A hundred years ago night fell more seriously. It closed in on a countryside less peopled, on houses and hamlets more distant, and divided by greater risks of flood and field. The dark hours were longer and haunted by graver apprehensions2. Every journey had to be made on horses or behind them, roads were rough and miry, fords were plenty, bridges scarce. Sturdy rogues4 abounded5, and to double every peril6 it was still the habit of most men to drink deep. Few returned sober from market, fewer from fair or merry-making.
For many, therefore, the coming of night meant the coming of fear. Children, watching the great moths7 fluttering against the low ceiling, or round the rush-light that cast such gloomy shadows, thought that their elders would never come upstairs to bed. Lone8 women, quaking in remote dwellings9, remembered the gibbet where the treacherous10 inn-keeper still moulded, and fancied every creak the coming of a man in a crape mask. Thousands suffered nightly because the goodman lingered abroad, or the son was absent, and in many a window the light was set at dusk to guide the master by the pool. On market evenings women stole trembling down the lane that the sound of wheels might the sooner dispel11 their fears.
At Garth it was youth not age that first caught the alarm. For Josina's conscience troubled her, and before even Miss Peacock, most fidgety of old maids, had seen cause to fear, the girl was standing12 in the darkness before the door, listening and uneasy. The Squire was seldom late; it could not be that Clement13 had met him and there had been a--but no, Clement was not the man to raise his hand against his elder--the thought was dismissed as soon as formed. Yet why did not the Squire come? Lights began to shine through the casements14, she saw the candles brought into the dining-room, the darkness thickened about her, only the trunks of the nearer beeches15 gave back a gleam. And she felt that if anything had happened to him she could never forgive herself. Shivering, less with cold than with apprehension3, she peered down the drive. He had been later than this before, but then her conscience had been quiet, she had not deceived him, she had had nothing with which to reproach herself on his account.
Presently, "Josina, what are you doing there?" Miss Peacock cried. She had come to the open door and discovered the girl. She began to scold. "Come in this minute, child! What are you starving the house for, standing there?"
But Josina did not budge16. "He is very late," she said.
"Late? What nonsense! And what if he is late? What good can you do, standing out there? I declare one might suppose your father was one of those skimble-skambles that can't pass a tavern17 door, to hear you talk! And Thomas with him! Come in at once when I tell you! As if I should not be the first to cry out if anything were wrong. Late indeed--why, goodness gracious, I declare it's nearly eight. What can have become of him, child? And Calamy and those good-for-nothing girls warming their knees at the fire, and no more caring if their master is in the river than--Josina, do you hear? Do you know that your father is still out? Calamy!" ringing a hand-bell that stood on the table in the hall, "Calamy! Are you all asleep? Don't you know that your master is not in, and it is nearly eight?"
Calamy was the butler. A tall, lanthorn-jawed man, he would have looked lugubrious18 in the King's scarlet19 which he had once worn; in his professional black, or in his shirt sleeves, cleaning plate, he was melancholy20 itself. And his modes and manners were at least as mournful as his aspect--no man so sure as "Old Calamity21" to see the dark side of things or to put it before others. It was whispered that he had been a Dissenter22, and why the Squire, who hated a ranter as he hated the devil, had ever engaged him, much less kept him, was a puzzle to Garthmyle. That he had been his son's servant and had been with the boy when he died, might have seemed a sufficient reason, had the Squire been other than he was. But no one supposed that such a thing weighed with the old man--he was of too hard a grain. Yet at Garth, Calamy had lived for a score of years, and been suffered with a patience which might have stood to the credit of more reasonable men.
"Nearly eight!" Miss Peacock flung at him, and repeated her statement.
"We've put the dinner back, ma'am."
"Put the dinner back! And that's all you think of, when at any minute your master--oh, dear, dear, what can have happened to him?"
"Well, it's a dark night, ma'am, to be sure."
"Gracious goodness, can't I see that? If Thomas weren't with him----"
The butler shook his head. "Under notice, ma'am," he said. "I think the worst of Thomas. On a dark night, with Thomas----"
Miss Peacock gasped23.
"I should say my prayers, ma'am," the butler murmured softly.
Miss Peacock stared, aghast. "Under notice?" she cried. "Well, of all the--'deed, and I wish you were all under notice, if that is the best you've got to say."
"Hadn't you better," said Josina from the darkness outside, "send Fewtrell to meet him with a lanthorn?"
"And get my nose bitten off when your father comes home! La, bless me, I don't know what to do! And no one else to do a thing!"
"Send him, Calamy," said Josina.
Calamy retired24. Miss Peacock looked out, a shawl about her head. "Jos! Where are you?" she cried. "Come in at once, girl. Do you think I am going to be left alone, and the door open? Jos! Jos!"
But Josina was gone, groping her way down the drive. When Fewtrell followed with his lanthorn he came on her sitting on the bridge, and he got a rare start, thinking it was a ghost. "Lord A'mighty!" he cried as the light fell on her pale face. "Aren't you afraid to sit there by yourself, miss?"
But Josina was not afraid, and after a word or two he shambled away, the lanthorn swinging in his hand. The girl watched the light go bobbing along as far the highway fifty yards on, saw it travel to the left along the road, lost it for some moments, then marked it again, a faint blur25 of light, moving towards the village.
Presently it vanished and she was left alone with her fears. She strained her ears to catch the first sound of wheels. The stream murmured beneath her, a sick sheep coughed, the breeze whispered in the hedges, the cry of an owl26, thrice repeated, sank into silence. But that was all, and in the presence of the silent world about her, of the all-enveloping night, of the solemn stars shining as they had shone from eternity27, the girl knew herself infinitely28 helpless, without remedy against the stroke of impending29 fate. She recognized that lighted rooms and glowing fires and the indoor life did but deceive; that they did but blind the mind to the immensity of things, to the real issues, to life and death and eternity. Anguished30, she owned that a good conscience was the only refuge, and that she had it not. She had deceived her father, and it would be her fate to endure a lasting31 remorse32. At last, her eyes opened, she fancied that she detected behind the mask a father's face. But too late, for the bridge which he had crossed innumerable times, the drive, rough and rutted, yet the harbinger of home, which he had climbed from boyhood to age, the threshold which he had trodden so often as master--they would know him no more! At the thought she broke down and wept, feeling all its poignancy33, all its pitifulness, and finding for the moment no support in Clement, no recompense in a love which deceit and secrecy34 had tainted35.
Doubtless she would not have taken things so hardly had she not been overwrought; and, as it was, the first sound that reached her from the Garthmyle road brought her to her feet. A light showed, moving from that direction, travelling slowly through the darkness. It vanished, and she held her breath. It came into view again, and she groped her way forward until she stood in the road. The light was close at hand now, though viewed from the front it moved so little that her worst forebodings were confirmed. But now, now that she saw her fears justified36, the woman's fortitude37, that in enduring is so much greater than man's, came to her aid, and it was with a calmness that surprised herself that she awaited the slow procession, discerned by the lanthorn-light her father's huddled38 form, and in a trembling voice asked if he still lived.
"Yes, yes!" Arthur cried, and hastened to reassure39 her. "He will do yet, but he is hurt. Go back, Jos, and get his bed ready, and hot water, and some linen40. The doctor will be here in a minute."
His voice, firm and collected, struck the right note, and the girl answered to it bravely. She made no lamentation41, shed no tears--there would be time for tears later--but gathering42 up her skirts she sped up the drive, and before the carriage had passed the bridge she had given the alarm in the house. There, in a moment, all was confusion. Miss Peacock, whatever fears she had expressed, was ill prepared for the fact, and it was Josina, who, steadied by that half-hour of self-examination, stilled the outcry of the maids, gave the needful orders, and seconded Calamy in carrying them out, had candles placed on the stairs, and with her own hand brought out a stout43 chair. When the carriage, the lanthorn gleaming sombrely on the shining trunks, drew slowly out of the darkness, she was there with lights and brandy. For her the worst was over. The scared faces of the women, their stifled44 cries and confused hovering45, were but a background to her steady courage.
Still, even she yielded the first place to Arthur. Whatever pity or horror he had felt, he had had time to overcome, and to think both of the present and the future. And he rose to the occasion. He directed, arranged, and was himself the foremost worker. By the time Mr. Farmer, the village doctor, arrived, he had done much which had to be done. The Squire had been carried upstairs, and lay, breathing stertorously46, on his great four-post bed with the dingy47 drab curtains and the two watch-pockets at the head; and everything which could be of use had been brought to hand.
The doctor shut out the frightened maids and shut out Miss Peacock. But Arthur was only at the beginning of his resources. His nerve was good and he aided Farmer in his examination, while Jos, standing out of sight behind the curtain, calm but quivering in every nerve, handed to him or to Calamy what they needed. Even then, however, and while he was thus employed, Arthur found occasion to whisper a cheering word to the girl, to reassure her and give her hope. He forced her to take a glass of wine, and when Calamy, shaking his head, muttered that he had known a man to recover who had been worse hurt--but he was a strong young fellow--he damned the butler for an old fool, regardless of the fact that coming from Calamy this was a cheerful prognostic.
Presently he made her go downstairs. "Nothing more can be done now," said he. "The doctor thinks well of him so far. He and I will stay with him to-night. You must save yourself, Jos. You will be needed to-morrow."
He left the room with her, and as she would not go to bed he made her lie down on a couch, and covered her with a cloak. He had dropped the tone of patronage48, almost of persiflage49, which he had used to her of late, and he was kindness itself, behaving to her as a brother; so that she did not know how to be thankful enough for his presence, or for the relief from responsibility which it afforded. Afterwards, looking back on that long, strange night, during which lights burned in the rooms till dawn, and odd meals were served at odd times, and stealthy feet trod the stairs, and scared faces peeped in only to be withdrawn--looking back on that strange night, and its happenings, it seemed to her that without him she could not have lived through the hours.
In truth there was not much sleep for anyone. The village doctor, who lived in top-boots, and went his rounds on horse-back, and by old-fashioned people was called the apothecary50, could say nothing for certain; in the morning he might be able to do so. But in the morning--well, perhaps by night, when the patient came to himself, he might be able to form an opinion. To Arthur he was more candid51. The eye was beyond hope--it could not be saved, and he feared that the other eye was injured; and there was serious concussion52. He played with his fob seals and looked sagely53 over his gold-rimmed spectacles as he mouthed his phrases. Whether there was a fracture he could not say at present.
He had seen in a long life and a country practice many such cases, and was skilful54 in treating them. But--no active measures. "Dr. Quiet," he said, "Dr. Quiet, the best of the faculty55, my dear. If he does not always effect a cure, he makes no mistakes. We must leave it to him."
So morning came, and passed, and noon; and still nothing more could be done. With the afternoon reaction set in; the house resigned itself to rest. Two or three stole away to sleep. Arthur dozed56 in an arm-chair. The clock struck with abnormal clearness, the cluck of a hen in the yard was heard in the attics57. So the hours passed until sunset surprised a yawning house, and in the parlor58 they pressed one another to eat, and in the kitchen unusual luxuries were consumed with a ghoulish enjoyment59, and no fear of the housekeeper60. And still Farmer could add nothing. They must wait and hope. Dr. Quiet! He praised him afresh in the same words.
Some hours earlier, and before Josina, after much scolding by Miss Peacock, had retired to her room to lie down, Arthur had told his story.
He did not go into details. "It would only shock you, Jos," he said. "It was Thomas, of course, and I hope to heaven he'll swing for it. I suppose he knew that your father was carrying a large sum, and he must have struck him, possibly as he turned to say something, and then thrown him out. We must set the hue61 and cry after him, but Clement will see to that. It was lucky that he turned up when he did."
She drew a sharp breath; this was the first she had heard of Clement. And in her surprise "Clement?" she exclaimed. Then, covering her confusion as well as she could, "Mr. Ovington? Do you mean--he was there, Arthur?"
"By good luck he was, just when he was wanted. Poor chap. I can tell you it knocked him fairly down. All the same, I don't know what might not have happened if he had not come up. I sent him for Farmer, and it saved time."
"I did not know that he had been there," she murmured, too self-conscious to ask further questions.
"Well, you wouldn't, of course. He'd been fishing, I fancy, and came along just when it made all the difference. I don't know what I should have done without him."
"And Thomas? You are sure that it was Thomas? What became of him?"
"He made off across the fields. It was dark and useless to follow him--we had other things to think of, as you may imagine. Ten to one he has made for Manchester, but Clement will see to that. Oh, we'll have him! But there, I'll not tell you any more, Jos. You look ill as it is, and it will only spoil your sleep. Do you go upstairs and lie down, or you will never be able to go on." And, Miss Peacock fussily62 seconding his advice, Jos consented and went.
Arthur's manner had been kind, and Jos thought him kind. A brother could not have been more anxious to spare her unpleasant details. But, told as he had told it, the story left her under the impression that Clement's part had been secondary only, and slight, and that if there were a person to whom she owed the preservation63 of her father's life, it was Arthur, and Arthur only. Which she was the more ready to believe, in view of the masterly way in which he had managed all at the house, had taken the upper hand in all, and saved her, and spared her.
Yet Arthur had been careful to state no facts which could be contradicted by evidence, should the whole come out--at an inquest, for instance. He had foreseen the possibility of that, and had been careful. Indeed, it was with that in his mind that he had--well, that he had not gone into details.
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1
squire
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| n.护卫, 侍从, 乡绅 | |
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apprehensions
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| 疑惧 | |
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apprehension
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| n.理解，领悟；逮捕，拘捕；忧虑 | |
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4
rogues
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| n.流氓( rogue的名词复数 )；无赖；调皮捣蛋的人；离群的野兽 | |
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abounded
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| v.大量存在，充满，富于( abound的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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peril
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| n.(严重的)危险；危险的事物 | |
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7
moths
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| n.蛾( moth的名词复数 ) | |
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lone
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| adj.孤寂的，单独的；唯一的 | |
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dwellings
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| n.住处，处所( dwelling的名词复数 ) | |
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treacherous
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| adj.不可靠的，有暗藏的危险的；adj.背叛的，背信弃义的 | |
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dispel
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| vt.驱走，驱散，消除 | |
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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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clement
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| adj.仁慈的；温和的 | |
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casements
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| n.窗扉( casement的名词复数 ) | |
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15
beeches
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| n.山毛榉( beech的名词复数 )；山毛榉木材 | |
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budge
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| v.移动一点儿；改变立场 | |
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tavern
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| n.小旅馆，客栈；小酒店 | |
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lugubrious
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| adj.悲哀的，忧郁的 | |
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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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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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calamity
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| n.灾害，祸患，不幸事件 | |
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dissenter
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| n.反对者 | |
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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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retired
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| adj.隐退的，退休的，退役的 | |
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blur
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| n.模糊不清的事物；vt.使模糊，使看不清楚 | |
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owl
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| n.猫头鹰，枭 | |
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eternity
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| n.不朽，来世；永恒，无穷 | |
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infinitely
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| adv.无限地，无穷地 | |
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impending
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| a.imminent, about to come or happen | |
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anguished
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| adj.极其痛苦的v.使极度痛苦(anguish的过去式) | |
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lasting
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| adj.永久的，永恒的；vbl.持续，维持 | |
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remorse
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| n.痛恨，悔恨，自责 | |
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poignancy
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| n.辛酸事，尖锐 | |
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secrecy
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| n.秘密，保密，隐蔽 | |
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tainted
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| adj.腐坏的；污染的；沾污的；感染的v.使变质( taint的过去式和过去分词 )；使污染；败坏；被污染，腐坏，败坏 | |
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justified
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| a.正当的，有理的 | |
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fortitude
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| n.坚忍不拔；刚毅 | |
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huddled
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| 挤在一起（huddle的过去式与过去分词形式） | |
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reassure
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| v.使放心，使消除疑虑 | |
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linen
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| n.亚麻布，亚麻线，亚麻制品；adj.亚麻布制的，亚麻的 | |
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41
lamentation
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| n.悲叹，哀悼 | |
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gathering
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| n.集会，聚会，聚集 | |
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44
stifled
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| （使）窒息， （使）窒闷( stifle的过去式和过去分词 )； 镇压，遏制； 堵 | |
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45
hovering
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| 鸟( hover的现在分词 )； 靠近（某事物）； （人）徘徊； 犹豫 | |
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46
stertorously
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dingy
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| adj.昏暗的，肮脏的 | |
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patronage
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| n.赞助，支援，援助；光顾，捧场 | |
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49
persiflage
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| n.戏弄；挖苦 | |
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apothecary
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| n.药剂师 | |
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51
candid
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| adj.公正的，正直的；坦率的 | |
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concussion
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| n.脑震荡；震动 | |
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sagely
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| adv. 贤能地，贤明地 | |
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skilful
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| (=skillful)adj.灵巧的，熟练的 | |
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faculty
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| n.才能；学院，系；(学院或系的)全体教学人员 | |
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56
dozed
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| v.打盹儿，打瞌睡( doze的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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attics
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| n. 阁楼 | |
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parlor
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| n.店铺，营业室；会客室，客厅 | |
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enjoyment
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| n.乐趣；享有；享用 | |
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housekeeper
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| n.管理家务的主妇，女管家 | |
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hue
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| n.色度；色调；样子 | |
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fussily
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| adv.无事空扰地，大惊小怪地，小题大做地 | |
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preservation
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| n.保护，维护，保存，保留，保持 | |
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