Indorsed as follows: “Reply from Sir Richard, addressed to Farleigh & Halford.”
“Your courteous1 letter has been forwarded to my house in the country.
“I really regret that you should have thought it necessary to apologize for troubling me. Your past kindness to the unhappy Mrs. Evelin gives you a friendly claim on me which I gladly recognize—as you shall soon see.
“‘The extraordinary story,’ as you very naturally call it, is nevertheless true. I am the only person now at your disposal who can speak as an eye-witness of the events.
“In the first place I must tell you that the dreadful intelligence, received from New Zealand, had an effect on Lord Howel Beaucourt which shocked his friends and inexpressibly distressed3 his admirable wife. I can only describe him, at that time, as a man struck down in mind and body alike.
“Lady Howel was unremitting in her efforts to console him. He was thankful and gentle. It was true that no complaint could be made of him. It was equally true that no change for the better rewarded the devotion of his wife.
“The state of feeling which this implied imbittered the disappointment that Lady Howel naturally felt. As some relief to her overburdened mind, she associated herself with the work of mercy, carried on under the superintendence of the rector of the parish. I thought he was wrong in permitting a woman, at her advanced time of life, to run the risk encountered in visiting the sick and suffering poor at their own dwelling-places. Circumstances, however, failed to justify4 my dread2 of the perilous5 influences of infection and foul6 air. The one untoward7 event that happened, seemed to be too trifling8 to afford any cause for anxiety. Lady Howel caught cold.
“Unhappily, she treated that apparently9 trivial accident with indifference10. Her husband tried in vain to persuade her to remain at home. On one of her charitable visits she was overtaken by a heavy fall of rain; and a shivering fit seized her on returning to the house. At her age the results were serious. A bronchial attack followed. In a week more, the dearest and best of women had left us nothing to love but the memory of the dead.
“Her last words were faintly whispered to me in her husband’s presence: ‘Take care of him,’ the dying woman said, ‘when I am gone.’
“No effort of mine to be worthy11 of that sacred trust was left untried. How could I hope to succeed where she had failed? My house in London and my house in the country were both open to Beaucourt; I entreated12 him to live with me, or (if he preferred it) to be my guest for a short time only, or (if he wished to be alone) to choose the place of abode13 which he liked best for his solitary14 retreat. With sincere expressions of gratitude15, his inflexible16 despair refused my proposals.
“In one of the ancient ‘Inns,’ built centuries since for the legal societies of London, he secluded17 himself from friends and acquaintances alike. One by one, they were driven from his dreary18 chambers19 by a reception which admitted them with patient resignation and held out little encouragement to return. After an interval20 of no great length, I was the last of his friends who intruded21 on his solitude22.
“Poor Lady Howel’s will (excepting some special legacies) had left her fortune to me in trust, on certain conditions with which it is needless to trouble you. Beaucourt’s resolution not to touch a farthing of his dead wife’s money laid a heavy responsibility on my shoulders; the burden being ere long increased by forebodings which alarmed me on the subject of his health.
“He devoted23 himself to the reading of old books, treating (as I was told) of that branch of useless knowledge generally described as ‘occult science.’ These unwholesome studies so absorbed him, that he remained shut up in his badly ventilated chambers for weeks together, without once breathing the outer air even for a few minutes. Such defiance24 of the ordinary laws of nature as this could end but in one way; his health steadily25 declined and feverish26 symptoms showed themselves. The doctor said plainly, ‘There is no chance for him if he stays in this place.’
“Once more he refused to be removed to my London house. The development of the fever, he reminded me, might lead to consequences dangerous to me and to my household. He had heard of one of the great London hospitals, which reserved certain rooms for the occupation of persons capable of paying for the medical care bestowed27 on them. If he were to be removed at all, to that hospital he would go. Many advantages, and no objections of importance, were presented by this course of proceeding28. We conveyed him to the hospital without a moment’s loss of time.
“When I think of the dreadful illness that followed, and when I recall the days of unrelieved suspense29 passed at the bedside, I have not courage enough to dwell on this part of my story. Besides, you know already that Beaucourt recovered—or, as I might more correctly describe it, that he was snatched back to life when the grasp of death was on him. Of this happier period of his illness I have something to say which may surprise and interest you.
“On one of the earlier days of his convalescence30 my visit to him was paid later than usual. A matter of importance, neglected while he was in danger, had obliged me to leave town for a few days, after there was nothing to be feared. Returning, I had missed the train which would have brought me to London in better time.
“My appearance evidently produced in Beaucourt a keen feeling of relief. He requested the day nurse, waiting in the room, to leave us by ourselves.
“‘I was afraid you might not have come to me to-day,’ he said. ‘My last moments would have been imbittered, my friend, by your absence.’
“‘Are you anticipating your death,’ I asked, ‘at the very time when the doctors answer for your life?’
“‘The doctors have not seen her,’ he said; ‘I saw her last night.’
“‘Of whom are you speaking?’
“‘Of my lost angel, who perished miserably31 in New Zealand. Twice her spirit has appeared to me. I shall see her for the third time, tonight; I shall follow her to the better world.’
“Had the delirium32 of the worst time of the fever taken possession of him again? In unutterable dread of a relapse, I took his hand. The skin was cool. I laid my fingers on his pulse. It was beating calmly.
“‘You think I am wandering in my mind,’ he broke out. ‘Stay here tonight—I command you, stay!—and see her as I have seen her.’
“I quieted him by promising33 to do what he had asked of me. He had still one more condition to insist on.
“‘I won’t be laughed at,’ he said. ‘Promise that you will not repeat to any living creature what I have just told you.’
“My promise satisfied him. He wearily closed his eyes. In a few minutes more his poor weak body was in peaceful repose34.
“The day-nurse returned, and remained with us later than usual. Twilight35 melted into darkness. The room was obscurely lit by a shaded lamp, placed behind a screen that kept the sun out of the sick man’s eyes in the daytime.
“‘Are we alone?’ Beaucourt asked.
“‘Yes.’
“‘Watch the door.’
“‘Why?’
“‘You will see her on the threshold.’
“As he said those words the door slowly opened. In the dim light I could only discern at first the figure of a woman. She slowly advanced toward me. I saw the familiar face in shadow; the eyes were large and faintly luminous—the eyes of Mrs. Evelin.
“The wild words spoken to me by Beaucourt, the stillness and the obscurity in the room, had their effect, I suppose, on my imagination. You will think me a poor creature when I confess it. For the moment I did assuredly feel a thrill of superstitious36 terror.
“My delusion37 was dispelled38 by a change in her face. Its natural expression of surprise, when she saw me, set my mind free to feel the delight inspired by the discovery that she was a living woman. I should have spoken to her if she had not stopped me by a gesture.
“Beaucourt’s voice broke the silence. ‘Ministering Spirit!’ he said, ‘free me from the life of earth. Take me with you to the life eternal.’
“She made no attempt to enlighten him. ‘Wait,’ she answered calmly, ‘wait and rest.’
“Silently obeying her, he turned his head on the pillow; we saw his face no more.
“I have related the circumstances exactly as they happened: the ghost story which report has carried to your ears has no other foundation than this.
“Mrs. Evelin led the way to that further end of the room in which the screen stood. Placing ourselves behind it, we could converse39 in whispers without being heard. Her first words told me that she had been warned by one of the hospital doctors to respect my friend’s delusion for the present. His mind partook in some degree of the weakness of his body, and he was not strong enough yet to bear the shock of discovering the truth.
“She had been saved almost by a miracle.
“Released (in a state of insensibility) from the ruins of the house, she had been laid with her dead relatives awaiting burial. Happily for her, an English traveler visiting the island was among the first men who volunteered to render help. He had been in practice as a medical man, and he saved her from being buried alive. Nearly a month passed before she was strong enough to bear removal to Wellington (the capital city) and to be received into the hospital.
“I asked why she had not telegraphed or written to me.
“‘When I was strong enough to write,’ she said, ‘I was strong enough to bear the sea-voyage to England. The expenses so nearly exhausted40 my small savings41 that I had no money to spare for the telegraph.’
“On her arrival in London, only a few days since, she had called on me at the time when I had left home on the business which I have already mentioned. She had not heard of Lady Howel’s death, and had written ignorantly to prepare that good friend for seeing her. The messenger sent with the letter had found the house in the occupation of strangers, and had been referred to the agent employed in letting it. She went herself to this person, and so heard that Lord Howel Beaucourt had lost his wife, and was reported to be dying in one of the London hospitals.
“‘If he had been in his usual state of health,’ she said, ‘it would have been indelicate on my part—I mean it would have seemed like taking a selfish advantage of the poor lady’s death—to have let him know that my life had been saved, in any other way than by writing to him. But when I heard he was dying, I forgot all customary considerations. His name was so well-known in London that I easily discovered at what hospital he had been received. There I heard that the report was false and that he was out of danger. I ought to hav e been satisfied with that—but oh, how could I be so near him and not long to see him? The old doctor with whom I had been speaking discovered, I suppose, that I was in trouble about something. He was so kind and fatherly, and he seemed to take such interest in me, that I confessed everything to him. After he had made me promise to be careful, he told the night-nurse to let me take her place for a little while, when the dim light in the room would not permit his patient to see me too plainly. He waited at the door when we tried the experiment. Neither he nor I foresaw that Lord Howel would put such a strange interpretation42 on my presence. The nurse doesn’t approve of my coming back—even for a little while only—and taking her place again to-night. She is right. I have had my little glimpse of happiness, and with that little I must be content.’
“What I said in answer to this, and what I did as time advanced, it is surely needless to tell you. You have read the newspapers which announce their marriage, and their departure for Italy. What else is there left for me to say?
“There is, perhaps, a word more still wanting.
“Obstinate Lord Howel persisted in refusing to take the fortune that was waiting for him. In this difficulty, the conditions under which I was acting43 permitted me to appeal to the bride. When she too said No, I was not to be trifled with. I showed her poor Lady’s Howel’s will. After reading the terms in which my dear old friend alluded44 to her she burst out crying. I interpreted those grateful tears as an expression of repentance45 for the ill-considered reply which I had just received. As yet, I have not been told that I was wrong.”
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1
courteous
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| adj.彬彬有礼的，客气的 | |
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2
dread
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| vt.担忧，忧虑；惧怕，不敢；n.担忧，畏惧 | |
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distressed
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| 痛苦的 | |
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justify
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| vt.证明…正当(或有理)，为…辩护 | |
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perilous
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| adj.危险的，冒险的 | |
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6
foul
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| adj.污秽的；邪恶的；v.弄脏；妨害；犯规；n.犯规 | |
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7
untoward
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| adj.不利的，不幸的，困难重重的 | |
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8
trifling
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| adj.微不足道的；没什么价值的 | |
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9
apparently
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| adv.显然地；表面上，似乎 | |
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10
indifference
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| n.不感兴趣，不关心，冷淡，不在乎 | |
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11
worthy
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| adj.(of)值得的，配得上的；有价值的 | |
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12
entreated
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| 恳求，乞求( entreat的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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13
abode
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| n.住处，住所 | |
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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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15
gratitude
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| adj.感激，感谢 | |
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16
inflexible
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| adj.不可改变的，不受影响的，不屈服的 | |
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17
secluded
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| adj.与世隔绝的；隐退的；偏僻的v.使隔开，使隐退( seclude的过去式和过去分词) | |
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18
dreary
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| adj.令人沮丧的，沉闷的，单调乏味的 | |
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19
chambers
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| n.房间( chamber的名词复数 )；（议会的）议院；卧室；会议厅 | |
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20
interval
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| n.间隔，间距；幕间休息，中场休息 | |
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21
intruded
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| n.侵入的，推进的v.侵入，侵扰，打扰( intrude的过去式和过去分词 )；把…强加于 | |
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22
solitude
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| n. 孤独; 独居,荒僻之地,幽静的地方 | |
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23
devoted
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| adj.忠诚的，忠实的，热心的，献身于...的 | |
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24
defiance
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| n.挑战，挑衅，蔑视，违抗 | |
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steadily
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| adv.稳定地；不变地；持续地 | |
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feverish
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| adj.发烧的，狂热的，兴奋的 | |
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27
bestowed
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| 赠给，授予( bestow的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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28
proceeding
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| n.行动，进行，(pl.)会议录，学报 | |
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29
suspense
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| n.（对可能发生的事）紧张感，担心，挂虑 | |
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30
convalescence
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| n.病后康复期 | |
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31
miserably
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| adv.痛苦地；悲惨地；糟糕地；极度地 | |
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32
delirium
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| n. 神智昏迷,说胡话;极度兴奋 | |
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promising
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| adj.有希望的，有前途的 | |
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repose
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| v.(使)休息；n.安息 | |
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35
twilight
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| n.暮光，黄昏；暮年，晚期，衰落时期 | |
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36
superstitious
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| adj.迷信的 | |
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delusion
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| n.谬见，欺骗，幻觉，迷惑 | |
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38
dispelled
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| v.驱散，赶跑( dispel的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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39
converse
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| vi.谈话，谈天，闲聊；adv.相反的，相反 | |
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40
exhausted
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| adj.极其疲惫的，精疲力尽的 | |
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41
savings
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| n.存款，储蓄 | |
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42
interpretation
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| n.解释，说明，描述；艺术处理 | |
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43
acting
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| n.演戏，行为，假装；adj.代理的，临时的，演出用的 | |
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44
alluded
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| 提及，暗指( allude的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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45
repentance
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| n.懊悔 | |
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