There could have been no question of real murder; for why should he have troubled himself either with the danger or with the load which it would certainly have imposed on his conscience? Much as he hated Lord Hampstead, it was no business of his. It was that Lady Macbeth up-stairs, the mother of the darlings, who had really thought of murder. It was she who had spoken openly of her great desire that Lord Hampstead should cease to live. Had there been any real question of murder it would have been for her to meditate6, for her to think, for her to plot;—surely not for him! Certainly, certainly he had contemplated no such deed as that, with the object of obtaining for the comfort of his old age the enjoyment7 of the living of Appleslocombe! He told himself now that had he in truth committed such a crime, had he carried out the plot which had formed itself in his brain only as a matter of speculation, though he might not have been detected, yet he would have been suspected; and suspicion would have been as destructive to his hopes as detection. Of course all that had been clear enough to him throughout his machinations; and therefore how could he really have intended it? He had not intended it. It had only been one of those castles in the air which the old build as well as the young,—which are no more than the "airy fabrics8" of the brain!
It was thus he struggled to drive from his mind and from his eyes the phantom9 of the terrible deed. But that he did not succeed was made evident to himself by the hot clammy drops of sweat which came out upon his brow, by his wakefulness throughout the livelong night, by the carefulness with which his ears watched for the sound of the young man's coming, as though it were necessary that he should be made assured that the murder had in truth not been done. Before that hour had come he found himself to be shaking even in his bed; to be drawing the clothes around him to dispel10 the icy cold, though the sweat still stood upon his brow; to be hiding his eyes under the bed-clothes in order that he might not see something which seemed to be visible to him through the utmost darkness of the chamber11. At any rate he had done nothing! Let his thoughts have been what they might, he had soiled neither his hands nor his conscience. Though everything that he had ever done or ever thought were known, he was free from all actual crime. She had talked of death and thought of murder. He had only echoed her words and her thoughts, meaning nothing,—as a man is bound to do to a woman. Why then could he not sleep? Why should he be hot and shiver with cold by turns? Why should horrid12 phantoms13 perplex him in the dark? He was sure he had never meant it. What must be the agony of those who do mean, of those who do execute, if such punishment as this were awarded to one who had done no more than build a horrid castle in the air? Did she sleep;—he wondered,—she who had certainly done more than build a castle in the air; she who had wished and longed, and had a reason for her wishing and her longing14?
At last he heard a footfall on the road, which passed but some few yards distant from his window, a quick, cheery, almost running footfall, a step full of youth and life, sounding crisp on the hard frozen ground; and he knew that the young man whom he hated had come. Though he had never thought of murdering him,—as he told himself,—yet he hated him. And then his thoughts, although in opposition15 to his own wishes,—which were intent upon sleep, if sleep would only come to him,—ran away to the building of other castles. How would it have been now, now at this moment, if that plan, which he had never really intended to carry out, which had only been a speculation, had been a true plan and been truly executed? How would it have been with them all now at Trafford Park? The Marchioness would have been at any rate altogether satisfied;—but what comfort would there have been in that to him? Lord Frederic would have been the heir to a grand title and to vast estates;—but how would he have been the better for that? The old lord who was lying there so sick in the next room might probably have sunk into his grave with a broken heart. The Marquis had of late been harsh to him; but there did come to him an idea at the present moment that he had for thirty years eaten the sick man's bread. And the young man would have been sent without a moment's notice to meet his final doom16! Of what nature that might have been, the wretched man lying there did not dare even to make a picture in his imagination. It was a matter which he had sedulously17 and successfully dismissed from all his thoughts. It was of the body lying out there in the cold, not of the journey which the winged soul might make, that he unwillingly18 drew a picture to himself. He conceived how he himself, in the prosecution19 of the plan which he had formed, would have been forced to have awakened20 the house, and to tell of the deed, and to assist in carrying the body to what resting-place might have been found for it. There he would have had to enact21 a part of which he had, a few hours since, told himself that he would be capable, but in attempting which he was now sure that he would have succumbed22 to the difficulties of the struggle. Who would have broken the news to the father? Who would have attempted to speak the first word of vain consolation23? Who would have flown to the lady's door up-stairs and have informed her that death was in the house—and have given her to understand that the eldest24 of her darlings was the heir? It would have been for him to do it all; for him with a spirit weighed down to the ground by that terrible burden with which the doing of such a deed would have loaded it. He would certainly have revealed himself in the struggle!
But why should he allow his mind to be perplexed25 with such thoughts? No such deed had been done. There had been no murder. The young man was there now in the house, light-hearted after his walk; full of life and youthful energy. Why should he be troubled with such waking dreams as these? Must it be so with him always, for the rest of his life, only because he had considered how a thing might best be done? He heard a footstep in a distant passage, and a door closed, and then again all was silent. Was there not cause to him for joy in the young man's presence? If his speculations26 had been wicked, was there not time to turn for repentance27,—for repentance, though there was so little for which repentance were needed? Nevertheless the night was to him so long, and the misery28 connected with the Trafford name so great, that he told himself that he would quit the place as soon as possible. He would take whatever money were offered to him and go. How would it have been with him had he really done the deed, when he found himself unable to sleep in the house in which he would not quite admit to himself that he had even contemplated it?
On the next morning his breakfast was brought to him in his own room, and he inquired from the servant after Lord Hampstead and his purposes. The servant thought that his lordship meant to remain on that day and the next. So he had heard Harris, the butler, say. His lordship was to see his father at eleven o'clock that morning. The household bulletin respecting the Marquis had that morning been rather more favourable29 than usual. The Marchioness had not yet been seen. The doctor would probably be there by twelve. This was the news which Mr. Greenwood got from the servant who waited upon him. Could he not escape from the house during the period that the young lord would be there, without seeing the young lord? The young lord was hateful to him—more hateful than ever. He would, if possible, get himself carried into Shrewsbury, and remain there on some excuse of visiting a friend till the young lord should have returned to London. He could not tell himself why, but he felt that the sight of the young lord would be oppressive to him.
But in this he was prevented by an intimation that was given to him early in the day, before he had made preparations for his going, that Lord Hampstead wished to see him, and would wait upon him in his own room. The Marquis had expressed himself grateful to his son for coming, but did not wish to detain him at Trafford. "Of course it is very dull for you, and I think I am better."
"I am so glad of that;—but if you think that I am of any comfort to you I shall be delighted to stay. I suppose Fanny would come down if I remain here."
Then the Marquis shook his head. Fanny, he thought, had better be away. "The Marchioness and Fanny would not be happy in the house together,—unless, indeed, she has given up that young man." Hampstead could not say that she had given up the young man. "I do hope she never sees him," said the Marquis. Then his son assured him that the two had never met since Fanny had gone to Hendon Hall. And he was rash enough to assure his father that there would be no such meeting while his sister was his guest. At that moment George Roden was standing30 in the drawing-room at Hendon Hall with Lady Frances in his arms.
After that there arose a conversation between the father and son as to Mr. Greenwood. The Marquis was very desirous that the man who had become so objectionable to him should quit the house. "The truth is," said the Marquis, "that it is he who makes all the mischief31 between me and your stepmother. It is he that makes me ill. I have no comfort while he is here, making plots against me." If they two had only known the plot which had been made! Hampstead thought it reasonable that the man should be sent away, if only because his presence was disagreeable. Why should a man be kept in the house simply to produce annoyance32? But there must be the question of compensation. He did not think that ￡1000 was sufficient. Then the Marquis was unusually difficult of persuasion33 in regard to money. Hampstead thought that an annuity34 of ￡300 a year should be settled on the poor clergyman. The Marquis would not hear of it. The man had not performed even the slight duties which had been required of him. The books had not even been catalogued. To bribe35 a man, such as that, by ￡300 a year for making himself disagreeable would be intolerable. The Marquis had never promised him anything. He ought to have saved his money. At last the father and son came to terms, and Hampstead sent to prepare a meeting with the chaplain.
Mr. Greenwood was standing in the middle of the room when Lord Hampstead entered it, rubbing his fat hands together. Hampstead saw no difference in the man since their last meeting, but there was a difference. Mr. Greenwood's manner was at first more submissive, as though he were afraid of his visitor; but before the interview was over he had recovered his audacity36. "My father has wished me to see you," said Hampstead. Mr. Greenwood went on rubbing his hands, still standing in the middle of the room. "He seems to think it better that you should leave him."
"I don't know why he should think it better;—but, of course, I will go if he bids me." Mr. Greenwood had quite made up his mind that it would be better for him also that he should go.
"There will be no good in going into that. I think we might as well sit down, Mr. Greenwood." They did sit down, the chaplain as usual perching himself on the edge of a chair. "You have been here a great many years."
"A great many, Lord Hampstead;—nearly all my life;—before you were born, Lord Hampstead." Then, as he sat gazing, there came before his eyes the phantom of Lord Hampstead being carried into the house as a corpse37 while he himself was struggling beneath a portion of the weight.
"Just so; and though the Marquis cannot admit that there is any claim upon him—"
"No claim, Lord Hampstead!"
"Certainly no claim. Yet he is quite willing to do something in acknowledgment of the long connection. His lordship thinks that an annuity of ￡200 a year—." Mr. Greenwood shook his head, as though he would say that that certainly would not satisfy him. Hampstead had been eager to secure the full ￡300 for the wretched, useless man, but the Marquis had declared that he would not burden the estate with a charge so unnecessarily large. "I say," continued Hampstead, frowning, "that his lordship has desired me to say that you shall receive during your life an annuity of ￡200." It certainly was the fact that Lord Hampstead could frown when he was displeased38, and that at such moments he would assume a look of aristocratic impatience39 which was at variance40 with his professed41 political theories. Mr. Greenwood again shook his head. "I do not think that I need say anything farther," continued the young lord. "That is my father's decision. He presumes that you would prefer the annuity to the immediate42 payment of a thousand pounds." Here the shaking of the head became more violent. "I have only in addition to ask you when it will suit you to leave Trafford Park." Lord Hampstead, when he had left his father, had determined43 to use his blandest44 manner in communicating these tidings to the chaplain. But Mr. Greenwood was odious45 to him. The way in which the man stood on the floor and rubbed his hands together, and sat on the edge of his chair, and shook his head without speaking a word, were disgusting to him. If the man had declared boldly his own view of what was due to him, Hampstead would have endeavoured to be gracious to him. As it was he was anything but gracious, as he asked the chaplain to name the day on which he would be prepared to leave the house.
"You mean to say that I am to be—turned out."
"It is some months since you were told that my father no longer required your services."
"I am to be turned out,—like a dog,—after thirty years!"
"I cannot contradict you when you say so, but I must ask you to name a day. It is not as though the suggestion were now made to you for the first time." Mr. Greenwood got up from the edge of the chair, and again stood in the middle of the room. Lord Hampstead felt himself constrained46 also to stand. "Have you any answer to make to me?"
"No; I have not," said the chaplain.
"You mean that you have not fixed47 upon a day?"
"I shan't go with ￡200 a year," said the chaplain. "It's unreasonable48; it's brutal49!"
"Brutal!" shouted Lord Hampstead.
"I shan't stir till I've seen the Marquis himself. It's out of the question that he should turn me out in this way. How am I to live upon ￡200 a year? I always understood that I was to have Appleslocombe."
"No such promise was ever made to you," said Lord Hampstead, very angrily. "No hint of such a thing has ever been made except by yourself."
"I always understood it," said Mr. Greenwood. "And I shall not leave this till I've had an opportunity of discussing the matter with the Marquis himself. I don't think the Marquis would ever have treated me in this way,—only for you, Lord Hampstead."
This was intolerable. What was he to do with the abominable50 man? It would be very disagreeable, the task of turning him out while the Marquis was still so ill, and yet it was not to be endured that such a man should be allowed to hold his position in the house in opposition to the will of the owner. It was, he felt, beneath him to defend himself against the charge made—or even to defend his father. "If you will not name a day, I must," said the young lord. The man remained immovable on his seat except that he continued to rub his hands. "As I can get no answer I shall have to instruct Mr. Roberts that you cannot be allowed to remain here after the last day of the month. If you have any feeling left to you you will not impose upon us so unpleasant a duty while my father is ill." With this he left the room, while Mr. Greenwood was still standing and rubbing his hands.
Two hundred pounds a year! He had better go and take it. He was quite aware of that. But how was he to live upon ￡200,—he who had been bedded and boarded all his life at the expense of another man, and had also spent ￡300? But at the moment this was not the thought uppermost in his mind. Would it not have been better that he should have carried out that project of his? Only that he had been merciful, this young lord would not have been able to scorn him and ill-treat him as he had done. There were no phantoms now. Now he thought that he could have carried his share of the corpse into the house without flinching51.
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1
slumber
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| n.睡眠，沉睡状态 | |
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contemplated
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| adj. 预期的 动词contemplate的过去分词形式 | |
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speculation
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| n.思索，沉思；猜测；投机 | |
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4
bungled
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| v.搞糟，完不成( bungle的过去式和过去分词 )；笨手笨脚地做；失败；完不成 | |
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hatred
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| n.憎恶，憎恨，仇恨 | |
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6
meditate
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| v.想，考虑，（尤指宗教上的）沉思，冥想 | |
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enjoyment
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| n.乐趣；享有；享用 | |
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8
fabrics
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| 织物( fabric的名词复数 )； 布； 构造； （建筑物的）结构（如墙、地面、屋顶）：质地 | |
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9
phantom
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| n.幻影，虚位，幽灵；adj.错觉的，幻影的，幽灵的 | |
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10
dispel
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| vt.驱走，驱散，消除 | |
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chamber
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| n.房间，寝室；会议厅；议院；会所 | |
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12
horrid
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| adj.可怕的；令人惊恐的；恐怖的；极讨厌的 | |
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phantoms
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| n.鬼怪，幽灵( phantom的名词复数 ) | |
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longing
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| n.（for）渴望 | |
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opposition
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| n.反对，敌对 | |
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doom
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| n.厄运，劫数；v.注定，命定 | |
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sedulously
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| ad.孜孜不倦地 | |
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unwillingly
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| adv.不情愿地 | |
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prosecution
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| n.起诉，告发，检举，执行，经营 | |
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20
awakened
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| v.（使）醒( awaken的过去式和过去分词 )；（使）觉醒；弄醒；（使）意识到 | |
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enact
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| vt.制定(法律)；上演，扮演 | |
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succumbed
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| 不再抵抗（诱惑、疾病、攻击等）( succumb的过去式和过去分词 )； 屈从； 被压垮； 死 | |
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consolation
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| n.安慰，慰问 | |
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eldest
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| adj.最年长的，最年老的 | |
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perplexed
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| adj.不知所措的 | |
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speculations
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| n.投机买卖( speculation的名词复数 )；思考；投机活动；推断 | |
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repentance
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| n.懊悔 | |
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misery
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| n.痛苦，苦恼，苦难；悲惨的境遇，贫苦 | |
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favourable
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| adj.赞成的，称赞的，有利的，良好的，顺利的 | |
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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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mischief
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| n.损害，伤害，危害；恶作剧，捣蛋，胡闹 | |
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32
annoyance
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| n.恼怒，生气，烦恼 | |
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persuasion
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| n.劝说；说服；持有某种信仰的宗派 | |
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annuity
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| n.年金；养老金 | |
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bribe
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| n.贿赂；v.向…行贿，买通 | |
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audacity
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| n.大胆，卤莽，无礼 | |
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corpse
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| n.尸体，死尸 | |
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displeased
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| a.不快的 | |
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impatience
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| n.不耐烦，急躁 | |
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40
variance
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| n.矛盾，不同 | |
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41
professed
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| 公开声称的，伪称的，已立誓信教的 | |
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42
immediate
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| adj.立即的；直接的，最接近的；紧靠的 | |
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43
determined
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| adj.坚定的；有决心的 | |
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44
blandest
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| adj.（食物）淡而无味的( bland的最高级 )；平和的；温和的；无动于衷的 | |
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45
odious
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| adj.可憎的，讨厌的 | |
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constrained
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| adj.束缚的,节制的 | |
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47
fixed
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| adj.固定的，不变的，准备好的；(计算机)固定的 | |
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48
unreasonable
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| adj.不讲道理的，不合情理的，过度的 | |
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49
brutal
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| adj.残忍的，野蛮的，不讲理的 | |
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50
abominable
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| adj.可厌的，令人憎恶的 | |
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51
flinching
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| v.（因危险和痛苦）退缩，畏惧( flinch的现在分词 ) | |
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