Thus uneventfully had passed the month of September. October was now in, and the sixth rapidly approaching. What with the uncertainty10 prevailing11, the preparation for the examination, which on that day would take place, and a little private matter, upon which some few were entering, the college school had just then a busy and exciting time of it.
Stephen Bywater sat in one of the niches13 of the cloisters14, a pile of books by his side. Around him, in various attitudes, were gathered seven of the most troublesome of the tribe—Pierce senior, George Brittle15, Tod Yorke, Fred Berkeley, Bill Simms, Mark Galloway, and Hurst, who had now left the choir16, but not the school. They were hatching mischief17. Twilight18 overhung the cloisters; the autumn evenings were growing long, and this was a gloomy one. Half an hour, at the very least, had the boys been gathered there since afternoon school, holding a council of war in covert19 tones.
“Paid out he shall be, by hook or by crook,” continued Stephen Bywater, who appeared to be president—if talking more than his confrères constitutes one. “The worst is, how is it to be done? One can’t wallop him.”
“Not wallop him!” repeated Pierce senior, who was a badly disposed boy, as well as a mischievous20 one. “Why not, pray?”
“Not to any good,” said Bywater. “I can’t, with that delicate face of his. It’s like beating a girl.”
“That’s true,” assented21 Hurst. “No, it won’t do to go in for beating; might break his bones, or something. I can’t think what’s the good of those delicate ones putting themselves into a school of this sort. A parson’s is the place for them; eight gentlemanly pupils, treated as a private family, with a mild usher22, and a lady to teach the piano.”
The council burst into a laugh at Hurst’s mocking tones, and Pierce senior interrupted it.
“I don’t see why he shouldn’t—”
“Say she, Pierce,” corrected Mark Galloway.
“She, then. I don’t see why she shouldn’t get a beating if she deserves it; it will teach her not to try her tricks on again. Let her be delicate; she’ll feel it the more.”
“It’s all bosh about his being delicate. She’s not,” vehemently23 interrupted Tod Yorke, somewhat perplexed24, in his hurry, with the genders25. “Charley Channing’s no more delicate than we are. It’s all in the look. As good say that detestable little villain26, Boulter, is delicate, because he has yellow curls. I vote for the beating.”
“I’ll vote you out of the business, if you show insubordination, Mr. Tod,” cried Bywater. “We’ll pay out Miss Charley in some way, but it shan’t be by beating him.”
“Couldn’t we lock him up in the cloisters, as we locked up Ketch, and that lot; and leave him there all night?” proposed Berkeley.
“But there’d be getting the keys?” debated Mark Galloway.
“As if we couldn’t get the keys if we wanted them!” scoffingly27 retorted Bywater. “We did old Ketch the other time, and we could do him again. That would not serve the young one out, locking him up in the cloisters.”
“Wouldn’t it, though!” said Tod Yorke. “He’d be dead of fright before morning, he’s so mortally afraid of ghosts.”
“Afraid of what?” cried Bywater.
“Of ghosts. He’s a regular coward about them. He dare not go to bed in the dark for fear of their coming to him. He’d rather have five and twenty pages of Virgil to do, than he’d be left alone after nightfall.”
The notion so tickled28 Bywater, that he laughed till he was hoarse29. Bywater could not understand being afraid of “ghosts.” Had Bywater met a whole army of ghosts, the encounter would only have afforded him pleasure.
“There never was a ghost seen yet, as long as any one can remember,” cried he, when he came out of his laughter. “I’d sooner believe in Gulliver’s travels, than I’d believe in ghosts. What a donkey you are, Tod Yorke!”
“It’s Charley Channing that’s the donkey; not me,” cried Tod, fiercely. “I tell you, if we locked him up here for a night, we should find him dead in the morning, when we came to let him out. Let’s do it.”
“What, to find him dead in the morning!” exclaimed Hurst. “You are a nice one, Tod!”
“Oh, well, I don’t mean altogether dead, you know,” acknowledged Tod. “But he’d have had a mortal night of it! All his clothes gummed together from fright, I’ll lay.”
“I don’t think it would do,” deliberated Bywater. “A whole night—twelve hours, that would be—and in a fright all the time, if he is frightened. Look here! I have heard of folks losing their wits through a thing of the sort.”
“I won’t go in for anything of the kind,” said Hurst. “Charley’s not a bad lot, and he shan’t be harmed. A bit of a fright, or a bit of a whacking30, not too much of either; that’ll be the thing for Miss Channing.”
“Tod Yorke, who told you he was afraid of ghosts?” demanded Bywater.
“Oh, I know it,” said Tod. “Annabel Channing was telling my sisters about it, for one thing: but I knew it before. We had a servant once who told us so, she had lived at the Channings’. Some nurse frightened him when he was a youngster, and they have never been able to get the fear out of him since.”
“What a precious soft youngster he must have been!” said Mr. Bywater.
“She used to get a ghost and dress it up and show it off to Miss Charley—”
“Get a ghost, Tod?”
“Bother! you know what I mean,” said Tod, testily31. “Get a broom or something of that sort, and dress it up with a mask and wings: and he is as scared over it now as he ever was. I don’t care what you say.”
“Look here!” exclaimed Bywater, starting from his niche12, as a bright idea occurred to him. “Let one of us personate a ghost, and appear to him! That would be glorious! It would give him a precious good fright for the time, and no harm done.”
If the boys had suddenly found the philosopher’s stone, it could scarcely have afforded them so much pleasure as did this idea. It was received with subdued32 shouts of approbation34: the only murmur35 of dissent36 to be heard was from Pierce senior. Pierce grumbled37 that it would not be “half serving him out.”
“Yes, it will,” said Bywater. “Pierce senior shall be the ghost: he tops us all by a head.”
“Hurst is as tall as Pierce senior.”
“That he is not,” interrupted Pierce senior, who was considerably38 mollified at the honour being awarded to him. “Hurst is not much above the tips of my ears. Besides, Hurst is fat; and you never saw a fat ghost yet.”
“Have you seen many ghosts, Pierce?” mocked Bywater.
“A few; in pictures. Wretched old scarecrows they always are, with a cadaverous face and lantern jaws39.”
“That’s the reason you’ll do so well, Pierce,” said Bywater. “You are as thin as a French herring, you know, with a yard and a half of throat.”
Pierce received the doubtful compliment flatteringly, absorbed in the fine vista40 of mischief opening before him. “How shall I get myself up, Bywater?” asked he, complaisantly. “With horns and a tail?”
“Horns and a tail be bothered!” returned Hurst. “It must be like a real ghost, all white and ghastly.”
“Of course it must,” acquiesced41 Bywater.
“I know a boy in our village that they served out like that,” interposed Bill Simms, who was a country lad, and boarded in Helstonleigh. “They got a great big turnip42, and scooped43 it out and made it into a man’s face, and put a light inside, and stuck it on a post where he had to pass at night. He was so frightened that he died.”
“Cram!” ejaculated Tod Yorke.
“He did, though,” repeated Simms. “They knew him before for an awful little coward, and they did it to have some fun out of him. He didn’t say anything at the time; didn’t scream, or anything of that sort; but after he got home he was taken ill, and the next day he died. My father was one of the jury on the inquest. He was a little chap with no father or mother—a plough-boy.”
“The best thing, if you want to make a ghost,” said Tod Yorke, “is to get a tin plate full of salt and gin, and set it alight, and wrap yourself round with a sheet, and hold the plate so that the flame lights up your face. You never saw anything so ghastly. Scooped-out turnips44 are all bosh!”
“I could bring a sheet off my bed,” said Bywater. “Thrown over my arm, they’d think at home I was bringing out my surplice. And if—”
A wheezing45 and coughing and clanking of keys interrupted the proceedings46. It was Mr. Ketch, coming to lock up the cloisters. As the boys had no wish to be fastened in, themselves, they gathered up their books, and waited in silence till the porter was close upon them. Then, with a sudden war-whoop, they sprang past him, very nearly startling the old man out of his senses, and calling forth47 from him a shower of hard words.
The above conversation, puerile48 and school-boyish as it may seem, was destined49 to lead to results all too important; otherwise it would not have been related here. You very likely may have discovered, ere this, that this story of the Helstonleigh College boys is not merely a work of imagination, but taken from facts of real life. Had you been in the cloisters that night with the boys—and you might have been—and heard Master William Simms, who was the son of a wealthy farmer, tell the tale of a boy’s being frightened to death, you would have known it to be a true one, if you possessed50 any knowledge of the annals of the neighbourhood. In like manner, the project they were getting up to frighten Charles Channing, and Charles’s unfortunate propensity51 to be frightened, are strictly52 true.
Master Tod Yorke’s account of what had imbued53 his mind with this fear, was a tolerably correct one. Charley was somewhat troublesome and fractious as a young child, and the wicked nurse girl who attended upon him would dress up frightful54 figures to terrify him into quietness. She might not have been able to accomplish this without detection, but that Mrs. Channing was at that time debarred from the active superintendence of her household. When Charley was about two years old she fell into ill health, and for eighteen months was almost entirely55 confined to her room. Judith was much engaged with her mistress and with household matters, and the baby, as Charley was still called, was chiefly left to the mercies of the nurse. Not content with frightening him practically, she instilled56 into his young imagination the most pernicious stories of ghosts, dreams, and similar absurdities57. But, foolish as we know them to be, they are not the less horrible to a child’s vivid imagination. At two, or three, or four years old, it is eagerly opening to impressions; and things, solemnly related by a mother or a nurse, become impressed upon it almost as with gospel truth. Let the fears once be excited in this terrible way, and not a whole lifetime can finally eradicate58 the evil. I would rather a nurse broke one of my children’s limbs, than thus poison its fair young mind.
In process of time the girl’s work was discovered—discovered by Judith. But the mischief was done. You may wonder that Mrs. Channing should not have been the first to discover it; or that it could have escaped her notice at all, for she had the child with her often for his early religious instruction; but, one of the worst phases of this state of things is, the shrinking tenacity59 with which the victim buries the fears within his own breast. He dare not tell his parents; he is taught not; and taught by fear. It may not have been your misfortune to meet with a case of this sort; I hope you never will. Mrs. Channing would observe that the child would often shudder60, as with terror, and cling to her in an unaccountable manner; but, having no suspicion of the evil, she attributed it to a sensitive, timid temperament61. “What is it, my little Charley?” she would say. But Charley would only bury his face the closer, and keep silence. When Martha—that was the girl’s name: not the same Martha who was now living at Lady Augusta’s—came for him, he would go with her willingly, cordially. It was not her he feared. On the contrary, he was attached to her; she had taught him to be so; and he looked upon her as a protector from those awful ghosts and goblins.
Well, the thing was in time discovered, but the mischief, I say, was done. It could not be eradicated62. Charles Channing’s judgment63 and good sense told him that all those bygone terrors were only tricks of that wretched Martha’s: but, overcome the fear, he could not. All consideration was shown to him; he was never scolded for it, never ridiculed64; his brothers and sisters observed to him entire silence upon the subject—even Annabel; and Mr. and Mrs. Channing had done reasoning lovingly with him now. It is not argument that will avail in a case like this. In the broad light of day, Charley could be very brave; would laugh at such tales with the best of them; but when night came, and he was left alone—if he ever was left alone—then all the old terror rose up again, and his frame would shake, and he would throw himself on the bed or on the floor, and hide his face; afraid of the darkness, and of what he might see in it. He was as utterly66 unable to prevent or subdue33 this fear, as he was to prevent his breathing. He knew it, in the sunny morning light, to be a foolish fear, utterly without reason: but, in the lonely night, there it came again, and he could not combat it.
Thus, it is easy to understand that the very worst subject for a ghost trick to be played upon, was Charley Channing. It was, however, going to be done. The defect—for it really is a defect—had never transpired67 to the College school, who would not have spared their ridicule65, or spared Charley. Reared, in that point, under happier auspices68, they could have given nothing but utter ridicule to the fear. Chattering69 Annabel, in her thoughtless communications to Caroline and Fanny Yorke, had not bargained for their reaching the ears of Tod; and Tod, when the report did reach his ears, remembered to have heard the tale before; until then it had escaped his memory.
Charley had got into hot water with some of the boys. Bywater had been owing him a grudge70 for weeks, on account of Charley’s persistent71 silence touching72 what he had seen the day the surplice was inked; and now there arose another grudge on Bywater’s score, and also on that of others. There is not space to enter into the particulars of the affair; it is sufficient to say that some underhand work, touching cribs, came to the knowledge of one of the under-masters—and came to him through Charley Channing.
Not that Charley went, open-mouthed, and told; there was nothing of that disreputable character—which the school held in especial dislike—the sneak73, about Charles Channing. Charley would have bitten his tongue out first. By an unfortunate accident Charles was pinned by the master, and questioned; and he had no resource but to speak out. In honour, in truth, he could not do otherwise; but, the consequence was—punishment to the boys; and they turned against him. Schoolboys are not famous for being swayed by the rules of strict justice; and they forgot to remember that in Charles Channing’s place they would (at any rate, most of them) have felt bound to do the same. They visited the accident upon him, and were determined—as you have heard them express it in their own phrase—to “serve him out.”
Leaving this decision to fructify74, let us turn to Constance. Lady Augusta Yorke—good-hearted in the main, liberal natured, swayed by every impulse as the wind—had been particularly kind to Constance and Annabel Channing during the absence of their mother. Evening after evening she would insist upon their spending at her house, Hamish—one of Lady Augusta’s lasting75 favourites, probably from his good looks—being pressed into the visit with them by my lady. Hamish was nothing loth. He had given up indiscriminate evening visiting; and, since the coolness which had arisen in the manner of Mr. Huntley, Hamish did not choose to go much to Mr. Huntley’s, where he had been a pretty constant visitor before; and he found his evenings hang somewhat heavily on his hands. Thus Constance saw a good deal of the Earl of Carrick; or, it may be more to the purpose to say, the earl saw a good deal of her.
For the earl grew to like her very much indeed. He grew to think that if she would only consent to become his wife, he should be the happiest man in ould Ireland; and one day, impulsive in his actions as was ever Lady Augusta, he told Constance so, in that lady’s presence.
Constance—much as we may regret to hear it of her—behaved in by no means a dignified76 manner. She laughed over it. When brought to understand, which took some little time, that she was actually paid that high compliment, she laughed in the earl’s face. He was as old as her father; and Constance had certainly regarded him much more in the light of a father than a husband.
“I do beg your pardon, Lord Carrick,” she said, apologetically “but I think you must be laughing at me.”
“Laughing at ye!” said the earl. “It’s not I that would do that. I’d like ye to be Countess of Carrick to-morrow, me dear, if you can only get over me fifty years and me grey hair. Here’s me sister—she knows that I’d like to have ye. It’s you that are laughing at me, Miss Constance; at me ould locks.”
“No, indeed, indeed it is not that,” said Constance, while Lady Augusta sat with an impassive countenance4. “I don’t know why I laughed. It so took me by surprise; that was why, I think. Please do not say any more about it, Lord Carrick.”
“Ye could not like me as well as ye like William Yorke? Is that it, child?”
Constance grew crimson77. Like him as she liked William Yorke!
“Ye’re the nicest girl I have seen since Kathleen Blake,” resumed the straightforward78, simple earl. “She promised to have me; she said she liked me grey hair better than brown, and me fifty years better than thirty, but, while I was putting the place a bit in order for her, she went and married a young Englishman. Did ye ever see him, Augusta?”—turning to his sister. “He is a baronet. He came somewhere from these parts.”
Lady Augusta intimated stiffly that she had not the honour of the baronet’s acquaintance. She thought her brother was making a simpleton of himself, and had a great mind to tell him so.
“And since Kathleen Blake went over to the enemy, I have not seen anybody that I’d care to look twice at, till I came here and saw you, Miss Constance,” resumed the earl. “And if ye can only get to overlook the natural impediments on me side, and not mind me being poor, I’d be delighted, me dear, if ye’d say the word.”
“You are very kind, very generous, Lord Carrick,” said Constance, with an impulse of feeling; “but I can only beg you never to ask me such a thing again.”
“Ah! well, child, I see ye’re in earnest,” good-naturedly responded the earl, as he gave it up. “I was afraid ye’d only laugh at me. I knew I was too old.”
And that was the beginning and the ending of Lord Carrick’s wooing. Scarcely worth recording79, you will think. But there was a reason for doing so.
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1
decided
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| adj.决定了的，坚决的；明显的，明确的 | |
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promotion
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| n.提升，晋级；促销，宣传 | |
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countenanced
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| v.支持，赞同，批准( countenance的过去式 ) | |
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countenance
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| n.脸色，面容；面部表情；vt.支持，赞同 | |
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cabal
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| n.政治阴谋小集团 | |
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espousing
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| v.（决定）支持，拥护（目标、主张等）( espouse的现在分词 ) | |
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unbearable
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| adj.不能容忍的；忍受不住的 | |
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guild
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| n.行会，同业公会，协会 | |
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impulsive
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| adj.冲动的，刺激的；有推动力的 | |
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uncertainty
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| n.易变，靠不住，不确知，不确定的事物 | |
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prevailing
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| adj.盛行的；占优势的；主要的 | |
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niche
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| n.壁龛；合适的职务(环境、位置等) | |
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niches
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| 壁龛( niche的名词复数 )； 合适的位置[工作等]； （产品的）商机； 生态位（一个生物所占据的生境的最小单位） | |
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cloisters
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| n.（学院、修道院、教堂等建筑的）走廊( cloister的名词复数 )；回廊；修道院的生活；隐居v.隐退，使与世隔绝( cloister的第三人称单数 ) | |
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brittle
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| adj.易碎的；脆弱的；冷淡的；(声音)尖利的 | |
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choir
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| n.唱诗班，唱诗班的席位，合唱团，舞蹈团；v.合唱 | |
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mischief
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| n.损害，伤害，危害；恶作剧，捣蛋，胡闹 | |
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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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covert
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| adj.隐藏的；暗地里的 | |
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mischievous
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| adj.调皮的，恶作剧的，有害的，伤人的 | |
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assented
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| 同意，赞成( assent的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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usher
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| n.带位员，招待员；vt.引导，护送；vi.做招待，担任引座员 | |
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vehemently
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perplexed
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| adj.不知所措的 | |
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genders
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| n.性某些语言的（阳性、阴性和中性，不同的性有不同的词尾等）( gender的名词复数 )；性别；某些语言的（名词、代词和形容词）性的区分 | |
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villain
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| n.反派演员，反面人物；恶棍；问题的起因 | |
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scoffingly
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| 带冷笑地 | |
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tickled
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| （使）发痒( tickle的过去式和过去分词 )； （使）愉快，逗乐 | |
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hoarse
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| adj.嘶哑的，沙哑的 | |
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whacking
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| adj.（用于强调）巨大的v.重击，使劲打( whack的现在分词 ) | |
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testily
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| adv. 易怒地, 暴躁地 | |
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subdued
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| adj. 屈服的，柔和的，减弱的 动词subdue的过去式和过去分词 | |
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subdue
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| vt.制服，使顺从，征服；抑制，克制 | |
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approbation
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| n.称赞；认可 | |
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murmur
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| n.低语，低声的怨言；v.低语，低声而言 | |
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dissent
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| n./v.不同意，持异议 | |
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grumbled
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| 抱怨( grumble的过去式和过去分词 )； 发牢骚； 咕哝； 发哼声 | |
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considerably
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| adv.极大地；相当大地；在很大程度上 | |
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jaws
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| n.口部；嘴 | |
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vista
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| n.远景，深景，展望，回想 | |
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acquiesced
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| v.默认，默许( acquiesce的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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turnip
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| n.萝卜，芜菁 | |
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scooped
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| v.抢先报道( scoop的过去式和过去分词 )；（敏捷地）抱起；抢先获得；用铲[勺]等挖（洞等） | |
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turnips
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| 芜青( turnip的名词复数 )； 芜菁块根； 芜菁甘蓝块根； 怀表 | |
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wheezing
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| v.喘息，发出呼哧呼哧的喘息声( wheeze的现在分词 )；哮鸣 | |
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proceedings
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| n.进程，过程，议程；诉讼(程序)；公报 | |
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forth
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| adv.向前；向外，往外 | |
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puerile
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| adj.幼稚的，儿童的 | |
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destined
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| adj.命中注定的；(for)以…为目的地的 | |
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possessed
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| adj.疯狂的；拥有的，占有的 | |
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propensity
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| n.倾向；习性 | |
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strictly
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| adv.严厉地，严格地；严密地 | |
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imbued
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| v.使（某人/某事）充满或激起（感情等）( imbue的过去式和过去分词 )；使充满；灌输；激发（强烈感情或品质等） | |
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frightful
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| adj.可怕的；讨厌的 | |
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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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instilled
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| v.逐渐使某人获得（某种可取的品质），逐步灌输( instill的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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absurdities
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| n.极端无理性( absurdity的名词复数 )；荒谬；谬论；荒谬的行为 | |
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eradicate
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| v.根除，消灭，杜绝 | |
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tenacity
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| n.坚韧 | |
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shudder
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| v.战粟，震动，剧烈地摇晃；n.战粟，抖动 | |
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temperament
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| n.气质，性格，性情 | |
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eradicated
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| 画着根的 | |
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judgment
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| n.审判；判断力，识别力，看法，意见 | |
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ridiculed
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| v.嘲笑，嘲弄，奚落( ridicule的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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ridicule
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| v.讥讽，挖苦；n.嘲弄 | |
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utterly
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| adv.完全地，绝对地 | |
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transpired
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| （事实，秘密等）被人知道( transpire的过去式和过去分词 )； 泄露； 显露； 发生 | |
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auspices
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| n.资助，赞助 | |
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chattering
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| n. （机器振动发出的）咔嗒声，(鸟等)鸣，啁啾 adj. 喋喋不休的，啾啾声的 动词chatter的现在分词形式 | |
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grudge
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| n.不满，怨恨，妒嫉；vt.勉强给，不情愿做 | |
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persistent
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| adj.坚持不懈的，执意的；持续的 | |
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touching
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| adj.动人的，使人感伤的 | |
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sneak
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| vt.潜行(隐藏,填石缝)；偷偷摸摸做；n.潜行；adj.暗中进行 | |
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fructify
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| v.结果实；使土地肥沃 | |
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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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dignified
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| a.可敬的，高贵的 | |
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crimson
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| n./adj.深(绯)红色(的)；vi.脸变绯红色 | |
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straightforward
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| adj.正直的，坦率的；易懂的，简单的 | |
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recording
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| n.录音，记录 | |
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