“Allow me to return good for evil.” (The evil was uppermost, nevertheless, when Miss Gracedieu expressed herself in these self-denying terms.) “You are no doubt anxious to know if Philip’s father has been won over to serve your purpose. Here is Philip’s own account of it: the last of his letters that I shall trouble you to read.”
I looked it over. The memorandum1 follows which I made for my own use:
An eccentric philosopher is as capable as the most commonplace human being in existence of behaving like an honorable man. Mr. Dunboyne read the letter which bore the Minister’s signature, and handed it to his son. “Can you answer that?” was all he said. Philip’s silence confessed that he was unable to answer it—and Philip himself, I may add, rose accordingly in my estimation. His father pointed2 to the writing-desk. “I must spare my cramped3 hand,” the philosopher resumed, “and I must answer Mr. Gracedieu’s letter. Write, and leave a place for my signature.” He began to dictate4 his reply. “Sir—My son Philip has seen your letter, and has no defense5 to make. In this respect he has set an example of candor6 which I propose to follow. There is no excuse for him. What I can do to show that I feel for you, and agree with you, shall be done. At the age which this young man has reached, the laws of England abolish the authority of his father. If he is sufficiently7 infatuated to place his honor and his happiness at the mercy of a lady, who has behaved to her sister as your daughter has behaved to Miss Eunice, I warn the married couple not to expect a farthing of my money, either during my lifetime or after my death. Your faithful servant, DUNBOYNE, SENIOR.” Having performed his duty as secretary, Philip received his dismissal: “You may send my reply to the post,” his father said; “and you may keep Mr. Gracedieu’s letter. Morally speaking, I regard that last document as a species of mirror, in which a young gentleman like yourself may see how ugly he looks.” This, Philip declared, was his father’s form of farewell. I handed back the letter to Helena. Not a word passed between us. In sinister8 silence she opened the door and left me alone in the room.
That Mrs. Gracedieu and I had met in the bygone time, and—this was the only serious part of it—had met in secret, would now be made known to the Minister. Was I to blame for having shrunk from distressing9 my good friend, by telling him that his wife had privately10 consulted me on the means of removing his adopted child from his house? And, even if I had been cruel enough to do this, would he have believed my statement against the positive denial with which the woman whom he loved and trusted would have certainly met it? No! let the consequences of the coming disclosure be what they might, I failed to see any valid11 reason for regretting my conduct in the past time.
I found Miss Jillgall waiting in the passage to see me come out.
Before I could tell her what had happened, there was a ring at the house-bell. The visitor proved to be Mr. Wellwood, the doctor. I was anxious to speak to him on the subject of Mr. Gracedieu’s health. Miss Jillgall introduced me, as an old and dear friend of the Minister, and left us together in the dining-room.
“What do I think of Mr. Gracedieu?” he said, repeating the first question that I put. “Well, sir, I think badly of him.”
Entering into details, after that ominous12 reply, Mr. Wellwood did not hesitate to say that his patient’s nerves were completely shattered. Disease of the brain had, as he feared, been already set up. “As to the causes which have produced this lamentable13 break-down,” the doctor continued, “Mr. Gracedieu has been in the habit of preaching extempore twice a day on Sundays, and sometimes in the week as well—and has uniformly refused to spare himself when he was in most urgent need of rest. If you have ever attended his chapel14, you have seen a man in a state of fiery15 enthusiasm, feeling intensely every word that he utters. Think of such exhaustion16 as that implies going on for years together, and accumulating its wasting influences on a sensitively organized constitution. Add that he is tormented17 by personal anxieties, which he confesses to no one, not even to his own children and the sum of it all is that a worse case of its kind, I am grieved to say, has never occurred in my experience.”
Before the doctor left me to go to his patient, I asked leave to occupy a minute more of his time. My object was, of course, to speak about Eunice.
The change of subject seemed to be agreeable to Mr. Wellwood. He smiled good-humoredly.
“You need feel no alarm about the health of that interesting girl,” he said. “When she complained to me—at her age!—of not being able to sleep, I should have taken it more seriously if I had been told that she too had her troubles, poor little soul. Love-troubles, most likely—but don’t forget that my professional limits keep me in the dark! Have you heard that she took some composing medicine, which I had prescribed for her father? The effect (certain, in any case, to be injurious to a young girl) was considerably18 aggravated19 by the state of her mind at the time. A dream that frightened her, and something resembling delirium20, seems to have followed. And she made matters worse, poor child, by writing in her diary about the visions and supernatural appearances that had terrified her. I was afraid of fever, on the day when they first sent for me. We escaped that complication, and I was at liberty to try the best of all remedies—quiet and change of air. I have no fears for Miss Eunice.”
With that cheering reply he went up to the Minister’s room.
All that I had found perplexing in Eunice was now made clear. I understood how her agony at the loss of her lover, and her keen sense of the wrong that she had suffered, had been strengthened in their disastrous21 influence by her experiment on the sleeping draught22 intended for her father. In mind and body, both, the poor girl was in the condition which offered its opportunity to the lurking23 hereditary24 taint25. It was terrible to think of what might have happened, if the all-powerful counter-influence had not been present to save her.
Before I had been long alone the servant-maid came in, and said the doctor wanted to see me.
Mr. Wellwood was waiting in the passage, outside the Minister’s bedchamber. He asked if he could speak to me without interruption, and without the fear of being overheard. I led him at once to the room which I occupied as a guest.
“At the very time when it is most important to keep Mr. Gracedieu quiet,” he said, “something has happened to excite—I might almost say to infuriate him. He has left his bed, and is walking up and down the room; and, I don’t scruple26 to say, he is on the verge27 of madness. He insists on seeing you. Being wholly unable to control him in any other way, I have consented to this. But I must not allow you to place yourself in what may be a disagreeable position, without a word of warning. Judging by his tones and his looks, he seems to have no very friendly motive28 for wishing to see you.”
Knowing perfectly29 well what had happened, and being one of those impatient people who can never endure suspense—I offered to go at once to Mr. Gracedieu’s room. The doctor asked leave to say one word more.
“Pray be careful that you neither say nor do anything to thwart30 him,” Mr. Wellwood resumed. “If he expresses an opinion, agree with him. If he is insolent31 and overbearing, don’t answer him. In the state of his brain, the one hopeful course to take is to let him have his own way. Pray remember that. I will be within call, in case of your wanting me.”
点击收听单词发音
1 memorandum | |
n.备忘录,便笺 | |
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2 pointed | |
adj.尖的,直截了当的 | |
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3 cramped | |
a.狭窄的 | |
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4 dictate | |
v.口授;(使)听写;指令,指示,命令 | |
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5 defense | |
n.防御,保卫;[pl.]防务工事;辩护,答辩 | |
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6 candor | |
n.坦白,率真 | |
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7 sufficiently | |
adv.足够地,充分地 | |
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8 sinister | |
adj.不吉利的,凶恶的,左边的 | |
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9 distressing | |
a.使人痛苦的 | |
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10 privately | |
adv.以私人的身份,悄悄地,私下地 | |
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11 valid | |
adj.有确实根据的;有效的;正当的,合法的 | |
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12 ominous | |
adj.不祥的,不吉的,预兆的,预示的 | |
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13 lamentable | |
adj.令人惋惜的,悔恨的 | |
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14 chapel | |
n.小教堂,殡仪馆 | |
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15 fiery | |
adj.燃烧着的,火红的;暴躁的;激烈的 | |
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16 exhaustion | |
n.耗尽枯竭,疲惫,筋疲力尽,竭尽,详尽无遗的论述 | |
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17 tormented | |
饱受折磨的 | |
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18 considerably | |
adv.极大地;相当大地;在很大程度上 | |
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19 aggravated | |
使恶化( aggravate的过去式和过去分词 ); 使更严重; 激怒; 使恼火 | |
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20 delirium | |
n. 神智昏迷,说胡话;极度兴奋 | |
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21 disastrous | |
adj.灾难性的,造成灾害的;极坏的,很糟的 | |
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22 draught | |
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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23 lurking | |
潜在 | |
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24 hereditary | |
adj.遗传的,遗传性的,可继承的,世袭的 | |
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25 taint | |
n.污点;感染;腐坏;v.使感染;污染 | |
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26 scruple | |
n./v.顾忌,迟疑 | |
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27 verge | |
n.边,边缘;v.接近,濒临 | |
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28 motive | |
n.动机,目的;adv.发动的,运动的 | |
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29 perfectly | |
adv.完美地,无可非议地,彻底地 | |
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30 thwart | |
v.阻挠,妨碍,反对;adj.横(断的) | |
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31 insolent | |
adj.傲慢的,无理的 | |
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