I knew Mr. Chelton for a good-humoured gentleman. I did not fear that, though Tony and I had been found poaching on his preserves, the Squire would do worse than bid Tim Kerrick dress us down with his ash-plant. I did not dread5 committal, the Assizes and the terror of their Lordships, the Judges. Indeed, I believed that unseen I had dropped the hare out of sight in the furze; and I took it that Tony had long since rid himself of the rabbit from his pocket. Only when we were before the house did I find the chance of a word with Tony. Tim, loosing his grip then, and staring up doubtfully at the door, as if not knowing whether or not to conduct us before the Squire and Mr. Bradbury immediately, I poked6 my head forward and whispered to Tony, “Did you get rid of that rabbit?”
He whispered back, “No! It’s stuck in my p. 17pocket;” but he could add nothing, for Tim gripped me instantly, and shook me, with the observation: “No talkin’! If it’s the rabbit you’re thinkin’ of, it’s in his pocket yet, for I’ve felt it there. And I saw you drop the bag with, belike, another inside. So don’t go thinkin’ yourself clever, John Howe! It’s gaol7, or transportation, or at the very least a basting8 you’ve never felt the like of, and’ll never want to feel again. Squire’s at dinner. You’ll wait till Squire’s dined and wined, you will.”
With this cheerful augury9 Tim Kerrick propelled me before him, and the keeper following with Tony, we were marched about the house to the stables and into the harness-room. “You’ll be safe and snug10 here,” Tim said, ere he turned the key upon us, “Squire’ll deal with you, but not for a good two hours or more. So you can just think it all over in the dark.”
Slamming the door Tim locked us in, and stumped11 away. His assertion that Mr. Chelton would not deal with us, till he had dined, gave me instant concern for my mother’s anxiety at my failure to return for supper. I pictured her dolefully—with my meal set all ready for me; sitting listening for my steps, peering up at the clock, and running out to the gate and waiting there, but seeing still no sign of me. And p. 18dreading, I guessed well, lest I should have disappeared as from the face of the earth—vanished with never a word to her, even as my father—of whom I shall tell presently. I cursed Tim Kerrick, Squire Chelton, and Mr. Bradbury.
“What’s going to happen to us now, John?” Tony muttered through the dark. “What’ll the Squire do with us, do you think?”
“Oh, he’ll laugh, for he’s sure to be half drunk when he sees us. Tell us we’ll be hanged, if we’re not shot for poachers first. And if Tim Kerrick makes the case black enough, Squire’ll give him leave to baste12 us.”
“Yes, but Tim would have basted13 us properly, and let us go,” said Tony. “Why should that old black crow want to spoil Tim’s sport and bid him bring us here, unless he’s a notion of having us clapped in gaol? But for him we’d have been through Tim’s hands by now, and been limpin’ home. Do you know him, John?”
“Oh, I only know he’s Squire’s lawyer. You heard Tim say so, if you didn’t know before. I’d never heard of him or clapped eyes on him.”
“He seemed to know you.”
“Yes, he did. But I don’t know how. We’ll hear, when Squire’s dined. Pray God, he doesn’t spare the bottle! Sit ye down, Tony, while you’re able.”
p. 19And in the dark we sat down on the cold, flagged floor. I tell you the harness-room was like a vault14 for gloom and chill. The time we were held there seemed unending; only Tim came near us, and then merely to be assured that we were safe, and to growl15 vengefully at us, as he flashed his lantern down on us. We wearied soon of conjecturing16 what should happen to us. We sat huddled17 together silently, and while Tony sought to pull the rabbit from his pocket, and at last succeeded to sling18 it from him with a curse, I set myself to pondering over Mr. Bradbury’s mysterious interest in me, and to striving to recollect19 when, if ever, I had set eyes on the gentleman before. Never, so far as my memory served me, though my mother and I had lived ten years at Chelton.
To my seventh year we had lived with my father in London. I remembered my father clearly, tall and darkly handsome, his black hair silver-threaded, though at the time of his mysterious disappearance20 he was not more than thirty-seven years of age. I remembered the moods of brooding melancholy21 darkening the natural liveliness of his disposition22; his strength, his tenderness with my mother and myself. I remembered, as the most sorrowful time of my childhood, the day of his disappearance,—my p. 20mother waiting the hours through from eve till dawn, hoping against hope for the sound of his return,—the days succeeding of alternate hopes never fulfilled and terrors not allayed23.
My father had held a poor clerkship with the East India Company. He had left the House late in the day to carry a letter down to the docks for the master of an Indiaman; but had never delivered the letter, and had vanished without trace or word. I remembered my mother’s pitiful distress24, as day succeeded day without tidings, and the cloud of mystery was in no way lifted. A countrywoman and friendless, she could make little search for him; it was assumed by the gentlemen of the East India House, that he had been pressed aboard one of the King’s ships; even so, none of his name was ever found among the crews, though the interest of the Company secured inquiry25 from the Commissioners26 of His Majesty’s Navy.
And my mother, distraught for many days, seemed stricken with terror of the Town and its associations, and took coach and fled away with me to Chelton; all the years since we had had no word of my father and did not know whether he was alive or dead. We had lived quietly in a little cottage on the edge of Chelton—the last dwelling27, indeed, of the village ere the street p. 21passed into the great highway. My mother was possessed28 of small means—a legacy29, I believed, from a kinsman30, though she would tell me nothing either of my father’s family or of her own. She had not sufficient for our needs; she added to our means by fine needlework for the Squire’s lady and her folk; how she found the five guineas a year for which the Rev31. Mr. Vining allowed me to share the studies and the discipline of his son Tony I did not know. Yet, though I, lazy and graceless young dog as I was, urged her to let me seek employment in Chelton or in London itself, she would not hear of this. She declared, dear soul, that she would have me first a scholar; even though I had turned seventeen, there was time and to spare for me to choose a calling. So with Tony I had become an equally indifferent scholar, in spite of Mr. Vining’s cane32, and as abandoned a rogue33 and poacher. So I sat now with the parson’s son awaiting Squire Chelton’s summary justice, and most like Tim Kerrick’s execution of it. But Mr. Bradbury—?
Mr. Bradbury sat in a cushioned chair by the fire; Mr. Chelton supported his huge body more or less steadily34 against the chimney-piece, when at last Tim Kerrick paraded us before them in the library. It was a vast room,—its shelves lined with books, none of which, I fear, Mr. Chelton p. 22had ever opened from the day when his father’s death put him into possession of the Hall and its acres. Old Mr. Gilbert Chelton’s portrait looked coldly down from its gilded35 frame above the chimney-piece on his stout36 son, flushed from his drink—his red coat, buckskins and high boots all mud-splashed from the cross-country ride of the day. Squire Chelton had not changed his rig to do honour to his guests, who, I took it from the roars of laughter yet sounding in the dining-room, were gentlemen of tastes similar to his own. His iron-grey hair was wind-blown; his blood-shot eyes were as unsteady as his legs. He exuded37 good humour—natural to him, but stimulated38 by as liberal an indulgence in the contents of his cellar as he expected from any gentleman of his company. While Mr. Gilbert’s portrait looked its disapproval39, the paintings of four other dead and gone Cheltons of a marked resemblance to the Squire seemed to regard him enviously40 from their old frames.
Mr. Bradbury, if he had not been permitted to spare the bottle at dinner, made no show of it in his complexion41. He sat by the fire, his legs crossed; he had a silver snuff-box set with some glittering gem42 in his left hand; his face was almost as white as his linen43. Observing him, I had a sense that the mind at the back of his broad p. 23brow was as keen and as sparkling as the jewels on his fingers. With his leanness, his bloodlessness, his coldly impassive face, his cunning eyes peering through his spectacles, he was as odd a contrast to his stout, drink-flushed patron in his riding-rig as were his air of precision and the trimness of his dress to the frank disorder44 of the rich furniture in the room. Squire Chelton’s desk was littered with papers and parchments; an inkhorn was overset among them; goose quills45 had blown to the carpet; hats, cloaks, riding-whips, and gloves were tossed pell-mell on chairs and table. On this dark oaken table a half-emptied flagon of crystal and silver was set, and a circle of glasses stained with the red dregs of wine. The library was lit by many tall candles in silver sticks, and by the leaping flames from the hearth46 before which Mr. Bradbury warmed himself, with the reflections flashing from his jewelled hands, his snuff-box and the silver buckles47 of his shoes. I noted48 the keenness of Mr. Bradbury’s gaze immediately Tim thrust us forward; all the while I remained in the room, I fancied that his eyes never left me.
“Young Vining and young Howe,—hey?” p. 24cried Mr. Chelton, essaying to frown majestically50. “Caught poaching! Ye’re a credit to the parson who has the schooling51 of the pair of ye. What have ye to say for yourselves? Come!”
We stared up at Mr. Chelton; grinned foolishly, but said nothing.
“Tell the story for them, Kerrick,” said Mr. Chelton. “Maybe when they hear your account they’ll be ready enough to answer for themselves and call you a liar”—chuckling.
Tim, stepping forward, briskly told his tale—no, he told the tale of poachings from Chelton for the twelvemonth past, not limiting himself to the matter of the evening, the rabbit in Tony’s jacket or the conjectured53 content of my bag. Not a pheasant, not a hare, not a rabbit had been poached from Chelton, but had gone—on Tim’s assertion—in company with Tony and me,—the worst pair of varmints, Tim dubbed54 us, as never was. Meanwhile, Squire Chelton from ruddy grew purple, from good-humoured choleric55 and from choleric nigh choking with passion. From time to time, as Tim proceeded, Mr. Chelton would burst out, “D’ye hear this, Bradbury?” or “D’ye hear that?” Mr. Bradbury nodded; said nothing, and took snuff, while he peered at p. 25me through his spectacles. Tim wound up with a narration56 of the affair of the evening,—glowering at him I rejoiced to see the damage wrought57 by the bramble to his nose and chin.
“Now, you rogues58,—now!” Mr. Chelton stormed. “What have ye to say to me? D’ye know this is a matter for Assizes? D’ye know that ye may be hanged for this? D’ye know that at the least ye’ll be shipped overseas? What d’ye think of it, Bradbury?”
“I think, my dear sir,” said Mr. Bradbury, smoothly59, “that Kerrick overstates his case. Indeed, so much he overstates it, that did I instruct counsel for the defence of these lads, I promise that it would end with the committal of Kerrick here on a charge of perjury60”—Mr. Bradbury laughed shrilly61 to himself, and took more snuff.
Tim stared at him with his eyes goggling62, his jaw63 dropping. Mr. Chelton growling64 thunderously, “Upon my soul, Bradbury! Upon my soul!” lurched to the table, and poured himself a glass of wine. Tony and I rejoicing fixed65 our eyes on Mr. Bradbury.
“Mr. Chelton,” Mr. Bradbury proceeded, “there’s no more in this matter than the roguery of these lads to-night,—a rabbit or so snared66; these lads are poachers, and, no doubt, have p. 26taken a pretty picking off Chelton. But Kerrick here would lay to their account the poachings of the countryside,—of gipsies, vagrants67, village folk and odd. Without a tittle of proof, Mr. Chelton, without a tittle of proof that would hold good in a court of law.”
“Askin’ your pardon, Mr. Bradbury, sir,” Tim protested, “Parson’s son had a rabbit in his pocket, when we caught ’em, and young John Howe was carryin’ summat in his bag. He dropped it over in the furze.”
“Maybe,” said Mr. Bradbury, testily68. “We’ll admit these facts, Tim Kerrick, we’ll admit them; but to seek, as you’ve done, my man, to prove against these lads the losses of a year past—losses which you’ve failed to prevent,—why, it’s preposterous69, Kerrick,—it’s rank perjury!”
“Have you turned advocate for rogues and vagabonds, Bradbury?” asked Mr. Chelton, solemnly, though his eyes were twinkling once more, as much from the glass of wine, no doubt, as from Tim Kerrick’s indignation and discomfiture70.
“Nay, Mr. Chelton,” cried Mr. Bradbury, “only consider the facts! The parson’s son and, doubtless, excellently schooled by his father.”
“Vining’s a worthy71 fellow,” Mr. Chelton p. 27admitted, grinning. “I could tell you a rare story, Bradbury—” but broke off, as recollecting72 Tony’s presence, yet continuing to chuckle73 to himself. Mr. Vining, though devout74, was a fox-hunting parson after the Squire’s own heart.
“Ay, and the lad Howe?” Mr. Bradbury asked, observing me steadily.
“A young varmint!” Tim asserted, vengefully.
“His folk, Mr. Chelton?”
“Mother’s a widow woman—a decent body,” Mr. Chelton answered readily. “Never a day behind with her rent. The lad was well enough till he turned poacher with young Vining there.”
“Village folk? Chelton folk?”
“The mother and the lad have lived here these ten years. From London, I’ve heard say, Bradbury.”
Mr. Bradbury took snuff. “Now, Mr. Chelton,” he said, laughing, “these lads have done no more than a taste of Tim’s ash-plant should have corrected in them. And would have corrected, but that I ordered them to be brought to the Hall,—I’ll have a word with you, sir, presently, on my reason. But for two hours or so they’ve been in Tim’s hands; they’ve been locked up in the dark, maybe, and they’ve been haled before you. The lesson should serve ’em, sir.”
p. 28“Ain’t I to baste ’em properly, Squire?” asked Tim, aghast. “They’re varmint—varmint, sir!”
“No doubt,” said Mr. Bradbury. “But they’ll need no further lesson. Admonish them as you will, Mr. Chelton, and send them packing home to make their peace with their folk as they may. It’ll meet the purpose, I promise you. You’ll not be troubled with them again,” and standing up, he laughed shrilly and snapped his snuff-box lid. I realised that Mr. Bradbury’s purpose—to satisfy some passing curiosity—had been fulfilled. He stood peering at me still, his eyes darting75 like the jewels upon his fingers. “You’re long away from your guests, Mr. Chelton,” he said, with a wave of his hand toward the door.
The Squire hesitated a moment; then, with sudden roaring laughter, cried to us, “Oh, get away home, you dogs! Don’t let me have you here again. Out of this!—No, you don’t, Kerrick! You’ll remain here,” as Tim started for the door, purposing, I assumed, still to exercise justice upon us.
We did not stay to thank the Squire or Mr. Bradbury, but slinking out of the room, scurried76 through the hall, and presently were racing77 down the drive apace, lest Kerrick with his ash-plant pursue and overtake us.
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收听单词发音
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1
starry
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| adj.星光照耀的, 闪亮的 | |
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squire
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| n.护卫, 侍从, 乡绅 | |
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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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chuckling
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| 轻声地笑( chuckle的现在分词 ) | |
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dread
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| vt.担忧，忧虑；惧怕，不敢；n.担忧，畏惧 | |
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6
poked
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| v.伸出( poke的过去式和过去分词 )；戳出；拨弄；与（某人）性交 | |
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gaol
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| n.(jail)监狱；(不加冠词)监禁；vt.使…坐牢 | |
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8
basting
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| n.疏缝；疏缝的针脚；疏缝用线；涂油v.打( baste的现在分词 )；粗缝；痛斥；（烤肉等时）往上抹[浇]油 | |
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augury
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| n.预言，征兆，占卦 | |
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snug
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| adj.温暖舒适的，合身的，安全的；v.使整洁干净，舒适地依靠，紧贴；n.（英）酒吧里的私房 | |
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stumped
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| 僵直地行走，跺步行走( stump的过去式和过去分词 )； 把（某人）难住； 使为难； （选举前）在某一地区作政治性巡回演说 | |
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12
baste
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| v.殴打，公开责骂 | |
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13
basted
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| v.打( baste的过去式和过去分词 )；粗缝；痛斥；（烤肉等时）往上抹[浇]油 | |
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14
vault
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| n.拱形圆顶，地窖，地下室 | |
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15
growl
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| v.（狗等）嗥叫，（炮等）轰鸣；n.嗥叫，轰鸣 | |
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16
conjecturing
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| v. & n. 推测，臆测 | |
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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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sling
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| vt.扔；悬挂；n.挂带；吊索，吊兜；弹弓 | |
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19
recollect
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| v.回忆，想起，记起，忆起，记得 | |
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disappearance
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| n.消失，消散，失踪 | |
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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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disposition
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| n.性情，性格；意向，倾向；排列，部署 | |
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allayed
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| v.减轻，缓和( allay的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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distress
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| n.苦恼，痛苦，不舒适；不幸；vt.使悲痛 | |
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inquiry
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| n.打听，询问，调查，查问 | |
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commissioners
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| n.专员( commissioner的名词复数 )；长官；委员；政府部门的长官 | |
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dwelling
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| n.住宅，住所，寓所 | |
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possessed
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| adj.疯狂的；拥有的，占有的 | |
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legacy
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| n.遗产，遗赠；先人(或过去)留下的东西 | |
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kinsman
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| n.男亲属 | |
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rev
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| v.发动机旋转，加快速度 | |
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cane
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| n.手杖，细长的茎，藤条；v.以杖击，以藤编制的 | |
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rogue
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| n.流氓；v.游手好闲 | |
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steadily
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| adv.稳定地；不变地；持续地 | |
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gilded
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| a.镀金的，富有的 | |
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exuded
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| v.缓慢流出，渗出，分泌出( exude的过去式和过去分词 )；流露出对（某物）的神态或感情 | |
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stimulated
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| a.刺激的 | |
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disapproval
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| n.反对，不赞成 | |
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enviously
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| adv.满怀嫉妒地 | |
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complexion
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| n.肤色；情况，局面；气质，性格 | |
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gem
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| n.宝石，珠宝；受爱戴的人 [同]jewel | |
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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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disorder
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| n.紊乱，混乱；骚动，骚乱；疾病，失调 | |
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45
quills
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| n.（刺猬或豪猪的）刺( quill的名词复数 )；羽毛管；翮；纡管 | |
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46
hearth
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| n.壁炉炉床，壁炉地面 | |
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buckles
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| 搭扣，扣环( buckle的名词复数 ) | |
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noted
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| adj.著名的，知名的 | |
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touching
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| adj.动人的，使人感伤的 | |
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majestically
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| 雄伟地； 庄重地； 威严地； 崇高地 | |
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51
schooling
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| n.教育；正规学校教育 | |
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hoarsely
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| adv.嘶哑地 | |
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conjectured
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| 推测，猜测，猜想( conjecture的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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54
dubbed
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| v.给…起绰号( dub的过去式和过去分词 )；把…称为；配音；复制 | |
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55
choleric
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| adj.易怒的，性情暴躁的 | |
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56
narration
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| n.讲述，叙述；故事；记叙体 | |
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57
wrought
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| v.引起；以…原料制作；运转；adj.制造的 | |
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58
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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smoothly
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| adv.平滑地，顺利地，流利地，流畅地 | |
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perjury
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| n.伪证；伪证罪 | |
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shrilly
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| 尖声的； 光亮的，耀眼的 | |
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goggling
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| v.睁大眼睛瞪视， （惊讶的）转动眼珠( goggle的现在分词 ) | |
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63
jaw
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| n.颚，颌，说教，流言蜚语；v.喋喋不休，教训 | |
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64
growling
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| n.吠声, 咆哮声 v.怒吠, 咆哮, 吼 | |
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65
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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66
snared
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| v.用罗网捕捉，诱陷，陷害( snare的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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67
vagrants
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| 流浪者( vagrant的名词复数 )； 无业游民； 乞丐； 无赖 | |
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68
testily
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| adv. 易怒地, 暴躁地 | |
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69
preposterous
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| adj.荒谬的，可笑的 | |
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70
discomfiture
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| n.崩溃；大败；挫败；困惑 | |
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71
worthy
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| adj.(of)值得的，配得上的；有价值的 | |
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72
recollecting
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| v.记起，想起( recollect的现在分词 ) | |
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73
chuckle
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| vi.／n.轻声笑，咯咯笑 | |
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74
devout
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| adj.虔诚的，虔敬的，衷心的 (n.devoutness) | |
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75
darting
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| v.投掷，投射( dart的现在分词 )；向前冲，飞奔 | |
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76
scurried
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| v.急匆匆地走( scurry的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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77
racing
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| n.竞赛，赛马；adj.竞赛用的，赛马用的 | |
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