deeply mortified61. Mercy looked after him and sighed.
Next day, as he walked disconsolate62 up and down, she came to him and gave him her hand. "You were a good friend to me that bitter day," said she. "Now let me be yours. Do not bide63 here: 'twill but vex64 you."
"I am going, madam," said Sir George, stiffly. "I but wait to see the man you prefer to me. If he is not too unworthy of you, I'll go; and trouble you no more. I have learned his name."
Mercy blushed: for she knew Paul Carrick would bear no comparison with George Neville.
The next day Sir George took leave to observe that this Paul Carrick did not seem to appreciate her preference so highly as he ought. "I understand he has never been here."
Mercy colored, but made no reply: and Sir George was sorry he had taunted65 her. He followed her about, and showed her great attention, but not a word of love.
There were fine trout66 streams in the neighborhood, and he busied himself fishing, and in the evening read aloud to Mercy, and waited to see Paul Carrick.
Paul never came; and, from a word Mercy let drop, he saw that she was mortified. Then, being no tyro67 in love, he told her he had business in Lancaster, and must leave her for a few days. But he would return, and by that time perhaps Paul Carrick would be visible.
Now his main object was to try the effect of correspondence.
Every day he sent her a long love-letter from Lancaster.
Paul Carrick, who, in absenting himself for a time, had acted upon his sister's advice rather than his own natural impulse, learned that Mercy received a letter every day. This was a thing unheard of in that parish.
So then Paul defied his sister's advice, and presented himself to Mercy; when the following dialogue took place:—
"Welcome home, Mercy."
"Thank you, Paul."
"Well, I'm single still, lass."
"So I hear."
"I'm come to say, let bygones be bygones."
"So be it," said Mercy, drily.
"You have tried a gentleman; now try a farrier."
"I have; and he did not stand the test."
"Anan."
"Why did you not come near mo for ten days?"
Paul blushed up to the eyes. "Well," said he, "I'll tell you the truth. 'Twas our Jess advised me to leave you quiet just at first."
"Ay, ay. I was to be humbled69, and made to smart for my fault; and then I should be thankful to take you. My lad, if ever you should be really in love, take a friend's advice; listen to your own heart, and not to shallow advisers70. You have mortified a poor sorrowful creature who was going to make a sacrifice for you, and you have lost her for ever."
"What d'ye mean?"
"I mean that ye are to think no more of Mercy Vint."
"Say no more Than you know. If you were the only man on earth I would not wed you, Paul Carrick."
Paul Carrick retired home, and blew up his sister; and told her that she had "gotten him the sack again."
The next day Sir George came back from Lancaster, and Mercy lowered her lashes72 for once at sight of him.
"Well," said he, "has this Carrick shown a sense of your goodness?"
"He has come,—and gone."
She then, with her usual frankness, told him what had passed. "And," said she, with a smile, "you are partly to blame; for how could I help comparing your behavior to me with his? You came to my side when I was in trouble, and showed me respect when I expected scorn from all the world. A friend in need is a friend indeed."
"Be less my friend, then, and more my darling."
At last, one day, she said, "If Mrs. Gaunt thinks it will be for your happiness, I will—in six months' time: but you shall not marry in haste to repent78 at leisure. And I must have time to learn two things—whether you can be constant to a simple woman like me, and whether I can love again as tenderly as you deserve to be loved."
All his endeavors to shake this determination were vain. Mercy Vint had a terrible deal of quiet resolution.
He retired to Cumberland, and in a long letter, asked Mrs. Gaunt's advice. She replied characteristically. She began very soberly to say that she should be the last to advise a marriage between persons of different conditions in life. "But then," said she, "this Mercy is altogether an exception. If a flower grows on a dunghill, 'tis still a flower, and not a part of the dunghill. She has the essence of gentility, and indeed her manners are better bred than most of our ladies. There is too much affectation abroad, and that is your true vulgarity. Tack79 'my lady' on to 'Mercy Vint,' and that dignified and quiet simplicity80 of hers will carry her with credit through every court in Europe. Then think of her virtues81—(here the writer began to lose her temper)—where can you hope to find such another? she is a moral genius, and acts well, no matter under what temptation, as surely as Claude and Raphael paint well. Why, sir, what do you seek in a wife? Wealth? title? family? But you possess them already; you want something in addition that will make you happy. Well, take that angelic goodness into your house, and you will find, by your own absolute happiness, how ill your neighbors have wived. For my part I see but one objection: the child. Well, if you are man enough to take the mother, I am woman enough to take the babe. In one word, he who has the sense to fall in love with such an angel, and has not the sense to marry it, if he can, is a fool."
"Postscript—My poor friend, to what end think you I sent you down in the coach with her?"
Sir George, thus advised, acted as he would have done had the advice been just the opposite.
He sent Mercy a love-letter by every post, and he often received one in return; only his were passionate82, and hers gentle and affectionate.
"George; my child is dying. What shall I do?"
He mounted his horse, and rode to her.
He came too late. The little boy had died suddenly of croup, and was to be buried next morning.
The poor mother received him upstairs, and her grief was terrible. She clung sobbing84 to him, and could not be comforted. Yet she felt his coming. But a mother's anguish overpowered all.
Crushed by this fearful blow, her strength gave way for a time, and she clung to George Neville, and told him she had nothing left but him, and one day implored85 him not to die and leave her.
Sir George said all he could think of to comfort her; and at the end of a fortnight persuaded her to leave the "Packhorse" and England, as his wife.
She had little power to resist now; and indeed little inclination86.
At the end of that time they returned to Neville's Court, and Mercy took her place there with the same dignified simplicity that had adorned88 her in a humbler station.
Sir George had given her no lessons; but she had observed closely, for his sake; and being already well educated, and very quick and docile89, she seldom made him blush except with pride.
They were the happiest pair in Cumberland. Her merciful nature now found a larger field for its exercise, and, backed by her husband's purse, she became the Lady Bountiful of the parish and the county.
The day after she reached Neville's Court came an exquisite90 letter to her from Mrs. Gaunt. She sent an affectionate reply.
But the Gaunts and the Nevilles did not meet in society.
Sir George Neville and Mrs. Gaunt, being both singularly brave and haughty91 people, rather despised this arrangement.
But it seems that, one day, when they were all four in the Town Hall, folk whispered and looked; and both Griffith Gaunt and Lady Neville surprised these glances, and determined92, by one impulse, it should never happen again. Hence it was quite understood that the Nevilles and the Gaunts were not to be asked to the same party or ball.
The wives, however, corresponded, and Lady Neville easily induced Mrs. Gaunt to co-operate with her in her benevolent93 acts, especially in saving young women, who had been betrayed, from sinking deeper.
Living a good many miles apart, Lady Neville could send her stray sheep to service near Mrs. Gaunt; and vice68 versa; and so, merciful, but discriminating94, they saved many a poor girl who had been weak, not wicked.
So then, though they could not eat nor dance together in earthly mansions95, they could do good together; and, methinks, in the eternal world, where years of social intercourse96 will prove less than cobwebs, these their joint97 acts of mercy will be links of a bright, strong chain, to bind98 their souls in everlasting99 amity100.
It was a remarkable circumstance, that the one child of Lady Neville's unhappy marriage died, but her nine children by Sir George all grew to goodly men and women. That branch of the Nevilles became remarkable for high principle and good sense; and this they owe to Mercy Vint, and to Sir George's courage in marrying her. This Mercy was granddaughter to one of Cromwell's ironsides, and brought her rare personal merit into their house, and also the best blood of the old Puritans, than which there is no blood in Europe more rich in male courage, female chastity, and all the virtues.
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1
incessantly
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| ad.不停地 | |
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feverish
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| adj.发烧的，狂热的，兴奋的 | |
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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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exhausted
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| adj.极其疲惫的，精疲力尽的 | |
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anguish
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| n.(尤指心灵上的)极度痛苦，烦恼 | |
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vitality
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| n.活力，生命力，效力 | |
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vein
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| n.血管，静脉；叶脉，纹理；情绪；vt.使成脉络 | |
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transfusing
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| v.输（血或别的液体）( transfuse的现在分词 )；渗透；使…被灌输或传达 | |
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wrestler
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| n.摔角选手，扭 | |
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tottering
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| adj.蹒跚的，动摇的v.走得或动得不稳( totter的现在分词 )；踉跄；蹒跚；摇摇欲坠 | |
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wed
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| v.娶，嫁，与…结婚 | |
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agonized
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| v.使（极度）痛苦，折磨( agonize的过去式和过去分词 )；苦斗；苦苦思索；感到极度痛苦 | |
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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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veins
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| n.纹理；矿脉( vein的名词复数 )；静脉；叶脉；纹理 | |
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swell
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rapture
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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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apparatus
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stimulants
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| n.兴奋剂( stimulant的名词复数 )；含兴奋剂的饮料；刺激物；激励物 | |
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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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fret
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| v.(使)烦恼；(使)焦急；(使)腐蚀，(使)磨损 | |
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remarkable
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| adj.显著的，异常的，非凡的，值得注意的 | |
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convalescence
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frankly
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| adv.坦白地，直率地；坦率地说 | |
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blindfold
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| vt.蒙住…的眼睛；adj.盲目的；adv.盲目地；n.蒙眼的绷带[布等]； 障眼物，蒙蔽人的事物 | |
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incurable
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genial
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| adj.亲切的，和蔼的，愉快的，脾气好的 | |
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chapel
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| n.小教堂，殡仪馆 | |
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candid
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gliding
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obliterated
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mere
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foretold
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steadily
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comely
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| adj.漂亮的，合宜的 | |
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consolation
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| n.安慰，慰问 | |
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manly
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| adj.有男子气概的；adv.男子般地，果断地 | |
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yearn
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| v.想念；怀念；渴望 | |
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virtue
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| n.德行，美德；贞操；优点；功效，效力 | |
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dignified
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| a.可敬的，高贵的 | |
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meek
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| adj.温顺的，逆来顺受的 | |
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esteem
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| n.尊敬，尊重；vt.尊重，敬重；把…看作 | |
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blot
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| vt.弄脏（用吸墨纸）吸干；n.污点，污渍 | |
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defiant
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| adj.无礼的，挑战的 | |
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bosom
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| n.胸，胸部；胸怀；内心；adj.亲密的 | |
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revere
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| vt.尊崇，崇敬，敬畏 | |
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martyr
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| n.烈士，殉难者；vt.杀害，折磨，牺牲 | |
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wretch
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| n.可怜的人，不幸的人；卑鄙的人 | |
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coaxed
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| v.哄，用好话劝说( coax的过去式和过去分词 )；巧言骗取；哄劝，劝诱 | |
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50
villain
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| n.反派演员，反面人物；恶棍；问题的起因 | |
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alas
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| int.唉(表示悲伤、忧愁、恐惧等) | |
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52
nought
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| n.／adj.无，零 | |
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53
ingratitude
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| n.忘恩负义 | |
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54
prattled
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| v.（小孩般）天真无邪地说话( prattle的过去式和过去分词 )；发出连续而无意义的声音；闲扯；东拉西扯 | |
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55
parlor
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| n.店铺，营业室；会客室，客厅 | |
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mighty
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| adj.强有力的；巨大的 | |
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rosy
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| adj.美好的，乐观的，玫瑰色的 | |
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follower
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| n.跟随者；随员；门徒；信徒 | |
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59
amends
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| n. 赔偿 | |
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retired
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| adj.隐退的，退休的，退役的 | |
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mortified
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| v.使受辱( mortify的过去式和过去分词 )；伤害（人的感情）；克制；抑制（肉体、情感等） | |
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disconsolate
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| adj.忧郁的，不快的 | |
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bide
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| v.忍耐；等候；住 | |
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vex
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| vt.使烦恼，使苦恼 | |
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taunted
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| 嘲讽( taunt的过去式和过去分词 )； 嘲弄； 辱骂； 奚落 | |
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66
trout
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| n.鳟鱼；鲑鱼(属) | |
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tyro
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| n.初学者；生手 | |
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vice
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| n.坏事；恶习；[pl.]台钳，老虎钳；adj.副的 | |
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humbled
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| adj. 卑下的，谦逊的，粗陋的 vt. 使 ... 卑下，贬低 | |
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advisers
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| 顾问，劝告者( adviser的名词复数 )； （指导大学新生学科问题等的）指导教授 | |
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jade
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| n.玉石；碧玉；翡翠 | |
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72
lashes
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| n.鞭挞( lash的名词复数 )；鞭子；突然猛烈的一击；急速挥动v.鞭打( lash的第三人称单数 )；煽动；紧系；怒斥 | |
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gaily
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| adv.欢乐地，高兴地 | |
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nay
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| adv.不；n.反对票，投反对票者 | |
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pestered
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| 使烦恼，纠缠( pester的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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evaded
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| 逃避( evade的过去式和过去分词 )； 避开； 回避； 想不出 | |
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pestering
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| 使烦恼，纠缠( pester的现在分词 ) | |
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repent
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| v.悔悟，悔改，忏悔，后悔 | |
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tack
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| n.大头钉；假缝，粗缝 | |
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simplicity
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| n.简单，简易；朴素；直率，单纯 | |
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81
virtues
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| 美德( virtue的名词复数 )； 德行； 优点； 长处 | |
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82
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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83
distress
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| n.苦恼，痛苦，不舒适；不幸；vt.使悲痛 | |
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84
sobbing
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| <主方>Ⅰ adj.湿透的 | |
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85
implored
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| 恳求或乞求（某人）( implore的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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inclination
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| n.倾斜；点头；弯腰；斜坡；倾度；倾向；爱好 | |
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license
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| n.执照，许可证，特许；v.许可，特许 | |
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adorned
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| [计]被修饰的 | |
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docile
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| adj.驯服的，易控制的，容易教的 | |
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exquisite
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| adj.精美的；敏锐的；剧烈的，感觉强烈的 | |
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haughty
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| adj.傲慢的，高傲的 | |
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determined
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| adj.坚定的；有决心的 | |
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93
benevolent
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| adj.仁慈的，乐善好施的 | |
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94
discriminating
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| a.有辨别能力的 | |
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95
mansions
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| n.宅第，公馆，大厦( mansion的名词复数 ) | |
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96
intercourse
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| n.性交；交流，交往，交际 | |
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97
joint
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| adj.联合的，共同的；n.关节，接合处；v.连接，贴合 | |
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98
bind
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| vt.捆，包扎；装订；约束；使凝固；vi.变硬 | |
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99
everlasting
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| adj.永恒的，持久的，无止境的 | |
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100
amity
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| n.友好关系 | |
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