And then one morning — it was spring now, and piping hot at noon — Long Jim brought home from the post-office a letter for Polly, addressed in her sister Sarah’s sloping hand. Knowing the pleasure it would give her, Mahony carried it at once to his wife; and Polly laid aside broom and duster and sat down to read.
But he was hardly out of the room when a startled cry drew him back to her side. Polly had hidden her face, and was shaken by sobs1 As he could not get her to speak, Mahony picked up the letter from the floor and read it for himself.
Sarah wrote like one distracted.
OH, MY DEAR SISTER, HOW CAN I FIND WORDS TO TELL YOU OF THE TRULY “AWFUL” CALAMITY2 THAT HAS BEFALLEN OUR UNHAPPY BROTHER. Mahony skipped the phrases, and learnt that owing to a carriage accident Emma Turnham had been prematurely3 confined, and, the best medical aid notwithstanding — JOHN SPARED ABSOLUTELY “NO” EXPENSE— had died two days later. JOHN IS LIKE A MADMAN. DIRECTLY I HEARD THE “SHOCKING” NEWS, I AT ONCE THREW UP MY ENGAGEMENT— AT “SERIOUS” LOSS TO MYSELF, BUT THAT IS A MATTER OF SMALL CONSEQUENCE— AND CAME TO TAKE MY PLACE BESIDE OUR POOR DEAR BROTHER IN HIS GREAT TRIAL. BUT ALL MY EFFORTS TO BRING HIM TO A PROPER AND “CHRISTIAN” FRAME OF MIND HAVE BEEN FRUITLESS. I AM INDEED ALARMED TO BE ALONE WITH HIM, AND I TREMBLE FOR THE CHILDREN, FOR HE IS POSSESSED4 OF AN “INSANE” HATRED5 FOR THE SWEET LITTLE LOVES. HE HAS LOCKED HIMSELF IN HIS ROOM, WILL SEE “NO ONE” NOR TOUCH A “PARTICLE” OF NOURISHMENT6. DO, MY DEAREST POLLY, COME AT ONCE ON RECEIPT OF THIS, AND HELP ME IN THE “TRULY AWFUL” TASK THAT HAS BEEN LAID UPON ME. AND PRAY FORGIVE ME FOR USING THIS PLAIN PAPER. I HAVE HAD LITERALLY7 NO TIME TO ORDER MOURNING “OF ANY KIND.”
So that was Sarah! With a click of the tongue Mahony tossed the letter on the table, and made it clear to Polly that under no consideration would he allow her to attempt the journey to town. Her relatives seemed utterly8 to have forgotten her condition; if, indeed., they had ever grasped the fact that she was expecting a child.
But Polly did not heed9 him. “Oh, poor, poor Emma! Oh, poor dear John!” Her husband could only soothe10 her by promising11 to go to Sarah’s assistance himself, the following day.
They had been entirely12 in the dark about things. For John Turnham thought proper to erect13 a jealous wall about his family life. What went on behind it was nobody’s business but his own. You felt yourself — were meant to feel yourself — the alien, the outsider. And Mahony marvelled14 once more at the wealth of love and sympathy his little Polly had kept fresh for these two, who had wasted so few of their thoughts on her.
Polly dried her eyes; he packed his carpet-bag. He did this with a good deal of pother, pulling open the wrong drawers, tumbling up their contents and generally making havoc15 of his wife’s arrangements. But the sight of his clumsiness acted as a kind of tonic16 on Polly: she liked to feel that he was dependent on her for his material comfort and well-being17.
They spoke18 of John’s brief married life.
“He loved her like a pagan, my dear,” said Mahony. “And if what your sister Sarah writes is not exaggerated, he is bearing his punishment in a truly pagan way.”
“But you won’t say that to him, dear Richard . . . will you? You’ll be very gentle with him?” pleaded Polly anxiously.
“Indeed I shall, little woman. But one can’t help thinking these things, all the same. You know it is written: ‘Thou shalt have none other gods but Me.’”
“Yes, I know. But then this was JUST Emma . . . and she was so pretty and so good”— and Polly cried anew.
Mahony rose before dawn to catch the coach. Together with a packet of sandwiches, Polly brought him a small black mantle19.
“For Sarah, with my dear love. You see, Richard, I know she always wears coloured dresses. And she will feel so much happier if she has SOMETHING black to put on.” Little Polly’s voice was deep with persuasion20. Richard was none too well pleased, she could see, at having to unlock his bag again; she feared too, that, after the letter of the day before, his opinion of Sarah had gone down to zero.
Mahony secured a corner seat; and so, though his knees interlocked with those of his VIS-A-VIS, only one of the eight inside passengers was jammed against him. The coach started; and the long, dull hours of the journey began to wear away. Nothing broke the monotony but speculations21 whether the driver — a noted22 tippler — would be drunk before Melbourne was reached and capsize them; and the drawling voice of a Yankee prospector23, who told lying tales about his exploits in California in ‘48 until, having talked his hearers to sleep, he dropped off himself. Then, Mahony fell to reflecting on what lay before him. He didn’t like the job. He was not one of your born good Samaritans: he relished25 intruding26 as little as being intruded27 on. Besides, morally to sustain, to forbear with, a fellow-creature in misfortune, seemed to him as difficult and thankless a task as any required of one. Infinite tact28 was essential, and a skin thick enough to stand snubs and rebuffs. But here he smiled. “Or my little wife’s inability to recognise them!”
House and garden had lost their air of well-groomed smartness: the gate stood ajar, the gravel29 was unraked, the verandah-flooring black with footmarks. With all the blinds still down, the windows looked like so many dead eyes. Mahony’s first knock brought no response; at his second, the door was opened by Sarah Turnham herself. But a very different Sarah this, from the elegant and sprightly30 young person who had graced his wedding. Her chignon was loose, her dress dishevelled. On recognising Mahony, she uttered a cry and fell on his neck — he had to disengage her arms by force and speak severely31 to her, declaring that he would go away again, if she carried out her intention of swooning.
At last he got her round so far that she could tell her tale, which she did with a hysterical32 overstatement. She had, it seemed, arrived there just before her sister-in-law died. John was quarrelling furiously with all three doctors, and, before the end, insulted the only one who was left in such a fashion that he, too, marched out of the house. They had to get the dead woman measured, coffined33 and taken away by stealth. Whereupon John had locked himself up in his room, and had not been seen since. He had a loaded revolver with him; through the closed door he had threatened to shoot both her and the children. The servants had deserted34, panic-stricken at their master’s behaviour, at the sudden collapse35 of the well-regulated household: the last, a nurse-girl sent out on an errand some hours previously36, had not returned. Sarah was at her wits’ end to know what to do with the children — he might hear them screaming at this moment.
Mahony, in no hesitancy now how to deal with the situation, laid his hat aside and drew off his gloves. “Prepare some food,” he said briefly37. “A glass of port and a sandwich or two, if you can manage nothing else — but meat of some kind.”
But there was not a morsel38 of meat in the house.
“Then go to the butcher’s and buy some.”
Sarah gasped39, and bridled40. She had never in her life been inside a butcher’s shop!
“Good God, woman, then the sooner you make the beginning the better!” cried Mahony. And as he strode down the passage to the door she indicated, he added: “Now control yourself, madam! And if you have not got what I want in a quarter of an hour’s time, I’ll walk out of the house and leave you to your own devices!” At which Sarah, cowed and shaken, began tremblingly to tie her bonnet-strings.
Mahony knocked three times at the door of John Turnham’s room, each time more loudly. Then he took to battering41 with his fist on the panels, and cried: “It is I, John, your brother-in-law! Have the goodness to unlock this door at once!”
There was still an instant of suspense42; then heavy footsteps crossed the floor and the door swung back. Mahony’s eyes met a haggard white face set in a dusky background.
“You!” said John in a slow, dazed way, and blinked at the light. But in the next breath he burst out: “Where’s that damned fool of a woman? Is she skulking43 behind you? I won’t see her — won’t have her near me!”
“If you mean your sister Sarah, she is not in the house at present,” said Mahony; and stepping over the threshold he shut the door. The two men faced each other in the twilight44.
“What do you want?” demanded John in a hoarse45 voice. “Have you, too, come to preach and sermonise? If so, you can go back where you came from! I’ll have none of that cant46 here.”
“No, no, I leave that to those whose business it is. I’m here as your doctor”; and Mahony drew up a blind and opened a window. Instantly the level sun-rays flooded the room; and the air that came in with them smacked47 of the sea. Just outside the window a quince-tree in full blossom reared extravagant48 masses of pink snow against the blue overhead; beyond it a covered walk of vines shone golden-green. There was not a cloud in the sky. To turn back to the musty room from all this lush and lovely life was like stepping down into a vault49.
John had sunk into a seat before a secretaire, and shielded his eyes from the sun. A burnt-out candle stood at his elbow; and in a line before him were ranged such images as remained to him of his dead — a dozen or more daguerrotypes, of various sizes: Emma and he before marriage and after marriage; Emma with her first babe, at different stages of its growth; Emma with the two children; Emma in ball-attire; with a hat on; holding a book.
The sight gave the quietus to Mahony’s scruples50. Stooping, he laid his hand on John’s shoulder. “My poor fellow,” he said gently. “Your sister was not in a fit state to travel, so I have come in her place to tell you how deeply, how truly, we feel for you in your loss. I want to try, too, to help you to bear it. For it has to be borne, John.”
At this the torrent51 burst. Leaping to his feet John began to fling wildly to and fro; and then, for a time, the noise of his lamentations filled the room. Mahony had assisted at scenes of this kind before, but never had he heard the like of the blasphemies52 that poured over John’s lips. (Afterwards, when he had recovered his distance, he would refer to it as the occasion on which John took the Almighty53 to task, for having dared to interfere54 in his private life.)
At the moment he sat silent. “Better for him to get it out,” he thought to himself, even while he winced55 at John’s scurrility56.
When, through sheer exhaustion57, John came to a stop, Mahony cast about for words of consolation58. All reference to the mystery of God’s way was precluded59; and he shrank from entering that sound plea for the working of Time, which drives a spike60 into the heart of the new-made mourner. He bethought himself of the children. “Remember, she did not leave you comfortless. You have your little ones. Think of them.”
But this was a false move. Like a belated thunderclap after the storm is over, John broke out again, his haggard eyes aflame. “Curse the children!” he cried thickly. “Curse them, I say! If I had once caught sight of them since she . . . she went, I should have wrung61 their necks. I never wanted children. They came between us. They took her from me. It was a child that killed her. Now, she is gone and they are left. Keep them out of my way, Mahony! Don’t let them near me.— Oh, Emma. . . wife!” and here his shoulders heaved, under dry, harsh sobs.
Mahony felt his own eyes grow moist. “Listen to me, John. I promise you, you shall not see your children again until you wish to — till you’re glad to recall them, as a living gift from her you have lost. I’ll look after them for you.”
“You will? . . . God bless you, Mahony!”
Judging the moment ripe, Mahony rose and went out to fetch the tray on which Sarah had set the eatables. The meat was but a chop, charred62 on one side, raw on the other; but John did not notice its shortcomings. He fell on it like the starving man he was, and gulped63 down two or three glasses of port. The colour returned to his face, he was able to give an account of his wife’s last hours. “And to talk is what he needs, even if he goes on till morning.” Mahony was quick to see that there were things that rankled64 in John’s memory, like festers in flesh. One was that, knowing the greys were tricky65, he had not forbidden them to Emma long ago. But he had felt proud of her skill in handling the reins66, of the attention she attracted. Far from thwarting67 her, he had actually urged her on. Her fall had been a light one, and at the outset no bad results were anticipated: a slight haemorrhage was soon got under control. A week later, however, it began anew, more violently, and then all remedies were in vain. As it became clear that the child was dead, the doctors had recourse to serious measures. But the bleeding went on. She complained of a roaring in her ears, her extremities68 grew cold, her pulse fluttered to nothing. She passed from syncope to coma69, and from coma to death. John swore that two of the doctors had been the worse for drink; the third was one of those ignorant impostors with whom the place swarmed70. And again he made himself reproaches.
“I ought to have gone to look for someone else. But she was dying . . . I could not tear myself away.— Mahony, I can still see her. They had stretched her across the bed, so that her head hung over the side. Her hair swept the floor — one scoundrel trod on it . . . trod on her hair! And I had to stand by and watch, while they butchered her — butchered my girl.— Oh, there are things, Mahony, one cannot dwell on and live!”
“You must not look at it like that. Yet, when I recall some of the cases I’ve seen contraction71 induced in . . .”
“Ah yes, if you had been here . . . my God, if only you had been here!”
But Mahony did not encourage this idea; it was his duty to unhitch John’s thoughts from the past. He now suggested that, the children and Sarah safe in his keeping, John should shut up the house and go away. To his surprise John jumped at the proposal, was ready there and then to put it into effect. Yes, said he, he would start the very next morning, and with no more than a blanket on his back, would wander a hundred odd miles into the bush, sleeping out under the stars at night, and day by day increasing the distance between himself and the scene of his loss. And now up he sprang, in a sudden fury to be gone. Warning Sarah into the background, Mahony helped him get together a few necessaries, and then walked him to a hotel. Here he left him sleeping under the influence of a drug, and next day saw him off on his tramp northwards, over the Great Divide.
John’s farewell words were: “Take the keys of the house with you, and don’t give them up to me under a month, at least.”
That day’s coach was full; they had to wait for seats till the following afternoon. The delay was not unwelcome to Mahony; it gave Polly time to get the letter he had written her the night before. After leaving John, he set about raising money for the extra fares and other unforeseen expenses: at the eleventh hour, Sarah informed him that their young brother Jerry had landed in Melbourne during Emma’s illness, and had been hastily boarded out. Knowing no one else in the city, Mahony was forced, much as it went against the grain, to turn to Henry Ocock for assistance. And he was effusively72 received — Ocock tried to press double the sum needed on him. Fortune was no doubt smiling on the lawyer. His offices had swelled73 to four rooms, with appropriate clerks in each. He still, however, nursed the scheme of transferring his business to Ballarat.
“As soon, that is, as I can hear of suitable premises74. I understand there’s only one locality to be considered, and that’s the western township.” On which Mahony, whose address was in the outer darkness, repeated his thanks and withdrew.
He found Jerry’s lodging75, paid the bill, and took the boy back to St. Kilda — a shy slip of a lad in his early teens, with the colouring and complexion76 that ran in the family. John’s coachman, who had shown himself not indisposed — for a substantial sum, paid in advance — to keep watch over house and grounds, was installed in an outbuilding, and next day at noon, after personally aiding Sarah, who was all a-tremble at the prospect24 of the bush journey, to pack her own and the children’s clothes, Mahony turned the key in the door of the darkened house. But a couple of weeks ago it had been a proud and happy home. Now it had no more virtue77 left in it than a crab’s empty shell.
He had fumed78 on first learning of Jerry’s superfluous79 presence; but before they had gone far he saw that he would have fared ill indeed, had Jerry not been there. Sarah, too agitated80 that morning to touch a bite of food, was seized, not an hour out, with sickness and fainting. There she sat, her eyes closed, her salts to her nose or feebly sipping81 brandy, unable to lift a finger to help with the children. The younger of the two slept most of the way hotly and heavily on Mahony’s knee; but the boy, a regular pest, was never for a moment still. In vain did his youthful uncle pinch his leg each time he wriggled82 to the floor. It was not till a fierce-looking digger opposite took out a jack-knife and threatened to saw off both his feet if he stirred again, to cut out his tongue if he put another question that, scarlet83 with fear, little Johnny was tamed. Altogether it was a nightmare of a journey, and Mahony groaned84 with relief when, lamps having for some time twinkled past, the coach drew up, and Hempel and Long Jim stepped forward with their lanterns. Sarah could hardly stand. The children, wrathful at being wakened from their sleep, kicked and screamed.
收听单词发音 |
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sobs
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| 啜泣（声），呜咽（声）( sob的名词复数 ) | |
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calamity
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| n.灾害，祸患，不幸事件 | |
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prematurely
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| adv.过早地，贸然地 | |
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possessed
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| adj.疯狂的；拥有的，占有的 | |
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hatred
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| n.憎恶，憎恨，仇恨 | |
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nourishment
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| n.食物，营养品；营养情况 | |
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literally
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| adv.照字面意义，逐字地；确实 | |
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utterly
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| adv.完全地，绝对地 | |
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heed
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| v.注意，留意；n.注意，留心 | |
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soothe
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| v.安慰；使平静；使减轻；缓和；奉承 | |
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promising
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| adj.有希望的，有前途的 | |
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entirely
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| ad.全部地，完整地；完全地，彻底地 | |
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erect
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| n./v.树立，建立，使竖立；adj.直立的，垂直的 | |
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marvelled
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| v.惊奇，对…感到惊奇( marvel的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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havoc
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| n.大破坏，浩劫，大混乱，大杂乱 | |
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tonic
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| n./adj.滋补品，补药，强身的，健体的 | |
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well-being
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| n.安康，安乐，幸福 | |
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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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mantle
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| n.斗篷，覆罩之物，罩子；v.罩住，覆盖，脸红 | |
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persuasion
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| n.劝说；说服；持有某种信仰的宗派 | |
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speculations
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| n.投机买卖( speculation的名词复数 )；思考；投机活动；推断 | |
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noted
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| adj.著名的，知名的 | |
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prospector
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| n.探矿者 | |
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prospect
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| n.前景，前途；景色，视野 | |
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relished
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| v.欣赏( relish的过去式和过去分词 )；从…获得乐趣；渴望 | |
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intruding
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| v.侵入，侵扰，打扰( intrude的现在分词)；把…强加于 | |
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intruded
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| n.侵入的，推进的v.侵入，侵扰，打扰( intrude的过去式和过去分词 )；把…强加于 | |
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tact
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| n.机敏，圆滑，得体 | |
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gravel
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| n.砂跞；砂砾层；结石 | |
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sprightly
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| adj.愉快的，活泼的 | |
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severely
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| adv.严格地；严厉地；非常恶劣地 | |
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hysterical
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| adj.情绪异常激动的，歇斯底里般的 | |
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coffined
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| vt.收殓（coffin的过去式与过去分词形式） | |
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deserted
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| adj.荒芜的，荒废的，无人的，被遗弃的 | |
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collapse
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| vi.累倒；昏倒；倒塌；塌陷 | |
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previously
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| adv.以前，先前（地） | |
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briefly
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| adv.简单地，简短地 | |
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morsel
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| n.一口，一点点 | |
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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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bridled
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| 给…套龙头( bridle的过去式和过去分词 )； 控制； 昂首表示轻蔑（或怨忿等）； 动怒，生气 | |
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battering
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| n.用坏，损坏v.连续猛击( batter的现在分词 ) | |
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suspense
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| n.（对可能发生的事）紧张感，担心，挂虑 | |
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skulking
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| v.潜伏，偷偷摸摸地走动，鬼鬼祟祟地活动( skulk的现在分词 ) | |
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twilight
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| n.暮光，黄昏；暮年，晚期，衰落时期 | |
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hoarse
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| adj.嘶哑的，沙哑的 | |
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cant
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| n.斜穿，黑话，猛扔 | |
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smacked
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| 拍，打，掴( smack的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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extravagant
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| adj.奢侈的；过分的；(言行等)放肆的 | |
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vault
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| n.拱形圆顶，地窖，地下室 | |
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scruples
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| n.良心上的不安( scruple的名词复数 )；顾虑，顾忌v.感到于心不安，有顾忌( scruple的第三人称单数 ) | |
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51
torrent
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| n.激流，洪流；爆发，(话语等的)连发 | |
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52
blasphemies
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| n.对上帝的亵渎，亵渎的言词[行为]( blasphemy的名词复数 )；侮慢的言词（或行为） | |
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almighty
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| adj.全能的，万能的；很大的，很强的 | |
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interfere
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| v.(in)干涉，干预；(with)妨碍，打扰 | |
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winced
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| 赶紧避开，畏缩( wince的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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scurrility
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| n.粗俗下流；辱骂的言语 | |
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exhaustion
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| n.耗尽枯竭，疲惫，筋疲力尽，竭尽，详尽无遗的论述 | |
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consolation
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| n.安慰，慰问 | |
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precluded
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| v.阻止( preclude的过去式和过去分词 )；排除；妨碍；使…行不通 | |
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spike
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| n.长钉，钉鞋；v.以大钉钉牢，使...失效 | |
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wrung
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| 绞( wring的过去式和过去分词 )； 握紧（尤指别人的手）； 把（湿衣服）拧干； 绞掉（水） | |
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charred
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| v.把…烧成炭( char的过去式)；烧焦 | |
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gulped
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| v.狼吞虎咽地吃，吞咽( gulp的过去式和过去分词 )；大口地吸（气）；哽住 | |
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rankled
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| v.（使）痛苦不已，（使）怨恨不已( rankle的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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tricky
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| adj.狡猾的，奸诈的；(工作等)棘手的，微妙的 | |
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reins
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| 感情，激情； 缰( rein的名词复数 )； 控制手段； 掌管； （成人带着幼儿走路以防其走失时用的）保护带 | |
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thwarting
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| 阻挠( thwart的现在分词 )； 使受挫折； 挫败； 横过 | |
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extremities
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| n.端点( extremity的名词复数 )；尽头；手和足；极窘迫的境地 | |
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coma
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| n.昏迷，昏迷状态 | |
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swarmed
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| 密集( swarm的过去式和过去分词 )； 云集； 成群地移动； 蜜蜂或其他飞行昆虫成群地飞来飞去 | |
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contraction
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| n.缩略词，缩写式，害病 | |
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effusively
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| adv.变溢地，热情洋溢地 | |
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swelled
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| 增强( swell的过去式和过去分词 )； 肿胀； （使）凸出； 充满（激情） | |
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premises
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| n.建筑物，房屋 | |
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lodging
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| n.寄宿，住所；(大学生的)校外宿舍 | |
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complexion
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| n.肤色；情况，局面；气质，性格 | |
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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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fumed
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| 愤怒( fume的过去式和过去分词 )； 大怒； 发怒； 冒烟 | |
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superfluous
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| adj.过多的，过剩的，多余的 | |
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agitated
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| adj.被鼓动的，不安的 | |
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sipping
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| v.小口喝，呷，抿( sip的现在分词 ) | |
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wriggled
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| v.扭动，蠕动，蜿蜒行进( wriggle的过去式和过去分词 )；（使身体某一部位）扭动；耍滑不做，逃避（应做的事等） | |
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scarlet
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| n.深红色，绯红色，红衣；adj.绯红色的 | |
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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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