He had eaten nothing since the morning, and felt like one in a calm ethereal dream as he walked home to Weelset in the soft dusk of an evening that would never be night, but die into the day. No one saw him enter the house, no one met him on the ancient spiral stair, as, with apprehensive1 anticipation2, he sought the drawing-room.
He had just set his foot on the little landing by its door when a wild scream came from the room. He flung the door open and darted3 in. His mother rushed into his arms, enveloped4 from foot to head in a cone5 of fire. She was making, in wild flight, for the stair, to reach which would have been death to her. Francis held her fast, but she struggled so wildly that he had actually to throw her on the floor ere he could do anything to deliver her. Then he flung on her the rug, the table-cover, his coat, and one of the window-curtains, tearing it fiercely from the rings. Having got all these close around her, he rang the bell with an alarum-peal, but had to ring three times, for service in that house was deadened by frequent fury of summons. Two of the maids—there was no manservant in the house now—laid their mistress on a mattress6, and carried her to her room. Gordon’s hands and arms were so severely7 burned that he could do nothing beyond directing: he thought he had never felt pain before.
The doctor was sent for, and came speedily. Having examined them, he said Mrs. Gordon’s injuries would have caused him no anxiety but for her habits: their consequences might be very serious, and every possible care must be taken of her.
Disabled as he was, Francis sat by her till the morning; and the night’s nursing did far more for himself than for his mother. For, as he saw how she suffered, and interpreted her moans by what he had felt and was still feeling in his own hands and arms, a great pity awoke in him. What a lost life his mother’s had been! Was this to be the end of it? The old kindness she had shown him in his childhood and youth, especially when he was in any bodily trouble, came back upon him, and a new love, gathering9 up in it all the intermittent10 love of days long gone by, sprang to life in his heart, and he saw that the one thing given him to do was to deliver his mother.
The task seemed, if not easy, yet far from irksome, so long as she continued incapable11 of resisting, annoying, or deceiving him; but the time speedily came when he perceived that the continuous battle rather than war of duty and inclination12 must be fought and in some measure won in himself ere he could hope to stir up any smallest skirmish of sacred warfare13 in the soul of his mother. What added to the acerbities of this preliminary war was, that the very nature of the contest required actions which showed not only unbecoming in a son, but mean and disgraceful in themselves. There was no pride, pomp, or circumstance of glorious war in this poor, domestic strife14, this seemingly sordid15 and unheroic, miserably16 unheroic, yet high, eternal contest! But now that Francis was awake to his duty, the best of his nature awoke to meet its calls, and he drew upon a growing store of love for strength to thwart17 the desires of her he loved. ‘Entire affection hateth nicer hands,’ and Francis learned not to mind looking penurious18 and tyrannical, selfish, heartless, and unsympathetic, in the endeavour to be truly loving and lovingly true. He had not Kirsty to support him, but he could now go higher than to Kirsty for the help he needed; he went to the same fountain from which Kirsty herself drew her strength. At the same time frequent thought of her filled him with glad assurance of her sympathy, which was in itself a wondrous19 aid. He neither saw nor sought to see her: he would not go near her before at least she already knew from other sources what would give her the hope that he was trying to do right.
The gradually approaching strife between mother and son burst out the same moment in which the devilish thirst awoke to its cruel tyranny. It was a mercy to both of them that it re-asserted itself while yet the mother was helpless toward any indulgence of her passion. Francis was no longer afraid of her, but it was the easier because of her condition, although not the less painful for him to frustrate20 her desire. Neither did it make it the less painful that already her countenance21, which the outward fire had not half so much disfigured as that which she herself had applied22 inwardly, had begun to remind him of the face he had long ago loved a little, but this only made him, if possible, yet more determined23 that not one shilling of his father’s money should go to the degradation24 of his mother. That she lusted25 and desired to have, was the worst of reasons why she should obtain! A compelled temperance was of course in itself worthless, but that alone could give opportunity for the waking of what soul was left her. Puny26 as it was, that might then begin to grow; it might become aware of the bondage27 to which it had been subjected, and begin to long for liberty.
In carrying out his resolution, Francis found it specially8 hard to fight, along with the bad in his mother, the good in himself: the lower forms of love rose against the higher, and had to be put down. To see the scintillation of his mother’s eyes at the sound of any liquid, and know how easily he could give her an hour of false happiness, tore his heart, while her fierce abuse hardly passed the portals of his brain. Her condition was so pitiful that her words could not make him angry. She would declare it was he who set her clothes on fire, and as soon as she was up again she would publish to the world what a coward and sneak28 he showed himself from morning to night. Had Francis been what he once was, his mother and he must soon have come as near absolute hatred29 as is possible to the human; but he was now so different that the worst answer he ever gave her was,
‘Mother, you know you don’t mean it!’
‘I mean it with all my heart and soul, Francis,’ she replied, glaring at him.
He stooped to kiss her on the forehead, she struck him on the face so that the blood sprang. He went back a step, and stood looking at her sadly as he wiped it away.
‘Crying!’ she said. ‘You always were a coward, Francis!’
But the word had no more any sting for him.
‘I’m all right, mother. My nose got in the way!’ he answered, restoring his handkerchief to his pocket.
‘It’s the doctor puts him up to it!’ said Mrs. Gordon to herself. ‘But we shall soon be rid of him now! If there’s any more of this nonsense then, I shall have to shut Francis up again! That will teach him how to behave to his mother!’
When at length Mrs. Gordon was able to go about the house again, it was at once to discover that things were not to be as they had been. Then deepened the combat, and at the same time assumed aspects and occasioned situations which in the eye of the world would have seemed even ludicrously unbecoming. The battle of the warrior30 is with confused noise and garments rolled in blood, but how much harder and worthier31 battles are fought, not in shining armour32, but amid filth33 and squalor physical as well as moral, on a field of wretched and wearisome commonplace!
It was essential to success that there should be no traitor34 among the servants, and Francis had made them understand what his measures were. Nor was there in this any betrayal of a mother’s weakness, for Mrs. Gordon’s had long been more than patent to all about her. When, therefore, he one day found her, for the first time, under the influence of strong drink, he summoned them and told them that, sooner than fail of his end, he would part with the whole household, and should be driven to it if no one revealed how the thing had come to pass. Thereupon the youngest, a mere35 girl, burst into tears, and confessed that she had procured36 the whisky. Hardly thinking it possible his mother should have money in her possession, so careful was he to prevent it, he questioned, and found that she had herself provided the half-crown required, and that her mistress had given her in return a valuable brooch, an heirloom, which was hers only to wear, not to give. He took this from her, repaid her the half-crown, gave her her wages up to the next term, and sent Mrs. Bremner home with her immediately. Her father being one of his own tenants37, he rode to his place the next morning, laid before him the whole matter, and advised him to keep the girl at home for a year or two.
This one evil success gave such a stimulus38 to Mrs. Gordon’s passion that her rage with her keeper, which had been abating39 a little, blazed up at once as fierce as at first. But, miserable40 as the whole thing was, and trying as he found the necessary watchfulness41, Gordon held out bravely. At the end of six months, however, during which no fresh indulgence had been possible to her, he had not gained the least ground for hoping that any poorest growth of strength, or even any waking of desire toward betterment, had taken place in her.
All this time he had not been once to Corbyknowe. He had nevertheless been seeing David Barclay three or four times a week. For Francis had told David how he stood with Kirsty, and how, while refusing him, she had shown him his duty to his mother. He told him also that he now saw things with other eyes, and was endeavouring to do what was right; but he dared not speak to her on the subject lest she should think, as she would, after what had passed between them, be well justified42 in thinking, that he was doing for her sake what ought to be done for its own. He said to him that, as he was no man of business, and must give his best attention to his mother, he found it impossible for the present to acquaint himself with the state of the property, or indeed attend to it in any serviceable manner; and he begged him, as his father’s friend and his own, to look into his affairs, and, so far as his other duties would permit, place things on at least a better footing.
To this petition, David had at once and gladly consented.
He found everything connected with the property in a sad condition. The agent, although honest, was weak, and had so given way to Mrs. Gordon that much havoc43 had been made, and much money wasted. He was now in bad health, and had lost all heart for his work. But he had turned nothing to his own advantage, and was quite ready, under David’s supervision44, to do his best for the restoration of order, and the curtailment45 of expenses.
All that David now saw in his intercourse46 with the young laird, went to convince him that he was at length a man of conscience, cherishing steady purposes. He reported at home what he saw, and said what he believed, and his wife and daughter perceived plainly that his heart was lighter47 than it had been for many a day. Kirsty listened, said little, asked a question here and there, and thanked God. For her father brought her not only the good news that Francis was doing his best for his mother, but that he had begun to open his eyes to the fact that he had his part in the wellbeing of all on his land; that the property was not his for the filling of his pockets, or for the carrying out of schemes of his own, but for the general and individual comfort and progress.
‘I do believe,’ said David, ‘the young laird wud fain mak o’ the lan’s o’ Weelset a spot whauron the e’en o’ the bonny man micht rist as he gaed by!’
Mrs. Gordon’s temper seemed for a time to have changed from fierce to sullen48, but by degrees she began to show herself not altogether indifferent to the continuous attentions of her inexorable son. It is true she received them as her right, but he yielded her a right immeasurably beyond that she would have claimed. He would play draughts49 or cribbage with her for hours at a time, and every day for months read to her as long as she would listen—read Scott and Dickens and Wilkie Collins and Charles Reade.
One day, after much entreaty50, she consented to go out for a drive with him, when round to the door came a beautiful new carriage, and such a pair of horses as she could not help expressing satisfaction with. Francis told her they were at her command, but if ever she took unfair advantage of them, he would send both carriage and horses away.
She was furious at his daring to speak so to her, and had almost returned to her room, but thought better of it and went with him. She did not, however, speak a word to him the whole way. The next morning he let her go alone. After that, he sometimes went with her, and sometimes not: the desire of his heart was to behold51 her a free woman.
She was quite steady for a while, and her spirits began to return. The hopes of her son rose high; he almost ceased to fear.
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1
apprehensive
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| adj.担心的，恐惧的，善于领会的 | |
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anticipation
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| n.预期，预料，期望 | |
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3
darted
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| v.投掷，投射( dart的过去式和过去分词 )；向前冲，飞奔 | |
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enveloped
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| v.包围，笼罩，包住( envelop的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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cone
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| n.圆锥体，圆锥形东西，球果 | |
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mattress
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| n.床垫，床褥 | |
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7
severely
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| adv.严格地；严厉地；非常恶劣地 | |
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8
specially
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| adv.特定地；特殊地；明确地 | |
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9
gathering
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| n.集会，聚会，聚集 | |
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10
intermittent
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| adj.间歇的，断断续续的 | |
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incapable
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| adj.无能力的，不能做某事的 | |
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12
inclination
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| n.倾斜；点头；弯腰；斜坡；倾度；倾向；爱好 | |
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13
warfare
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| n.战争(状态)；斗争；冲突 | |
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strife
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| n.争吵，冲突，倾轧，竞争 | |
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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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16
miserably
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| adv.痛苦地；悲惨地；糟糕地；极度地 | |
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17
thwart
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| v.阻挠，妨碍，反对；adj.横(断的) | |
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penurious
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| adj.贫困的 | |
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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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frustrate
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| v.使失望；使沮丧；使厌烦 | |
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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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applied
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| adj.应用的；v.应用，适用 | |
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determined
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| adj.坚定的；有决心的 | |
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degradation
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| n.降级；低落；退化；陵削；降解；衰变 | |
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25
lusted
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| 贪求（lust的过去式与过去分词形式） | |
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puny
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| adj.微不足道的，弱小的 | |
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bondage
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| n.奴役，束缚 | |
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28
sneak
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| vt.潜行(隐藏,填石缝)；偷偷摸摸做；n.潜行；adj.暗中进行 | |
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29
hatred
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| n.憎恶，憎恨，仇恨 | |
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30
warrior
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| n.勇士，武士，斗士 | |
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31
worthier
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| 应得某事物( worthy的比较级 )； 值得做某事； 可尊敬的； 有（某人或事物）的典型特征 | |
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32
armour
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| （=armor）n.盔甲；装甲部队 | |
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33
filth
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| n.肮脏，污物，污秽；淫猥 | |
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traitor
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| n.叛徒，卖国贼 | |
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35
mere
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| adj.纯粹的；仅仅，只不过 | |
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36
procured
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| v.（努力）取得， （设法）获得( procure的过去式和过去分词 )；拉皮条 | |
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tenants
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| n.房客( tenant的名词复数 )；佃户；占用者；占有者 | |
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stimulus
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| n.刺激，刺激物，促进因素，引起兴奋的事物 | |
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39
abating
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| 减少( abate的现在分词 )； 减去； 降价； 撤消（诉讼） | |
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40
miserable
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| adj.悲惨的，痛苦的；可怜的，糟糕的 | |
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41
watchfulness
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| 警惕，留心； 警觉（性） | |
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42
justified
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| a.正当的，有理的 | |
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43
havoc
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| n.大破坏，浩劫，大混乱，大杂乱 | |
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44
supervision
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| n.监督，管理 | |
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45
curtailment
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| n.缩减，缩短 | |
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46
intercourse
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| n.性交；交流，交往，交际 | |
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47
lighter
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| n.打火机，点火器；驳船；v.用驳船运送；light的比较级 | |
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48
sullen
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| adj.愠怒的，闷闷不乐的，(天气等)阴沉的 | |
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49
draughts
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| n. <英>国际跳棋 | |
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50
entreaty
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| n.恳求，哀求 | |
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51
behold
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| v.看，注视，看到 | |
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