Again all the sound in the land was the melancholy5 sweet kink, kink, kink of the smith's hammer.
Across the road sat Dite Deuchars, the mole-catcher, a solitary6 figure, taking his pleasure on the dyke7. Behind him was the flour-miller's field, and beyond it the Den8, of which only some tree-tops were visible. He looked wearily east the road, but no one emerged from Thrums; he looked wearily west the road, which doubled out of sight at Aaron Latta's cottage, little more than a stone's throw distant. On the inside of Aaron's window an endless procession seemed to be passing, but it was only the warping9 mill going round. It was an empty day, but Dite, the accursed, was used to them; nothing ever happened where he was, but many things as soon as he had gone.
He yawned and looked at the houses opposite. They were all of one story; the smith's had a rusty10 plough stowed away on its roof; under a window stood a pew and bookboard, bought at the roup of an old church, and thus transformed into a garden-seat. There were many of them in Thrums that year. All the doors, except that of the smithy, were shut, until one of them blew ajar, when Dite knew at once, from the smell which crossed the road, that Blinder was in the bunk11 pulling the teeth of his potatoes. May Ann Irons, the blind man's niece, came out at this door to beat the cistern12 with a bass13, and she gave Dite a wag of her head. He was to be married to her if she could get nothing better.
By and by the Painted Lady came along the road. She was a little woman, brightly dressed, so fragile that a collie might have knocked her over with his tail, and she had a beautiful white-and-pink face, the white ending of a sudden in the middle of her neck, where it met skin of a duller color. As she tripped along with mincing14 gait, she was speaking confidentially15 to herself, but when she saw Dite grinning, she seemed, first, afraid, and then sorry for herself, and then she tried to carry it off with a giggle16, cocking her head impudently17 at him. Even then she looked childish, and a faded guilelessness, with many pretty airs and graces, still lingered about her, like innocent birds loath18 to be gone from the spot where their nest has been. When she had passed monotony again reigned19, and Dite crossed to the smithy window, though none of the letters could be for him. He could read the addresses on six of them, but the seventh lay on its back, and every time he rose on his tip-toes to squint20 down at it, the spout21 pushed his bonnet22 over his eyes.
"Smith," he cried in at the door, "to gang hame afore I ken4 wha that letter's to is more than I can do."
The smith good-naturedly brought the letter to him, and then glancing at the address was dumfounded. "God behears," he exclaimed, with a sudden look at the distant cemetery23, "it's to Double Dykes24!"
The two men gazed at the cemetery for some time, and at last Dite muttered, "Ay, ay, Double Dykes, you was aye fond o' your joke!"
"What has that to do wi' 't?" rapped out the smith, uncomfortably.
Dite shuddered26. "Man," he said, "does that letter no bring Double Dykes back terrible vive again! If we was to see him climbing the cemetery dyke the now, and coming stepping down the fields in his moleskin waistcoat wi' the pearl buttons—"
Auchterlonie stopped him with a nervous gesture.
"But it couldna be the pearl buttons," Dite added thoughtfully, "for Betty Finlayson has been wearing them to the kirk this four year. Ay, ay, Double Dykes, that puts you farther awa' again."
The smith took the letter to a neighbor's house to ask the advice of old Irons, the blind tailor, who when he lost his sight had given himself the name of Blinder for bairns to play with.
"Make your mind easy, smith," was Blinder's counsel. "The letter is meant for the Painted Lady. What's Double Dykes? It's but the name of a farm, and we gave it to Sanders because he was the farmer. He's dead, and them that's in the house now become Double Dykes in his place."
But the Painted Lady only had the house, objected Dite; Nether27 Drumgley was farming the land, and so he was the real Double Dykes. True, she might have pretended to her friends that she had the land also.
She had no friends, the smith said, and since she came to Double Dykes from no one could find out where, though they knew her furniture was bought in Tilliedrum, she had never got a letter. Often, though, as she passed his window she had keeked sideways at the letters, as bairns might look at parlys. If he made a tinkle28 with his hammer at such times off she went at once, for she was as easily flichtered as a field of crows, that take wing if you tap your pipe on the loof of your hand. It was true she had spoken to him once; when he suddenly saw her standing30 at his smiddy door, the surprise near made him fall over his brot. She looked so neat and ladylike that he gave his hair a respectful pull before he remembered the kind of woman she was.
And what was it she said to him? Dite asked eagerly.
She had pointed31 to the letters on the window-sill, and said she, "Oh, the dear loves!" It was a queer say, but she had a bonny English word. The English word was no doubt prideful, but it melted in the mouth like a lick of sirup. She offered him sixpence for a letter, any letter he liked, but of course he refused it. Then she prigged with him just to let her hold one in her hands, for said she, bairnlike, "I used to get one every day." It so happened that one of the letters was to Mysy Bobbie; and Mysy was of so little importance that he thought there would be no harm in letting the Painted Lady hold her letter, so he gave it to her, and you should have seen her dawting it with her hand and holding it to her breast like a lassie with a pigeon. "Isn't it sweet?" she said, and before he could stop her she kissed it. She forgot it was no letter of hers, and made to open it, and then she fell a-trembling and saying she durst not read it, for you never knew whether the first words might not break your heart. The envelope was red where her lips had touched it, and yet she had an innocent look beneath the paint. When he took the letter from her, though, she called him a low, vulgar fellow for presuming to address a lady. She worked herself into a fury, and said far worse than that; a perfect guller of clarty language came pouring out of her. He had heard women curse many a time without turning a hair, but he felt wae when she did it, for she just spoke29 it like a bairn that had been in ill company.
The smith's wife, Suphy, who had joined the company, thought that men were easily taken in, especially smiths. She offered, however, to convey the letter to Double Dykes. She was anxious to see the inside of the Painted Lady's house, and this would be a good opportunity. She admitted that she had crawled to the east window of it before now, but that dour32 bairn of the Painted Lady's had seen her head and whipped down the blind.
Unfortunate Suphy! she could not try the window this time, as it was broad daylight, and the Painted Lady took the letter from her at the door. She returned crestfallen33, and for an hour nothing happened. The mole-catcher went off to the square, saying, despondently34, that nothing would happen until he was round the corner. No sooner had he rounded the corner than something did happen.
A girl who had left Double Dykes with a letter was walking quickly toward Monypenny. She wore a white pinafore over a magenta35 frock, and no one could tell her whether she was seven or eight, for she was only the Painted Lady's child. Some boys, her natural enemies, were behind; they had just emerged from the Den, and she heard them before they saw her, and at once her little heart jumped and ran off with her. But the halloo that told her she was discovered checked her running. Her teeth went into her underlip; now her head was erect36. After her came the rabble37 with a rush, flinging stones that had no mark and epithets38 that hit. Grizel disdained39 to look over her shoulder. Little hunted child, where was succor40 to come from if she could not fight for herself?
Though under the torture she would not cry out. "What's a father?" was their favorite jeer41, because she had once innocently asked this question of a false friend. One tried to snatch the letter from her, but she flashed him a look that sent him to the other side of the dyke, where, he said, did she think he was afraid of her? Another strutted42 by her side, mimicking43 her in such diverting manner that presently the others had to pick him out of the ditch. Thus Grizel moved onward44 defiantly45 until she reached Monypenny, where she tossed the letter in at the smithy door and immediately returned home. It was the letter that had been sent to her mother, now sent back, because it was meant for the dead farmer after all.
The smith read Jean Myles's last letter, with a face of growing gravity. "Dear Double Dykes," it said, "I send you these few scrapes to say I am dying, and you and Aaron Latta was seldom sindry, so I charge you to go to him and say to him 'Aaron Latta, it's all lies Jean Myles wrote to Thrums about her grandeur46, and her man died mony year back, and it was the only kindness he ever did her, and if she doesna die quick, her and her starving bairns will be flung out into the streets.' If that doesna move him, say, 'Aaron Latta, do you mind yon day at Inverquharity and the cushie doos?' likewise, 'Aaron Latta, do you mind yon day at the Kaims of Airlie?' likewise, 'Aaron Latta, do you mind that Jean Myles was ower heavy for you to lift? Oh, Aaron, you could lift me so pitiful easy now.' And syne47 says you solemnly three times, 'Aaron Latta, Jean Myles is lying dying all alone in a foreign land; Aaron Latta, Jean Myles is lying dying all alone in a foreign land; Aaron Latta, Jean Myles is lying dying all alone in a foreign land.' And if he's sweer to come, just say, 'Oh, Aaron, man, you micht; oh, Aaron, oh, Aaron, are you coming?'"
The smith had often denounced this woman, but he never said a word against her again. He stood long reflecting, and then took the letter to Blinder and read it to him.
"She doesna say, 'Oh, Aaron Latta, do you mind the Cuttle Well?'" was the blind man's first comment.
"She was thinking about it," said Auchterlonie.
"Ay, and he's thinking about it," said Blinder, "night and day, night and day. What a town there'll be about that letter, smith!"
"There will. But I'm to take it to Aaron afore the news spreads. He'll never gang to London though."
"I think he will, smith."
"I ken him well."
"Maybe I ken him better."
"You canna see the ugly mark it left on his brow."
"I can see the uglier marks it has left in his breast."
"Well, I'll take the letter; I can do no more."
When the smith opened the door of Aaron's house he let out a draught48 of hot air that was glad to be gone from the warper49's restless home. The usual hallan, or passage, divided the but from the ben, and in the ben a great revolving50 thing, the warping-mill, half filled the room. Between it and a pile of webs that obscured the light a little silent man was sitting on a box turning a handle. His shoulders were almost as high as his ears, as if he had been caught forever in a storm, and though he was barely five and thirty, he had the tattered51, dishonored beard of black and white that comes to none till the glory of life has gone.
Suddenly the smith appeared round the webs. "Aaron," he said, awkwardly, "do you mind Jean Myles?"
The warper did not for a moment take his eyes off a contrivance with pirns in it that was climbing up and down the whirring mill.
"She's dead," he answered.
"She's dying," said the smith.
A thread broke, and Aaron had to rise to mend it.
"Stop the mill and listen," Auchterlonie begged him, but the warper returned to his seat and the mill again revolved52.
"This is her dying words to you," continued the smith. "Did you speak?"
"I didna, but I wish you would take your arm off the haik."
"She's loath to die without seeing you. Do you hear, man? You shall listen to me, I tell you."
"I am listening, smith," the warper replied, without rancour. "It's but right that you should come here to take your pleasure on a shamed man." His calmness gave him a kind of dignity.
"Did I ever say you was a shamed man, Aaron?"
"Am I not?" the warper asked quietly; and Auchterlonie hung his head.
Aaron continued, still turning the handle, "You're truthful53, and you canna deny it. Nor will you deny that I shamed you and every other mother's son that night. You try to hod it out o' pity, smith, but even as you look at me now, does the man in you no rise up against me?"
"If so," the smith answered reluctantly, "if so, it's against my will."
"It is so," said Aaron, in the same measured voice, "and it's right that it should be so. A man may thieve or debauch54 or murder, and yet no be so very different frae his fellow-men, but there's one thing he shall not do without their wanting to spit him out o' their mouths, and that is, violate the feelings of sex."
The strange words in which the warper described his fall had always an uncomfortable effect on those who heard him use them, and Auchterlonie could only answer in distress55, "Maybe that's what it is."
"That's what it is. I have had twal lang years sitting on this box to think it out. I blame none but mysel'."
"Then you'll have pity on Jean in her sair need," said the smith. He read slowly the first part of the letter, but Aaron made no comment, and the mill had not stopped for a moment.
"She says," the smith proceeded, doggedly—"she says to say to you, 'Aaron Latta, do you mind yon day at Inverquharity and the cushie doos?'"
Only the monotonous56 whirr of the mill replied.
"She says, 'Aaron Latta, do you mind that Jean Myles was ower heavy for you to lift? Oh, Aaron, you could lift me so pitiful easy now.'"
Another thread broke and the warper rose with sudden fury.
"Now that you've eased your conscience, smith," he said, fiercely, "make your feet your friend."
"I'll do so," Auchterlonie answered, laying the letter on the webs, "but I leave this ahint me."
"Wap it in the fire."
"If that's to be done, you do it yoursel'. Aaron, she treated you ill, but—"
"There's the door, smith."
The smith walked away, and had only gone a few steps when he heard the whirr of the mill again. He went back to the door.
"She's dying, man!" he cried.
"Let her die!" answered Aaron.
In an hour the sensational57 news was through half of Thrums, of which Monypenny may be regarded as a broken piece, left behind, like the dot of quicksilver in the tube, to show how high the town once rose. Some could only rejoice at first in the down-come of Jean Myles, but most blamed the smith (and himself among them) for not taking note of her address, so that Thrums Street could be informed of it and sent to her relief. For Blinder alone believed that Aaron would be softened58.
"It was twa threads the smith saw him break," the blind man said, "and Aaron's good at his work. He'll go to London, I tell you."
"You forget, Blinders, that he was warping afore I was a dozen steps frae the door."
"Ay, and that just proves he hadna burned the letter, for he hadna time. If he didna do it at the first impulse, he'll no do it now."
Every little while the boys were sent along the road to look in at Aaron's end window and report.
At seven in the evening Aaron had not left his box, and the blind man's reputation for seeing farther than those with eyes was fallen low.
"It's a good sign," he insisted, nevertheless. "It shows his mind's troubled, for he usually louses at six."
By eight the news was that Aaron had left his mill and was sitting staring at his kitchen fire.
"He's thinking o' Inverquharity and the cushie doos," said Blinder.
"More likely," said Dite Deuchars, "he's thinking o' the Cuttle Well."
Corp Shiach clattered59 along the road about nine to say that Aaron Latta was putting on his blacks as if for a journey.
At once the blind man's reputation rose on stilts60. It fell flat, however, before the ten-o'clock bell rang, when three of the Auchterlonie children, each pulling the others back that he might arrive first, announced that Aaron had put on his corduroys again, and was back at the mill.
"That settles it," was everyone's good-night to Blinder, but he only answered thoughtfully, "There's a fierce fight going on, my billies."
Next morning when his niece was shaving the blind man, the razor had to travel over a triumphant61 smirk62 which would not explain itself to womankind, Blinder being a man who could bide63 his time. The time came when the smith looked in to say, "Should I gang yont to Aaron's and see if he'll give me the puir woman's address?"
"No, I wouldna advise that," answered Blinder, cleverly concealing64 his elation65, "for Aaron Latta's awa' to London."
"What! How can you ken?"
"I heard him go by in the night."
"It's no possible!"
"I kent his foot."
"You're sure it was Aaron?"
Blinder did not consider the question worth answering, his sharpness at recognizing friends by their tread being proved. Sometimes he may have carried his pretensions66 too far. Many granted that he could tell when a doctor went by, when a lawyer, when a thatcher67, when a herd68, and this is conceivable, for all callings have their walk. But he was regarded as uncanny when he claimed not only to know ministers in this way, but to be able to distinguish between the steps of the different denominations69.
He had made no mistake about the warper, however. Aaron was gone, and ten days elapsed before he was again seen in Thrums.
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收听单词发音
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1
trudged
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| vt.& vi.跋涉，吃力地走（trudge的过去式与过去分词形式） | |
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anvil
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| n.铁钻 | |
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likeness
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| n.相像，相似（之处） | |
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ken
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| n.视野，知识领域 | |
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melancholy
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| n.忧郁，愁思；adj.令人感伤（沮丧）的，忧郁的 | |
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solitary
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| adj.孤独的，独立的，荒凉的；n.隐士 | |
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dyke
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| n.堤，水坝，排水沟 | |
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den
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| n.兽穴；秘密地方；安静的小房间，私室 | |
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warping
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| n.翘面，扭曲，变形v.弄弯，变歪( warp的现在分词 )；使（行为等）不合情理，使乖戾， | |
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rusty
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| adj.生锈的；锈色的；荒废了的 | |
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bunk
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| n.(车、船等倚壁而设的)铺位；废话 | |
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cistern
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| n.贮水池 | |
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bass
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| n.男低音(歌手)；低音乐器；低音大提琴 | |
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14
mincing
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| adj.矫饰的；v.切碎；切碎 | |
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confidentially
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| ad.秘密地，悄悄地 | |
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16
giggle
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| n.痴笑，咯咯地笑；v.咯咯地笑着说 | |
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impudently
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loath
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| adj.不愿意的；勉强的 | |
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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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20
squint
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| v. 使变斜视眼, 斜视, 眯眼看, 偏移, 窥视; n. 斜视, 斜孔小窗; adj. 斜视的, 斜的 | |
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21
spout
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| v.喷出，涌出；滔滔不绝地讲；n.喷管；水柱 | |
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bonnet
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| n.无边女帽；童帽 | |
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cemetery
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| n.坟墓，墓地，坟场 | |
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24
dykes
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| abbr.diagonal wire cutters 斜线切割机n.堤( dyke的名词复数 )；坝；堰；沟 | |
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25
mighty
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| adj.强有力的；巨大的 | |
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shuddered
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| v.战栗( shudder的过去式和过去分词 )；发抖；（机器、车辆等）突然震动；颤动 | |
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nether
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| adj.下部的，下面的；n.阴间；下层社会 | |
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28
tinkle
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| vi.叮当作响；n.叮当声 | |
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29
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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30
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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pointed
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| adj.尖的，直截了当的 | |
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dour
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| adj.冷酷的，严厉的；（岩石）嶙峋的；顽强不屈 | |
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crestfallen
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| adj. 挫败的，失望的，沮丧的 | |
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despondently
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| adv.沮丧地，意志消沉地 | |
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35
magenta
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| n..紫红色（的染料）；adj.紫红色的 | |
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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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rabble
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| n.乌合之众，暴民；下等人 | |
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38
epithets
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| n.（表示性质、特征等的）词语( epithet的名词复数 ) | |
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39
disdained
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| 鄙视( disdain的过去式和过去分词 )； 不屑于做，不愿意做 | |
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40
succor
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| n.援助，帮助；v.给予帮助 | |
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41
jeer
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| vi.嘲弄，揶揄；vt.奚落；n.嘲笑，讥评 | |
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42
strutted
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| 趾高气扬地走，高视阔步( strut的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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43
mimicking
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| v.（尤指为了逗乐而）模仿( mimic的现在分词 )；酷似 | |
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44
onward
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| adj.向前的，前进的；adv.向前，前进，在先 | |
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45
defiantly
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| adv.挑战地，大胆对抗地 | |
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46
grandeur
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| n.伟大，崇高，宏伟，庄严，豪华 | |
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47
syne
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| adv.自彼时至此时，曾经 | |
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48
draught
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| n.拉，牵引，拖；一网（饮，吸，阵)；顿服药量，通风；v.起草，设计 | |
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49
warper
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| n.整经机，整经工 | |
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50
revolving
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| adj.旋转的，轮转式的；循环的v.（使）旋转( revolve的现在分词 )；细想 | |
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51
tattered
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| adj.破旧的，衣衫破的 | |
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52
revolved
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| v.（使）旋转( revolve的过去式和过去分词 )；细想 | |
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53
truthful
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| adj.真实的，说实话的，诚实的 | |
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54
debauch
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| v.使堕落，放纵 | |
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distress
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| n.苦恼，痛苦，不舒适；不幸；vt.使悲痛 | |
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56
monotonous
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| adj.单调的，一成不变的，使人厌倦的 | |
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57
sensational
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| adj.使人感动的，非常好的，轰动的，耸人听闻的 | |
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58
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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59
clattered
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| 发出咔哒声（clatter的过去式与过去分词形式） | |
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60
stilts
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| n.（支撑建筑物高出地面或水面的）桩子，支柱( stilt的名词复数 )；高跷 | |
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61
triumphant
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| adj.胜利的，成功的；狂欢的，喜悦的 | |
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62
smirk
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| n.得意地笑；v.傻笑；假笑着说 | |
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63
bide
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| v.忍耐；等候；住 | |
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64
concealing
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| v.隐藏，隐瞒，遮住( conceal的现在分词 ) | |
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elation
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| n.兴高采烈，洋洋得意 | |
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66
pretensions
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| 自称( pretension的名词复数 )； 自命不凡； 要求； 权力 | |
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67
thatcher
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| n.茅屋匠 | |
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68
herd
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| n.兽群，牧群；vt.使集中，把…赶在一起 | |
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denominations
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| n.宗派( denomination的名词复数 )；教派；面额；名称 | |
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