When Squire4 Norman had returned to the house with him after the funeral, he sat in silence holding the boy’s hand till he had wept his heart out. By this time the two were old friends, and the boy was not afraid or too shy to break down before him. There was sufficient of the love of the old generation to begin with trust in the new.
Presently, when the storm was past and Harold had become his own man again, Norman said:
‘And now, Harold, I want you to listen to me. You know, my dear boy, that I am your father’s oldest friend, and right sure I am that he would approve of what I say. You must come home with me to live. I know that in his last hours the great concern of your dear father’s heart would have been for the future of his boy. And I know, too, that it was a comfort to him to feel that you and I are such friends, and that the son of my dearest old friend would be as a son to me. We have been friends, you and I, a long time, Harold; and we have learned to trust, and I hope to love, one another. And you and my little Stephen are such friends already that your coming into the house will be a joy to us all. Why, long ago, when first you came, she said to me the night you went away: “Daddy, wouldn’t it be nice if Harold could come here altogether?”’
And so Harold An Wolf came back with the Squire to Normanstand, and from that day on became a member of his house, and as a son to him. Stephen’s delight at his coming was of course largely qualified5 by her sympathy with his grief; but it would have been hard to give him more comfort than she did in her own pretty way. Putting her lips to his she kissed him, and holding his big hand in both of her little ones, she whispered softly:
‘Poor Harold! You and I should love each other, for we have both lost our mother. And now you have lost your father. But you must let my dear daddy be yours too!’
At this time Harold was between fourteen and fifteen years old. He was well educated in so far as private teaching went. His father had devoted6 much care to him, so that he was well grounded in all the Academic branches of learning. He was also, for his years, an expert in most manly7 exercises. He could ride anything, shoot straight, fence, run, jump or swim with any boy more than his age and size.
In Normanstand his education was continued by the rector. The Squire used often to take him with him when he went to ride, or fish, or shoot; frankly8 telling him that as his daughter was, as yet, too young to be his companion in these matters, he would act as her locum tenens. His living in the house and his helping9 as he did in Stephen’s studies made familiarity perpetual. He was just enough her senior to command her childish obedience10; and there were certain qualities in his nature which were eminently11 calculated to win and keep the respect of women as well as of men. He was the very incarnation of sincerity12, and had now and again, in certain ways, a sublime13 self-negation which, at times, seemed in startling contrast to a manifestly militant14 nature. When at school he had often been involved in fights which were nearly always on matters of principle, and by a sort of unconscious chivalry15 he was generally found fighting on the weaker side. Harold’s father had been very proud of his ancestry16, which was Gothic through the Dutch, as the manifestly corrupted17 prefix18 of the original name implied, and he had gathered from a constant study of the Sagas19 something of the philosophy which lay behind the ideas of the Vikings.
This new stage of Harold’s life made for quicker development than any which had gone before. Hitherto he had not the same sense of responsibility. To obey is in itself a relief; and as it is an actual consolation20 to weak natures, so it is only a retarding21 of the strong. Now he had another individuality to think of. There was in his own nature a vein22 of anxiety of which the subconsciousness23 of his own strength threw up the outcrop.
Little Stephen with the instinct of her sex discovered before long this weakness. For it is a weakness when any quality can be assailed24 or used. The using of a man’s weakness is not always coquetry; but it is something very like it. Many a time the little girl, who looked up to and admired the big boy who could compel her to anything when he was so minded, would, for her own ends, work on his sense of responsibility, taking an elfin delight in his discomfiture25.
The result of Stephen’s harmless little coquetries was that Harold had occasionally either to thwart26 some little plan of daring, or else cover up its results. In either case her confidence in him grew, so that before long he became an established fact in her life, a being in whose power and discretion27 and loyalty28 she had absolute, blind faith. And this feeling seemed to grow with her own growth. Indeed at one time it came to be more than an ordinary faith. It happened thus:
The old Church of St. Stephen, which was the parish church of Normanstand, had a peculiar29 interest for the Norman family. There, either within the existing walls or those which had preceded them when the church was rebuilt by that Sir Stephen who was standard-bearer to Henry VI., were buried all the direct members of the line. It was an unbroken record of the inheritors since the first Sir Stephen, who had his place in the Domesday Book. Without, in the churchyard close to the church, were buried all such of the collaterals30 as had died within hail of Norcester. Some there were of course who, having achieved distinction in various walks of life, were further honoured by a resting-place within the chancel. The whole interior was full of records of the family. Squire Norman was fond of coming to the place; and often from the very beginning had taken Stephen with him. One of her earliest recollections was kneeling down with her father, who held her hand in his, whilst with the other he wiped the tears from his eyes, before a tomb sculptured beautifully in snowy marble. She never forgot the words he had said to her:
‘You will always remember, darling, that your dear mother rests in this sacred place. When I am gone, if you are ever in any trouble come here. Come alone and open out your heart. You need never fear to ask God for help at the grave of your mother!’ The child had been impressed, as had been many and many another of her race. For seven hundred years each child of the house of Norman had been brought alone by either parent and had heard some such words. The custom had come to be almost a family ritual, and it never failed to leave its impress in greater or lesser31 degree.
Whenever Harold had in the early days paid a visit to Normanstand, the church had generally been an objective of their excursions. He was always delighted to go. His love for his own ancestry made him admire and respect that of others; so that Stephen’s enthusiasm in the matter was but another cord to bind32 him to her.
In one of their excursions they found the door into the crypt open; and nothing would do Stephen but that they should enter it. To-day, however, they had no light; but they arranged that on the morrow they would bring candles with them and explore the place thoroughly33. The afternoon of the next day saw them at the door of the crypt with a candle, which Harold proceeded to light. Stephen looked on admiringly, and said in a half-conscious way, the half-consciousness being shown in the implication:
‘You are not afraid of the crypt?’
‘Not a bit! In my father’s church there was a crypt, and I was in it several times.’ As he spoke34 the memory of the last time he had been there swept over him. He seemed to see again the many lights, held in hands that were never still, making a grim gloom where the black shadows were not; to hear again the stamp and hurried shuffle35 of the many feet, as the great oak coffin36 was borne by the struggling mass of men down the steep stairway and in through the narrow door . . . And then the hush37 when voices faded away; and the silence seemed a real thing, as for a while he stood alone close to the dead father who had been all in all to him. And once again he seemed to feel the recall to the living world of sorrow and of light, when his inert38 hand was taken in the strong loving one of Squire Norman.
He paused and drew back.
‘Why don’t you go on?’ she asked, surprised.
He did not like to tell her then. Somehow, it seemed out of place. He had often spoken to her of his father, and she had always been a sympathetic listener; but here, at the entrance of the grim vault39, he did not wish to pain her with his own thoughts of sorrow and all the terrible memories which the similarity of the place evoked40. And even whilst he hesitated there came to him a thought so laden41 with pain and fear that he rejoiced at the pause which gave it to him in time. It was in that very crypt that Stephen’s mother had been buried, and had they two gone in, as they had intended, the girl might have seen her mother’s coffin as he had seen his father’s, but under circumstances which made him shiver. He had been, as he said, often in the crypt at Carstone; and well he knew the sordidness42 of the chamber43 of death. His imagination was alive as well as his memory; he shuddered44, not for himself, but for Stephen. How could he allow the girl to suffer in such a way as she might, as she infallibly would, if it were made apparent to her in such a brutal45 way? How pitiful, how meanly pitiful, is the aftermath of death. Well he remembered how many a night he woke in an agony, thinking of how his father lay in that cold, silent, dust-strewn vault, in the silence and the dark, with never a ray of light or hope or love! Gone, abandoned, forgotten by all, save perhaps one heart which bled . . . He would save little Stephen, if he could, from such a memory. He would not give any reason for refusing to go in.
He blew out the candle, and turned the key in the lock, took it out, and put it in his pocket.
‘Come, Stephen!’ he said, ‘let us go somewhere else. We will not go into the crypt to-day!’
‘Why not?’ The lips that spoke were pouted46 mutinously47 and the face was flushed. The imperious little lady was not at all satisfied to give up the cherished project. For a whole day and night she had, whilst waking, thought of the coming adventure; the thrill of it was not now to be turned to cold disappointment without even an explanation. She did not think that Harold was afraid; that would be ridiculous. But she wondered; and mysteries always annoyed her. She did not like to be at fault, more especially when other people knew. All the pride in her revolted.
‘Why not?’ she repeated more imperiously still.
‘Because, Stephen, there is really a good reason. Don’t ask me, for I can’t tell you. You must take it from me that I am right. You know, dear, that I wouldn’t willingly disappoint you; and I know that you had set your heart on this. But indeed, indeed I have a good reason.’
Stephen was really angry now. She was amenable49 to reason, though she did not consciously know what reason was; but to accept some one else’s reason blindfold50 was repugnant to her nature, even at her then age. She was about to speak angrily, but looking up she saw that Harold’s mouth was set with marble firmness. So, after her manner, she acquiesced51 in the inevitable52 and said:
‘All right! Harold.’
But in the inner recesses53 of her firm-set mind was a distinct intention to visit the vault when more favourable54 circumstances would permit.
点击收听单词发音
1 influenza | |
n.流行性感冒,流感 | |
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2 pneumonia | |
n.肺炎 | |
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3 succumbed | |
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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4 squire | |
n.护卫, 侍从, 乡绅 | |
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5 qualified | |
adj.合格的,有资格的,胜任的,有限制的 | |
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6 devoted | |
adj.忠诚的,忠实的,热心的,献身于...的 | |
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7 manly | |
adj.有男子气概的;adv.男子般地,果断地 | |
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8 frankly | |
adv.坦白地,直率地;坦率地说 | |
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9 helping | |
n.食物的一份&adj.帮助人的,辅助的 | |
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10 obedience | |
n.服从,顺从 | |
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11 eminently | |
adv.突出地;显著地;不寻常地 | |
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12 sincerity | |
n.真诚,诚意;真实 | |
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13 sublime | |
adj.崇高的,伟大的;极度的,不顾后果的 | |
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14 militant | |
adj.激进的,好斗的;n.激进分子,斗士 | |
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15 chivalry | |
n.骑士气概,侠义;(男人)对女人彬彬有礼,献殷勤 | |
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16 ancestry | |
n.祖先,家世 | |
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17 corrupted | |
(使)败坏( corrupt的过去式和过去分词 ); (使)腐化; 引起(计算机文件等的)错误; 破坏 | |
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18 prefix | |
n.前缀;vt.加…作为前缀;置于前面 | |
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19 sagas | |
n.萨迦(尤指古代挪威或冰岛讲述冒险经历和英雄业绩的长篇故事)( saga的名词复数 );(讲述许多年间发生的事情的)长篇故事;一连串的事件(或经历);一连串经历的讲述(或记述) | |
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20 consolation | |
n.安慰,慰问 | |
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21 retarding | |
使减速( retard的现在分词 ); 妨碍; 阻止; 推迟 | |
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22 vein | |
n.血管,静脉;叶脉,纹理;情绪;vt.使成脉络 | |
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23 subconsciousness | |
潜意识;下意识 | |
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24 assailed | |
v.攻击( assail的过去式和过去分词 );困扰;质问;毅然应对 | |
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25 discomfiture | |
n.崩溃;大败;挫败;困惑 | |
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26 thwart | |
v.阻挠,妨碍,反对;adj.横(断的) | |
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27 discretion | |
n.谨慎;随意处理 | |
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28 loyalty | |
n.忠诚,忠心 | |
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29 peculiar | |
adj.古怪的,异常的;特殊的,特有的 | |
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30 collaterals | |
n.附属担保品( collateral的名词复数 ) | |
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31 lesser | |
adj.次要的,较小的;adv.较小地,较少地 | |
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32 bind | |
vt.捆,包扎;装订;约束;使凝固;vi.变硬 | |
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33 thoroughly | |
adv.完全地,彻底地,十足地 | |
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34 spoke | |
n.(车轮的)辐条;轮辐;破坏某人的计划;阻挠某人的行动 v.讲,谈(speak的过去式);说;演说;从某种观点来说 | |
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35 shuffle | |
n.拖著脚走,洗纸牌;v.拖曳,慢吞吞地走 | |
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36 coffin | |
n.棺材,灵柩 | |
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37 hush | |
int.嘘,别出声;n.沉默,静寂;v.使安静 | |
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38 inert | |
adj.无活动能力的,惰性的;迟钝的 | |
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39 vault | |
n.拱形圆顶,地窖,地下室 | |
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40 evoked | |
[医]诱发的 | |
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41 laden | |
adj.装满了的;充满了的;负了重担的;苦恼的 | |
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42 sordidness | |
n.肮脏;污秽;卑鄙;可耻 | |
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43 chamber | |
n.房间,寝室;会议厅;议院;会所 | |
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44 shuddered | |
v.战栗( shudder的过去式和过去分词 );发抖;(机器、车辆等)突然震动;颤动 | |
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45 brutal | |
adj.残忍的,野蛮的,不讲理的 | |
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46 pouted | |
v.撅(嘴)( pout的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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47 mutinously | |
adv.反抗地,叛变地 | |
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48 kindly | |
adj.和蔼的,温和的,爽快的;adv.温和地,亲切地 | |
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49 amenable | |
adj.经得起检验的;顺从的;对负有义务的 | |
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50 blindfold | |
vt.蒙住…的眼睛;adj.盲目的;adv.盲目地;n.蒙眼的绷带[布等]; 障眼物,蒙蔽人的事物 | |
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51 acquiesced | |
v.默认,默许( acquiesce的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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52 inevitable | |
adj.不可避免的,必然发生的 | |
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53 recesses | |
n.壁凹( recess的名词复数 );(工作或业务活动的)中止或暂停期间;学校的课间休息;某物内部的凹形空间v.把某物放在墙壁的凹处( recess的第三人称单数 );将(墙)做成凹形,在(墙)上做壁龛;休息,休会,休庭 | |
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54 favourable | |
adj.赞成的,称赞的,有利的,良好的,顺利的 | |
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