My uncle, since his father’s advanced years and decay pointed6 to his speedy death, had torn p. 192himself away from the diversions of London and society, of which he was adjudged an ornament7. Penniless, while he played devoted8 son, he had established an advantageous9 understanding with Blunt and his folk, who would alternate long voyages to America and the Indies, on Lord knows what nefarious11 traffic, with running smuggled12 stuff from the Continent to the English coast. That my uncle fretted13 under the yoke14 of duty manifested itself daily in his covert15 sneers16 at his father; the chagrin17 of Charles, my grandfather remarked to me, had lent a zest18 to living.
The days I spent in Craike House passed dully and without noteworthy event. I did not lose my dread19 of the house in the night; the impressions of my first night under its roof abated20 in no way, but the good-humour of my uncle, the servility of Thrale and his fellow-rogues, the companionship of Oliver, and the sports which I shared with him, lent me a confidence which was to prove groundless. I passed much of my time in playing chess with my grandfather, in reading to him from old voyagers and romancers—of whose works he had by him a great store, or in listening to his narrative21 of his own sailings, which, if incomplete, gave me a portrait of him by no means calculated to advance my affection for him. Yet that I p. 193advanced daily in his favour was patent; my uncle masked his chagrin under a bland22 demeanour, and a display of the graces and accomplishments23 which surely rendered his absence deplored24 by society. But though my grandfather assured me of protection, and though my uncle professed25 a truce26, I would have been wise to follow my first inclination—not to remain under the roof of Craike House, as I shall now relate.
One morn, a month, I should say, from my coming to Rogues’ Haven, my grandfather informing me, through Thrale, that I was free to pass the day as I pleased, I bade Thrale unlock the door for me, and passed out of the house. The gold sunlight lay upon the garden; if it dispelled27 for a time the gloom, it emphasised the disrepair of the old house, the ivy28 climbing to the chimney stacks and lacing the windows; a few it had obscured wholly. As I looked up, I saw the sinister29 face of Mrs. Barwise looking from a high window; she bobbed back instantly. I estimated the covert hostility31 of the rogues of Craike House; and, having a certain apprehension32 of walking abroad unarmed, I took out my knife and speedily fashioned me a heavy cudgel. I went down then by a flight of stone steps into the old sunken garden to the right from p. 194the house,—steps crumbling33 and green with moss34, and overshadowed by a tangle35 of roses and honeysuckle, descending36 into a cool depth which had been laid out once in ornate flower beds and lawns, but was now overrun with fox-gloves, prevailing37 through their sturdy strength over other flowers. Yet the air was sweet with the white-starred jasmine over the crumbling walls, shutting the deep garden from the old plantation38, which had become a dense39 wood.
Once paths had curved to the sundial at the heart of the garden. The dial was broken and corroded40 now; a bramble had caught it in its claws; sparrows fought and chirruped upon it in the sun. Arbours had become thickets41; through the broken wall I saw the wood go deep, but the sunlight struck through the trees upon a path among tall grasses and flowers spilled from the garden.
I climbed the broken wall and sauntered down the woodland path, taking delight in beauty, and presently departing from the track, passed down to left into a deep glade—silver and green in the sunlight; the dew was not yet dry on fern and grass. And suddenly I saw the girl Evelyn Milne,—she sat upon a fallen log, moss-grown and bramble-clustered. Her head was bare; her bonnet42 lying on the turf beside her; she sat bent43 p. 195with her hands clasped at her knees—a picture of melancholy44 and loneliness; yet the sun found the glossy45 sheen in her dark hair, and the whiteness of her neck and hands. At the crack of a stick under my feet, she started up, and stood regarding me with sullen46 eyes. I swept off my hat, but she offered me no greeting.
She looked about her hurriedly; leaning towards me then, she whispered, “Now you’re out of the house—away from them all, why not go on and on through the wood, and never return?”
“You mean,” I said, staring at her pale face, at her white hands fluttering at her bosom48, “it would be safer for me, that I’ll never be safe in the house?”
“I mean—it doesn’t matter what I mean. Only, were I you, and had any friends away from here—were not alone as I am alone—I’d go. I’d never return.”
“Miss Milne,” said I, “I do assure you that I’m not afraid. Why should I run away?”
“Afraid!” she whispered still. “You’re only a fool. You’re only a boy. Your life’s before you. Why would you stay? Hoping to profit, p. 196and be rich, when that old man is dead? Is that why you’d stay? There’s no price that’s worth your life—to you. Why did you ever come to such a house, or, knowing them for what they are, remain?”
“They are my folk,” I muttered, thinking her—from the wildness of her look, the sudden fevered shining of her eyes, the ceaseless fluttering of her thin hands—distraught from the terrors of the house; recalling how, day after day, she sat by me at table, uttering not a word, and addressed by no one; going then from table to be seen no more, till the next meal was served. She had been no more to me than a pale grey shadow in the house of shadows.
Nor had I felt in her more interest than to ask Oliver carelessly how she spent her days; and he had answered, “Hid in her room for the most, haunting the garden; she’s lifeless, bloodless, the wraith49 of a maid.”
“They are my folk,” then, I muttered, staring at her.
“Your folk! Are you as they?” she whispered still. “You think only of the money the old man has, and care not how ’twas come by. You’ll smile and fawn50 on him—that man, that evil old man—as his son smiles and fawns51. Knowing—as you must know—”
p. 197“The manner of man he is, and the manner of the men about him? The danger I’m like to meet? Miss Milne, I’m not afraid. They failed once; do you know that?”
“I know—yes, I know. They failed once; they’ll not fail again”—suddenly leaning forward clasping her hands, peering at me with wild bright eyes, and whispering, “Go! Go now ere it’s too late. Go! and take me with you from this house—this wicked house!”
I was silent, and stared at her, colouring; thinking her surely mad—such the wildness and terror of her look; as realising, she seemed to struggle to control herself; facing me white and quivering, she said at last more calmly, “Mr. Craike, I hear so many secrets in the house. I have lived here so many years—so many lonely years, and am so little accounted, that they do not heed52 me, or care, if I hear many things that, if they feared me, I would not hear and know. Knowing—I do beseech53 you, do not stay within the house! Oh, let no thought of loss, if you offend your grandfather, prevail with you! Go!—ere it is too late!”
I said, standing10 clumsily before her, no longer meeting her look, “Miss Milne, you ask me to assist you. I know—surely by now I know—the house is no house for a maid; I’ll aid you to p. 198leave it. Have you no kin30 or friends out of the house?”
“No kin, no friends. I have lived in this house since I was a little child. No friends within the house; none in all the world.”
“I’ve a purse of gold,” I said. “I’ll give it to you. With it you may make your way to London and seek out Mr. Bradbury. With this message from me—that he conduct you to my mother, who will befriend you. Come—here’s the purse. I’ll go with you through the wood. You may take a coach from the village inn and drive to London. But I stay here.”
She drew back from me. She whispered, “No! Go now, and take me with you! How should I find my way to London alone, or seek out this man Bradbury, or your mother? I have lived nigh all my life in this house; I am afraid. Go with me!”
“Miss Milne, I must remain,” I said.
“For money?” she said, with scorn; but I answered, “Think that if you will. For adventure, for a promise.”
“It’s like to end in death,” cried she, and drew back from me.
“Well, then, what have you heard?” I asked.
“Plots! Plots! What use to tell you, if you p. 199will not heed me? If I tell you, will you go from this house? Will you take me out of it?”
“I do not say I’ll go. But I’ll help you, surely!”
She looked at me with her eyes now dark and sullen; bitterly she said, “I’ve given you warning. I’ll not tell you more. Why should I tell you aught I know? What do I know of you save that you seem a boy—a fool—and not yet lost as they. Though coming of their stock—”
“I do assure you,” I stammered, “I—”
She burst out, “Stay—if you will! Stay! And yet I warn you.” She slipped from me, and vanished like a wraith into the shadows of the wood.
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1
groom
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| vt.给（马、狗等）梳毛，照料，使...整洁 | |
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2
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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eccentricities
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| n.古怪行为( eccentricity的名词复数 )；反常；怪癖 | |
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haven
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| n.安全的地方，避难所，庇护所 | |
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plied
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| v.使用（工具）( ply的过去式和过去分词 )；经常供应（食物、饮料）；固定往来；经营生意 | |
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pointed
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| adj.尖的，直截了当的 | |
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ornament
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| v.装饰，美化；n.装饰，装饰物 | |
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devoted
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| adj.忠诚的，忠实的，热心的，献身于...的 | |
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advantageous
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| adj.有利的；有帮助的 | |
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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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nefarious
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| adj.恶毒的，极坏的 | |
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12
smuggled
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| 水货 | |
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fretted
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| 焦躁的，附有弦马的，腐蚀的 | |
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14
yoke
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| n.轭；支配；v.给...上轭，连接，使成配偶 | |
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covert
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| adj.隐藏的；暗地里的 | |
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sneers
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| 讥笑的表情（言语）( sneer的名词复数 ) | |
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chagrin
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| n.懊恼；气愤；委屈 | |
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zest
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| n.乐趣；滋味，风味；兴趣 | |
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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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20
abated
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| 减少( abate的过去式和过去分词 )； 减去； 降价； 撤消（诉讼） | |
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21
narrative
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| n.叙述，故事；adj.叙事的，故事体的 | |
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bland
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| adj.淡而无味的，温和的，无刺激性的 | |
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accomplishments
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| n.造诣；完成( accomplishment的名词复数 )；技能；成绩；成就 | |
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24
deplored
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| v.悲叹，痛惜，强烈反对( deplore的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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professed
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| 公开声称的，伪称的，已立誓信教的 | |
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truce
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| n.休战，(争执，烦恼等的)缓和；v.以停战结束 | |
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27
dispelled
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| v.驱散，赶跑( dispel的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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ivy
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| n.常青藤，常春藤 | |
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sinister
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| adj.不吉利的，凶恶的，左边的 | |
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30
kin
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| n.家族，亲属，血缘关系；adj.亲属关系的，同类的 | |
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31
hostility
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| n.敌对，敌意；抵制［pl.］交战，战争 | |
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32
apprehension
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| n.理解，领悟；逮捕，拘捕；忧虑 | |
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33
crumbling
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| adj.摇摇欲坠的 | |
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moss
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| n.苔，藓，地衣 | |
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35
tangle
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| n.纠缠；缠结；混乱；v.(使)缠绕；变乱 | |
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36
descending
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| n. 下行 adj. 下降的 | |
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37
prevailing
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| adj.盛行的；占优势的；主要的 | |
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38
plantation
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| n.种植园，大农场 | |
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39
dense
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| a.密集的，稠密的，浓密的；密度大的 | |
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40
corroded
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| 已被腐蚀的 | |
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41
thickets
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| n.灌木丛( thicket的名词复数 )；丛状物 | |
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42
bonnet
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| n.无边女帽；童帽 | |
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43
bent
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| n.爱好，癖好；adj.弯的；决心的，一心的 | |
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44
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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45
glossy
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| adj.平滑的；有光泽的 | |
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46
sullen
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| adj.愠怒的，闷闷不乐的，(天气等)阴沉的 | |
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47
stammered
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| v.结巴地说出( stammer的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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48
bosom
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| n.胸，胸部；胸怀；内心；adj.亲密的 | |
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49
wraith
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| n.幽灵；骨瘦如柴的人 | |
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50
fawn
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| n.未满周岁的小鹿；v.巴结，奉承 | |
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51
fawns
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| n.（未满一岁的）幼鹿( fawn的名词复数 )；浅黄褐色；乞怜者；奉承者v.（尤指狗等）跳过来往人身上蹭以示亲热( fawn的第三人称单数 )；巴结；讨好 | |
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52
heed
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| v.注意，留意；n.注意，留心 | |
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53
beseech
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| v.祈求，恳求 | |
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