Grania sat down on her accustomed seat, a bit of the upper ledge14 which ran close to the great boulder15 and just at the mouth of the gully. She had hardly slept at all, for{203} Honor had awakened16 coughing, probably on account of the open door, and for hours her cough had hardly ceased, the oppression having been so great that twice it had seemed as if she must suffocate17 before relief came. Grania had accordingly sat the greater part of the night with her arm around her, supporting her in a sitting posture18, and it was not till towards six o’clock that Honor had fallen into a doze19, and that she had then been able to lie down.
She was tired out, therefore, as well as vexed21 by her unsuccessful chase of the night before, and her mind was now busily going over what was to be done about the turf. Already a large hole had been made in the rick, and if this went on there would not be enough left to carry them on till they got a fresh supply in the autumn. She ran over in her mind all the evil-doers of the island,{204} trying to fix upon the one most likely to be the culprit. At first her thoughts had fixed22 themselves upon Shan Daly, the black sheep par7 excellence23, and as it were officially, of Inishmaan. But Shan Daly was believed to be away at present, though no one knew where, and on the whole she inclined to think that it was more likely to have been Pete Durane, who lived on the other side of the island, a little above Allinera, and whose record was by no means a blameless one in the matter of petty larceny24. The figure of which she had momentarily caught a glimpse seemed more like that of Pete Durane, too, than of Shan. Having come to this conclusion she decided25 to go round to the Duranes’ house that morning, and see if, in the course of conversation, any suspicious circumstances came to light. She also made up her mind to watch again herself that evening. Perhaps Murdough Blake would{205} come and watch with her too. If so, they—
At this point a cough and faint stirring sound made itself heard from the cabin, and she got up and went in.
Honor was lying upon her back, her face drawn26 and white with the long conflict of the night. Her eyes opened, however, and turned, as they always did, with a loving look upon her sister as she entered. Grania lifted her up, propping27 her on her arm, and proceeded to arrange her for the day. There was only one pillow in the cabin, so that the foundation of the support by means of which she was enabled to sit erect28 had to be made with the aid of an old fishing kish, which Grania had adapted for the purpose. Raised upon this and the pillow over it, Honor could see quite comfortably through the open door, here, as in every Irish cabin, the chief means of observation with the outer world.{206}
The sun had now struggled through the clouds and shone in at the entrance with a sleepy radiance. In every direction the sound of tinkling29 water was to be heard, as the residue30 of last night’s deluge31 dripped from a thousand invisible chinks, falling with a soft, pattering noise upon the platform which served as a sort of natural terrace to the cabin. Against the steep, wet sides of the gully the light broke in soft, prismatic gleams, which played up and down its fluted32 edges and over the big face of the boulder in an incessant33 dance of colour. The poor little weatherbeaten spot seemed filled for the moment to an almost unnatural34 degree with soft movement and tender, playful radiance.
Honor gazed at it all from her bed, an expression of vague yearning35 growing in her patient eyes.
Presently the brown sail of a hooker showed{207} for a moment passing between the rocks in the direction of the mainland.
Her eyes turned to follow it till it had passed beyond their reach.
‘That will be the Wednesday boat for Galway, Grania!’ she said in a tone of mild excitement.
Grania was not looking. Her thoughts were still with the turf, and she was going over in her mind the plan for that evening’s campaign. She would tell her suspicions, she decided, to Murdough, and they would watch behind the big boulder, or perhaps at the bottom of the gully.
‘Maybe, sister,’ she replied indifferently. ‘It is up to the Duranes’ house I must be going this morning,’ she added presently. ‘And, Honor, it is not the kelp I need watch this evening. Will I—will I ask Murdough Blake to come over, and sit with us a bit? It is not for a long time, he says{208}—no, not for a long, long time—that he has seen you.’
Honor suddenly reddened, and a curious look of embarrassment37 came into her face.
‘Well, then, honey sweet, of course you can,’ she said, but in a tone of such evident reluctance38 that Grania could not fail to observe it.
‘What is it ails39 you about Murdough?’ she asked curiously40. ‘It is not the first time, not the first by many, that you did not want him to come here. Is it that you think anyway ill of him? Is it, Honor? Say, is it?’ she persisted anxiously.
‘Auch! child, no. Ill? Why would I think ill of him? Tis just—auch, ’tis just—’tis nothing in life but my own foolishness—nothing in life but that. Heart of my soul! what wouldn’t I do if you asked me? and of course he can come. But, ’tis just—— Auch, ’tis laughing at me you’ll be, Grania{209}—but you know when the fit takes me I must cough, and then the phlegm—and—and—well, ’tis shamed I am, dear, shamed outright41 to be sitting and spitting, you know, and a young man looking at me. That’s just it, and nothing else in life, only that!’
Grania stared at her for a second open-eyed, then she, too, reddened slightly. Such a reason would certainly never have dawned upon her mind. Modest she was—no girl more so—but she took far too sturdy and out-of-doors a view of life for any such fantastic notions of delicacy42 as this to trouble her—notions which could only, perhaps, lurk43 and grow up in such a nature as Honor’s, conventual by instinct, and now trebly, artificially sensitive from ill health. Honor’s wishes were to be respected, however, even when they were mysterious.
‘Well, indeed, sister, I never gave thought to that,’ she replied, humbly44 enough.{210}
‘Auch! and why would you give thought to it? Sure, why would a young colleen like you, that’s niver known ache or sickness, think of such things, no more than the young flowers out there coming up through the rocks?’ the other answered with eager, loving tenderness. ‘And my prayer to God and the Holy Virgin45 is that you never may have to think of them, Grania dheelish, alannah, acushla oge machree,’ she went on coaxingly46, heaping up one term of endearment47 upon another. She was afraid that her reason, although a perfectly48 true and, to her mind, a perfectly reasonable one, might somehow have offended Grania. With this idea she presently went on, having first waited long enough to regain49 her breath.
‘Think ill of Murdough Blake? Wisha! of Murdough Blake is it? a right brine-oge of a boy and a credit to all that owns him! A likely story that, when it is a joy to me to think of the two, him and yourself, coming{211} and living here in the old house and I dead and gone—yes, indeed, and your little children growing up round you—my blessing50 and the blessing of Heaven be upon them, night and day, be they many or be they few! And if it was not the next thing to a sin, ’tis fretted51 and vexed I’d be to be stopping on in the way I am. What for? Only to be hindering two young creatures that’s wanting and wishing to settle down, as is only natural, and they not able to do it, and all because of me! Sure, sister dear, ’tis begging your pardon I do be often inclined to do—yes, indeed, many’s the time; only there—’tis God sends it, you know, and it can’t be different, whether or no.’
Grania’s face had run through several variations while Honor was speaking. By the time she had finished, however, her eyes were gentle and misty52.
‘A right brine-oge of a boy,’ the other{212} continued complacently53, smoothing down her blanket. ‘And love is a jewel that’s well known all the world over’—this observation cannot be said to have been uttered with any very fervent54 conviction, merely in the tone of one who utters an adage55, sanctioned by usage, and therefore respectable—‘’tisn’t every colleen, either, gets the one she likes best, so it isn’t, and no trouble; nothing to do but to settle down, and all ready, no questions, nor money wanted, nor a thing. ’Tis hard for a girl to have to marry a man and he nothing to her, or worse perhaps—a black stranger out of nowhere—and all for no reason but because of his wanting so many cows, or her father setting his mind on it, or the like of that. I mind me when I was a slip of a child—thirteen years old maybe, or less—there was a little girl—Mary O’Reilly her name was—barely seventeen years, no more: a soft-faced, yellow-haired{213} little girsha, as slight and tender to look at as one of those fairy-ferns out there, when they come up first through the cracks. And there was a man belonging to Inisheer, whom they called Michael Donnellan—well, he wasn’t, to say rightly, old, but he was a big, set-looking man, with a red hairy face on him, and a nasty look, somehow. Well, he and Mat Reilly—that’s Mary O’Reilly’s father—settled it up between them one night, over at the “Cruskeen Beg,” and the number of cows fixed, and not a word, good or bad, only the wedding-day settled, and the priest told and all. As for Mary, all the notice she got was four days’, not one more! And sure enough when the day came they all went over to Aranmore chapel57, and married they were—a grand wedding—and back they came in the boats, and up to the house, and the height of eating and drinking going on, and the neighbours all asked in, and every{214} thing! I was looking in at the back window, by the same token, and half the other girshas in the place with me, and sorry I was, too, for I was fond of poor Mary O’Reilly, though I didn’t rightly understand what it all meant, being only a child at the time myself. Well, they were just setting out from the cabin, and the neighbours had all gathered round to bid them “God speed!” when all at once poor Mary, that was standing58 there quiet and decent as a lamb, gave a sudden screech59, and she ran and she twisted her arms round the top of the doorway60, that had a little space, mind you, between it and the head of the door, so she could get her arm in. And when they went to unloose her she struck out at them and fought and kicked and bit—the innocent, peaceable creature that never lifted her hand to man or mouse before in her life!—and she cried out to them that she wouldn’t leave her mammy,{215} no, she would not, and that they might tear her into little pieces but she’d never loose hold of the door. Just think of it! the shame and the disgrace before the whole country! Her mother tried to unloose her, though she was crying fit to burst all the time herself. And the man that was her husband since the morning went up to her, and spoke61 rough to her—the beast!—and told her she must come with him at once. And she cried out that she would not go with him, no, not unless he took her away in little pieces, for that she hated the sight of him and his red face, and that she would kill herself, and him too, rather than go a foot with him! Och, vo, vo! that was a day—my God! that was a day! However, take her away with him he did, somehow or other, and ugly and sulky he looked in his new clothes, and his face redder than ever, being made such a baulgore[7] before them all{216}—and she crying and screaming to her mammy to keep her, and the old man holding back his wife that was fighting to get to her—and away with the two of them in a curragh to Inisheer, where he lived!’
‘And what did she do when he got her there? Did she kill him? ’Tis I would have killed him, no fear of me but I would!’ Grania exclaimed eagerly, her upper lip raised as she used to raise it when she was a child, showing the white teeth below.
‘“Kill him”? Arrah! nonsense, girl alive; the creature hadn’t it in her to kill a fly, no, nor the hundredth part of the half of a fly. What did she do? Sure, she did as every other woman has done since the world began; what else had she to do, God help her? Och, vo, vo! marrying is a black job for many and many a one, and so I tell you, child, though it’s little, I dare say, you believe me. I often think that it was seeing poor Mary that{217} same day gave me the first strong turn against it myself—so I do,’ Honor ended meditatively62.
Grania frowned till her brows met, but made no further comment on the story.
‘Yes, indeed, I do think that ’twas seeing Mary O’Reilly hanging on to that old door, and her mother crying and all, set me so against it then, I do really!’ Honor went on complacently. ‘It wasn’t that I couldn’t have married well enough if I had wanted it, mind you! There was an old man—you’ve often heard me talk of him—up by Polladoo way; rich he was—oh, my God! he was rich!—nigh upon two cantrells of land he rented, not a foot less, and my father was mad with me to marry him—said once he’d turn me out of the house on to the bare sea rocks if I didn’t! But your mother, Grania, that wasn’t long in it then herself, helped me, so she did—may her bed in Glory be the sweeter and the easier for it this day I pray! That was the worst time{218} ever I had at all, at all!—the very worst time of all,’ Honor added reflectively.
Grania looked up. A new idea, a sudden curiosity, was stirring in her mind.
‘But did you never care for e’er a one, Honor?’ she asked, reddening and speaking quickly: ‘never for e’er a one at all—not when you were young? Sure, Honor, you must! Think a bit, sister, and tell me. Arrah! why wouldn’t you tell me? Isn’t it all past and done now?’
‘“Care”? Is it I, child? “Care”! God keep you, no! What would ail36 me to care?’ the elder sister asked in tones of genuine astonishment63. ‘Auch! men is a terrible trouble, Grania, first and last. What with the drink and the fighting and one thing and another, a woman’s life is no better than an old garron’s down by the seashore once she’s got one of them over her driving her the way he chooses.’ She paused, and a new look, this time a look{219} of unmistakable passion, came into her face. ‘Oh, no, Grania asthore, ’tis a nun64 I would have loved to be; oh, my God! yes, that is the beautiful life! Pulse of my heart, sister avilish, there’s nothing for a woman like being a nun—nothing, nothing! Praying and praying from morning till night, and nought65 to do, only what you’re bid, and a safe fair walk before you to heaven, without a turn, or the fear of a turn, to right or left! Sure, ’tis all over now, as you say, but many’s the time, och many’s and many’s the time, Grania, and for years upon years, I cried myself to sleep because I couldn’t be a nun. ’Tis on that little bed you do be sleeping on now I’d be lying, and father and poor Phil, that’s dead, snoring one against the other as if it was for money, and the wind blowing, and the sea and rocks grinding against each other the way they do, and I would think of the big world and the cruel things that do be{220} going on in it, and the ugly ways of men that frightened me always, and then of the convent, and the chapel and the pictures and the garden—for I saw it all once, at Galway, at the Sisters of Mercy there—and my heart would go out in a great cry: “Oh, my God, make me a nun! Oh, my God, won’t You let me be a nun! My God! my God! You’ll let me be a nun, won’t You? Arrah my God! won’t You? won’t You?”’
She lay back in the bed, her face flushed, her breath came fast; old passion was stirring vehemently66 within her. For such passion as this, however, Grania had no sympathy, Honor’s aspirations67 in this respect having all her life been a source of irritation68 to her.
‘Then it is not myself would like to be a nun,’ she exclaimed defiantly69. ‘And I think it was real bad of you, Honor, so I do, to have wanted to go away. What would{221} have become of any of us without you, and of me most of all? Did you never think of that? Say, Honor, did you never think of that?’
‘Arrah! whist! child, I know it, I know it. You needn’t be telling me, for I’ve told myself so a hundred times,’ Honor answered eagerly. ‘And maybe it’s all for the best now the way it is; anyhow, the end is not far off, and God and the Holy Virgin will know it was not my fault. I had the heart in me to be a nun, if ever a woman had, and it’s the heart that’s looked to there—the heart and nothing else. And as to my not thinking of you! why, you little rogora dhu, you black rogue70 of the world, God forgive me if I’ve thought of anything else, child, since the first hour I had you to myself! ’Twasn’t in it nor thought of, you were at all, in those times I’m speaking of, nor would have been but for father seeing your mother, a{222} stranger come over from the Joyce country, dancing at old Malachy O’Flaherty’s wake, and all the young fellows in the place after her. What ailed71 him to think of marrying her I never could fancy! A man past forty years of age and a widower72, too! An extraordinary thing and scarce decent! No fortune to her, neither, nothing but a pair of big black eyes—the very same as those two shining in your own head this minute—and the walk, so people said, of a queen. A good girl she was—I’m not saying anything against her, poor Delia—and I cried myself sick the day she died, for she was a kind friend to me. But there was yourself, Grania, screeching73 and kicking, and making the devil’s own commotion74 with wanting to be fed. Somehow, once I got you into my arms, and no one near you but myself, I disremember ever wanting again to be a nun, so I do.’
Grania’s fierce look softened75. ‘’Tis a{223} mother you’ve been to me, sure enough, all my life, sister,’ she said gently.
‘“Mother”! Wisha! child, with your “mother”! ’Tisn’t much I think of mothers, I can tell you! There’s mothers enough in the world and to spare, too! Anyone can be a mother—small thanks to them! Oh, no, Grania sweet, acushla machree, love of my heart, ’tis your soul, ’tis the precious, precious soul of you that I’ve always wanted, and cried after, and longed for, ever since first I had you to myself. Sure, if I could only feel easy about that I’d die the happiest woman ever yet had a footboard laid on her face. Oh, my pet, my bird, my little deerfoor asthore, won’t you try to turn to Him when I’m gone? Remember, I’ll be near, maybe, though you won’t see me. Sure, if it was to do you any good, I’d stop a hundred years longer than need be in the place Father Tom tells of, or a thousand either, for I don’t mind pain,{224} being so used to it, and think it all joy and sweetness.’ Honor lifted her head a little in the bed and raised her soft brown eyes imploringly76 towards her sister. ‘Oh, Grania dheelish, pulse of my soul, what’s this life at all, at all, short or long, easy or hard—what is it, what is it but a dream? just a dream, no better!’ she cried with sudden passion, that sisterly passion into which everything else had long been merged77. ‘If I could only make sure of meeting my bird in heaven, if it was a thousand years off and a thousand on the top of that, and ten thousand more at the hinder end of that, sure, what would it matter? Oh, child asthore, think of us two, you and me, standing up there together, holding one another by the two hands, and knowing we’d never be separated no more!—never, never, sun or shine, winter or summer—never as long as God lived, and that’s for ever and ever! Oh, child, child!{225} when that thought comes over me, ’tis like new life in my veins78 and new blood in my poor heart. I feel as if I could get out of my bed, and go leaping and dancing over the rocks to the sea, or up into the air itself like the birds, so I do.’
Her strength, momentarily sustained, suddenly broke down, and her voice sank so as to be almost inaudible. ‘You wouldn’t disappoint me, Grania, dear? Sure you wouldn’t disappoint your poor old Honor, that never loved man or woman, chick or child, only yourself?’ she whispered, the words coming out one by one with difficulty.
Grania’s eyes filled, and she let Honor take her hand and hold it in her two worn ones, which were grown so thin that they seemed made of a different substance from her own toil-roughened one. But though she was touched and would have done anything to please Honor, she could not even pretend{226} to respond to the sick woman’s eager longing56. She would have done so if she could, but it was impossible. The whole thing was utterly foreign and alien to her. There was nothing in it which she could catch hold of, nothing that she could feel to attach any definite idea to. Fond as she was of Honor, unwilling79 as she was to vex20 her, her whole attitude, her excessive urgency, worried her. What ailed her to talk so, to have such queer ways and ideas? Was it because she was sick, because she was dying? Did all sick people talk and feel like that? Was it possible that she would ever feel anything of the sort if she were sick, if she were going to die? She did not believe it for a minute. The youth in her veins cried for life, life! sharp-edged life, life with the blood in it, not for a thin bloodless heaven that no one could touch or prove.
Turning away, she made an excuse, there{227}fore, of having to go and see after the calf80, and ran hastily out of the cabin door into the sunlight, leaving it open behind her.
Left alone, Honor’s eyes kept dreamily following the yellow bands of light as they spread in ever-widening streams across the rocks. Over the top of the gully she could see a space of sky, which seemed to her to be not only bluer, but also higher than usual. She tilted81 her head a little backwards82 so as to be able to look farther and farther up, higher and higher still, into this dim, mysterious distance, gradually forgetting all troubles, vexations, hindrances83, as her eyes lost themselves in that untravelled region.
‘Augh, my God! what will it be like at all, at all, when we get there?’ she whispered, looking up and smiling, yet half abashed84 at the same time by her own audacity85.
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1
atmospheric
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| adj.大气的，空气的；大气层的；大气所引起的 | |
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utterly
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| adv.完全地，绝对地 | |
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serenity
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| n.宁静，沉着，晴朗 | |
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reigned
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| vi.当政，统治（reign的过去式形式） | |
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supreme
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| adj.极度的，最重要的；至高的，最高的 | |
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opaque
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| adj.不透光的；不反光的，不传导的；晦涩的 | |
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par
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| n.标准，票面价值，平均数量；adj.票面的，平常的，标准的 | |
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celestial
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| adj.天体的；天上的 | |
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tint
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| n.淡色，浅色；染发剂；vt.着以淡淡的颜色 | |
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peculiarity
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| n.独特性，特色；特殊的东西；怪癖 | |
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shaft
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| n.(工具的)柄，杆状物 | |
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luminous
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| adj.发光的，发亮的；光明的；明白易懂的；有启发的 | |
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enchanted
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| adj. 被施魔法的，陶醉的，入迷的 动词enchant的过去式和过去分词 | |
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ledge
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| n.壁架，架状突出物；岩架，岩礁 | |
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boulder
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| n.巨砾；卵石，圆石 | |
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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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suffocate
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| vt.使窒息，使缺氧，阻碍；vi.窒息，窒息而亡，阻碍发展 | |
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posture
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| n.姿势，姿态，心态，态度；v.作出某种姿势 | |
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doze
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| v.打瞌睡；n.打盹，假寐 | |
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vex
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| vt.使烦恼，使苦恼 | |
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vexed
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| adj.争论不休的；（指问题等）棘手的；争论不休的问题；烦恼的v.使烦恼( vex的过去式和过去分词 )；使苦恼；使生气；详细讨论 | |
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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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excellence
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| n.优秀，杰出，(pl.)优点，美德 | |
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larceny
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decided
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| adj.决定了的，坚决的；明显的，明确的 | |
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drawn
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| v.拖，拉，拔出；adj.憔悴的，紧张的 | |
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propping
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| 支撑 | |
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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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tinkling
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| n.丁当作响声 | |
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residue
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| n.残余，剩余，残渣 | |
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deluge
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| n./vt.洪水，暴雨，使泛滥 | |
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fluted
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| a.有凹槽的 | |
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incessant
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| adj.不停的，连续的 | |
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unnatural
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| adj.不自然的；反常的 | |
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yearning
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| a.渴望的；向往的；怀念的 | |
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ail
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| v.生病，折磨，苦恼 | |
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embarrassment
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| n.尴尬；使人为难的人(事物)；障碍；窘迫 | |
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reluctance
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| n.厌恶，讨厌，勉强，不情愿 | |
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ails
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| v.生病( ail的第三人称单数 )；感到不舒服；处境困难；境况不佳 | |
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curiously
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| adv.有求知欲地；好问地；奇特地 | |
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outright
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| adv.坦率地；彻底地；立即；adj.无疑的；彻底的 | |
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delicacy
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| n.精致，细微，微妙，精良；美味，佳肴 | |
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lurk
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| n.潜伏，潜行；v.潜藏，潜伏，埋伏 | |
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humbly
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| adv. 恭顺地，谦卑地 | |
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virgin
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| n.处女，未婚女子；adj.未经使用的；未经开发的 | |
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coaxingly
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| adv. 以巧言诱哄，以甘言哄骗 | |
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endearment
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| n.表示亲爱的行为 | |
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perfectly
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| adv.完美地，无可非议地，彻底地 | |
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regain
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| vt.重新获得，收复，恢复 | |
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blessing
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| n.祈神赐福；祷告；祝福，祝愿 | |
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fretted
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| 焦躁的，附有弦马的，腐蚀的 | |
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misty
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| adj.雾蒙蒙的，有雾的 | |
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complacently
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| adv. 满足地, 自满地, 沾沾自喜地 | |
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fervent
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| adj.热的，热烈的，热情的 | |
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adage
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| n.格言，古训 | |
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longing
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| n.（for）渴望 | |
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chapel
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| n.小教堂，殡仪馆 | |
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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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screech
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| n./v.尖叫；(发出)刺耳的声音 | |
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doorway
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| n.门口，(喻)入门；门路，途径 | |
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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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meditatively
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| adv.冥想地 | |
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astonishment
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| n.惊奇，惊异 | |
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nun
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| n.修女，尼姑 | |
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nought
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| n.／adj.无，零 | |
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vehemently
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| adv. 热烈地 | |
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aspirations
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| 强烈的愿望( aspiration的名词复数 )； 志向； 发送气音； 发 h 音 | |
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irritation
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| n.激怒，恼怒，生气 | |
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defiantly
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| adv.挑战地，大胆对抗地 | |
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rogue
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| n.流氓；v.游手好闲 | |
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ailed
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| v.生病( ail的过去式和过去分词 )；感到不舒服；处境困难；境况不佳 | |
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widower
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| n.鳏夫 | |
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screeching
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| v.发出尖叫声( screech的现在分词 )；发出粗而刺耳的声音；高叫 | |
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commotion
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| n.骚动，动乱 | |
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softened
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| （使）变软( soften的过去式和过去分词 )； 缓解打击； 缓和； 安慰 | |
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imploringly
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| adv. 恳求地, 哀求地 | |
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merged
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| （使）混合( merge的过去式和过去分词 )； 相融； 融入； 渐渐消失在某物中 | |
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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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unwilling
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| adj.不情愿的 | |
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calf
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| n.小牛，犊，幼仔，小牛皮 | |
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tilted
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| v. 倾斜的 | |
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backwards
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| adv.往回地，向原处，倒，相反，前后倒置地 | |
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hindrances
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| 阻碍者( hindrance的名词复数 )； 障碍物； 受到妨碍的状态 | |
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abashed
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| adj.窘迫的，尴尬的v.使羞愧，使局促，使窘迫( abash的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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audacity
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| n.大胆，卤莽，无礼 | |
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