For ever and for ever.”
I
N a long, ceilingless room, half kitchen and half parlour, two figures are seated near an enormous fireplace, in which a glowing heap of wood ashes illuminates1 that end of the otherwise somewhat gloomy chamber2. One figure, that of an elderly lady, is reclining in an easy chair. Her brain is evidently busy with anxious and even painful thoughts, the object of which is made evident as she turns her moist eyes, from gazing at the scintillating4 wonderland amongst the embers, to glance from time to time at the form opposite to her.
The lady’s vis-à-vis at the fireside is a well-built, athletic5 young man, to whom we have already been introduced. In the rough garments of a working6 farmer, he lies sleeping there in his chair just as he came in from ploughing twenty minutes before.
The sleepy god, however, has apparently6 less power over the youth’s brain than his body. The twitching7 mouth and hands, the murmured words, show that the anima is busy, if the body is not. The sudden barking of a sharp-voiced collie outside the house presently causes the sleeper8 to open his eyes. They turn immediately to meet the smile of the lady opposite.
“Well, you have not had a very good sleep after all, Claude,” murmured the latter. “I think Dick is back. It was Bob’s barking awakened9 you.”
“Ah,” returned the still dozy10 young man, “that’s all right. The old chap’s rather late, isn’t he? D’you know,” he added slowly, “I’ve been dreaming about my trip to Queensland.” Here Claude rose, and, taking both the lady’s hands in his, continued, “I’ve made up my mind, mother, to run over to Queensland, and find out the particulars of Uncle Sam’s death. I’m not superstitious11, but I’m sure there’s something odd about it. I’ve dreamed a dozen times since we saw that horrible telegram in the paper that poor uncle was calling me to come to him.”
“Nonsense, my boy, nonsense,” gently returned the lady, “you know we can’t spare you. It’s right you should wish to go, Claude, but we can’t spare you. It’s a fearful place, that Queensland.”
“Oh you! Mollie wouldn’t be alone. Would you, Mollie?” Claude remarked in a louder voice, as a pretty young girl tripped into the room, bearing a lighted lamp in her hands.
“Don’t be silly, Claude,” answered the fair one, 7 smoothing down a spotless white cloth upon a table standing12 in the centre of the room. “Dick is back, and he’ll be so famished13. Do run away and get ready for tea.”
“Oh, of course, it’s Dick is hungry now,” laughed the young man; “your poor brother is second fiddle14 in the domestic orchestra since the arrival of the young Irishman.” As one door bangs with the exit of the last speaker, another leading on to the verandah opens and quickly closes, showing in the interval15 a brief picture of fiery16 sunset behind dark fir-trees. A fresh figure is in the room. It is that of a jolly-looking individual, whose plan of construction, so to speak, is more inclined to squareness than height. The younger of the two women is soon helping17 the new-comer to empty his pockets and shoulder-bag of letters and papers, chattering18 all the time. “Oh, Dick, haven’t you got a letter for me?”
“Nary a one, ducky; but I’ve got an important one for Claude. D’you know, Mrs. Angland, it’s from the Queensland police. They sent it here to Inspector19 Goode, and he gave it to me just before I left town. Maybe now it’s something about poor Dr. Dyesart.” Here Claude re-enters the room.
“Well, old man, glad you’re back safe. How did the mare20 go? She was bound to be a bit skittish21 after the long spell she’s had. I hope you’ve had her shod? Have you any news of the Doctor?”
“Taihoa (wait a bit), old chap,” interrupts Dick, with his fingers to his ears to illustrate22 histrionically the pain such rapid questioning is giving him. “Why, Claude, you’re getting as bad as your sister. Here’s a letter for you, which you needn’t apologise for8 opening at tea. I myself beg to move that we do now partake of what our black brethren here call ‘kai,’ alias23 ‘tucker.’”
The little circle now gathered round the white-clothed table consists of an English lady, her son and daughter, and a friend,—a young man from northern Ireland. They had left the old country together, some four years before the time when our story opens, to settle upon a farm in New Zealand.
The youth from the Emerald Isle24 had, some time before leaving his native land, determined25 in his own mind that as long as he could settle down close to his friend Claude’s pretty sister, he would remain perfectly26 contented27 anywhere. Our friends had not been “out” long enough to feel homesick; the many novelties of life in a new country had not yet lost their charms. The rough life was almost like one long picnic. The lovely climate made up for many hardships; and if it would rain a little less at times, and if a market could be depended upon for fowls28 when fattened29 and cheese when made, the life of a New Zealand farmer was one, they all agreed, to be envied.
Claude, to the surprise of his mother, quietly finished his tea before opening the letter. There it lay by his plate in tantalising proximity30 to her hand, containing, perhaps, news of that poor brother of hers,—long estranged31 from all his family through no real fault of his or hers, to wander in a barbarous country, and die at last in the wilderness32 he had braved so long. Tea is cleared away, Dick and Mollie go out into the verandah,—to look at the stars probably,—and in the room the purring of the “harmless necessary cat” upon the hearthrug, and the click click of Mrs. 9 Angland’s knitting needles, are the only sounds. Claude has taken a seat at the lamplit table, and lays the envelope, marked O. H. M. S., and bearing the Queensland postmark, before him upon the red cloth.
He feels instinctively33 his uncle’s presence in that letter. There is no particular sign by which an ordinary observer could tell it from a letter of ordinary importance. Yet Claude knows, and it puzzles him to think how he knows it, that an answer to his dreams is before him. The truth of the theory of animism never appeared clearer to him than at present. The envelope is addressed to Claude Angland, Care of the Superintendent34 of Police, Auckland, N.Z. Below this direction is a note to the effect that the writer will be glad if the aforesaid Claude Angland can be found without delay, and handed the enclosed letter and packet. Inside the envelope is a brief note from some official at Cairns, informing Claude that a small packet, enclosed, having been brought to the station of a Mr. Giles by the late explorer’s black boy, that gentleman had forwarded it to the writer, who took the present means of sending it to Mr. Angland, hoping the simple address, as copied from the packet, would find him. A few words expressive35 of the regret the writer, in common with all colonists36, felt at the loss of such an able explorer as Dr. Dyesart closed the letter.
The packet referred to by the unknown correspondent at Cairns, whose hieroglyphic37 signature looked more like the shadow of a delirious38 spider than the name of a human being, now attracted Claude’s attention. It was about the size of a large walnut39, and its outer covering consisted of a piece of soiled linen40 rag, tightly 10 bound with fine fishing line. In irregular and almost illegible41 blue-black characters, the same address as that upon the envelope had been scrawled42 upon it by aid of an indelible ink pencil. The covering removed,—Claude saw at once it had at one time formed part of the lining3 of a coat,—an empty revolver cartridge43 was discovered, tightly plugged at one end with wood, the joints44 and cap-end being smeared45 over with a kind of resinous46, dark-coloured gum.
Claude’s strong but trembling fingers are not long in removing the wooden stopper, and in his hands is a carefully folded piece of paper, which he recognizes on opening it as a leaf from a sketching47 block. The same handwriting that had attracted the young man’s attention upon the linen wrapper of the packet has covered one side of the opened paper before him.
With head on hand, Claude sits without moving aught save his eyes, poring over the letters. At last, half turning in his chair, his voice pitched in a slightly higher key than usual, he speaks:—
“Mother, here is my summons. I knew I should get one. Come and see poor uncle’s letter.”
Mrs. Angland rises quickly, and stooping over the table, her right hand on her son’s broad shoulder, gazes with filling eyes at the well-known writing on that crumpled48 paper lying there. The writing is small and somewhat obliterated49, and from the varying character and style of the different sentences the same have evidently been written at intervals50. One could easily imagine that a wounded man, who required to rest often from his task, would write such a letter.
“Read it to me, my son, I cannot.”
He reads as follows:—
11
“To my nephew, Claude Angland, of Auckland, New Zealand.
“I am dying before my work is completed. It rests with you to allow me to rest in peace after my death. I wish to make reparation to those I have neglected too long. I have tried to bury the past in science and in work. Your mother will explain all to you at the proper time. Come to where I now lie. You can trust Billy, whom you will remember with me in England. I believe he will get out of this. Come here alone with him, and at once. Good-bye to all. I hope you keep up your chemistry. Beware of squatters and police. This note will be hard to read, but read the whole of it.
“Samuel D. Dyesart.”
“What does he mean?” muses51 Claude out loud, after a pause,—inadvertently speaking as if the writer was still alive, so difficult was it to believe that the hand that had guided the pencil that traced those shaky letters was fast turning into its original dust.
Mrs. Angland comes of a practical stock, and sees the letter only as it is.
“I suppose, poor fellow,” she says, speaking slowly and softly, “he liked to think that some one he had loved in life would visit his lonely grave out there in those fearful wastes. He was very fond of you, Claude, even from the time he first saw you, a mere52 baby. But don’t go, Claude,” she adds beseechingly53; “that horrible Queensland that has cost me a brother shall not take my son.”
“Mother,” interrupts Claude at this point, “you don’t understand what I mean. Let me read the letter to you again.” The letter is re-read. Presently Mrs. Angland breaks the silence.
12
“Perhaps he wants you to finish his work—his horrid54 exploring. God forgive me if I am wicked when I think it was wrong of your uncle to tempt55 you away from me. But perhaps he was wandering in his mind rather. Poor fellow, what he must have suffered! How odd of him to think of your chemistry. ‘I hope you keep up your chemistry,’” quoting from the letter. “Fancy his thinking of that when so near death.”
Claude is listening in silence; but when Mrs. Angland speaks of his uncle’s mention of chemistry, he rises quickly, and, seizing the letter, holds it to the light, and then proceeds to carefully examine the remainder of the packet, including the cartridge case, etc. He is rewarded by finding the single word that heads this chapter scratched upon the tarnished56 brass57 of the latter. “Hidden,” he murmurs58, for luckily he knew a little Greek. “Hidden, what is hidden?” and falls to poring over the letter once more.
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收听单词发音
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1
illuminates
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| v.使明亮( illuminate的第三人称单数 )；照亮；装饰；说明 | |
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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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lining
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| n.衬里，衬料 | |
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scintillating
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| adj．才气横溢的,闪闪发光的; 闪烁的 | |
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athletic
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| adj.擅长运动的，强健的；活跃的，体格健壮的 | |
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apparently
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| adv.显然地；表面上，似乎 | |
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twitching
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| n.颤搐 | |
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sleeper
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| n.睡眠者，卧车，卧铺 | |
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9
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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dozy
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| adj.困倦的；愚笨的 | |
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superstitious
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| adj.迷信的 | |
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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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13
famished
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| adj.饥饿的 | |
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14
fiddle
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| n.小提琴；vi.拉提琴；不停拨弄，乱动 | |
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interval
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| n.间隔，间距；幕间休息，中场休息 | |
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16
fiery
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| adj.燃烧着的，火红的；暴躁的；激烈的 | |
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17
helping
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| n.食物的一份&adj.帮助人的，辅助的 | |
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18
chattering
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| n. （机器振动发出的）咔嗒声，(鸟等)鸣，啁啾 adj. 喋喋不休的，啾啾声的 动词chatter的现在分词形式 | |
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19
inspector
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| n.检查员，监察员，视察员 | |
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mare
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| n.母马，母驴 | |
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21
skittish
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| adj.易激动的，轻佻的 | |
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illustrate
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| v.举例说明，阐明；图解，加插图 | |
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alias
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| n.化名；别名；adv.又名 | |
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isle
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| n.小岛，岛 | |
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determined
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| adj.坚定的；有决心的 | |
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perfectly
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| adv.完美地，无可非议地，彻底地 | |
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27
contented
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| adj.满意的，安心的，知足的 | |
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28
fowls
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| 鸟( fowl的名词复数 )； 禽肉； 既不是这； 非驴非马 | |
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29
fattened
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| v.喂肥( fatten的过去式和过去分词 )；养肥（牲畜）；使（钱）增多；使（公司）升值 | |
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30
proximity
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| n.接近，邻近 | |
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31
estranged
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| adj.疏远的，分离的 | |
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32
wilderness
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| n.杳无人烟的一片陆地、水等，荒漠 | |
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33
instinctively
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| adv.本能地 | |
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34
superintendent
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| n.监督人，主管，总监；(英国)警务长 | |
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expressive
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| adj.表现的，表达…的，富于表情的 | |
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colonists
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| n.殖民地开拓者，移民，殖民地居民( colonist的名词复数 ) | |
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37
hieroglyphic
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| n.象形文字 | |
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delirious
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| adj.不省人事的，神智昏迷的 | |
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walnut
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| n.胡桃，胡桃木，胡桃色，茶色 | |
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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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41
illegible
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| adj.难以辨认的，字迹模糊的 | |
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42
scrawled
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| 乱涂，潦草地写( scrawl的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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43
cartridge
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| n.弹壳，弹药筒；(装磁带等的)盒子 | |
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44
joints
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| 接头( joint的名词复数 )； 关节； 公共场所（尤指价格低廉的饮食和娱乐场所） （非正式）； 一块烤肉 （英式英语） | |
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45
smeared
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| 弄脏； 玷污； 涂抹； 擦上 | |
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46
resinous
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| adj.树脂的，树脂质的，树脂制的 | |
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47
sketching
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| n.草图 | |
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48
crumpled
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| adj. 弯扭的, 变皱的 动词crumple的过去式和过去分词形式 | |
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49
obliterated
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| v.除去( obliterate的过去式和过去分词 )；涂去；擦掉；彻底破坏或毁灭 | |
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50
intervals
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| n.[军事]间隔( interval的名词复数 )；间隔时间；[数学]区间；（戏剧、电影或音乐会的）幕间休息 | |
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51
muses
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| v.沉思，冥想( muse的第三人称单数 )；沉思自语说（某事） | |
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52
mere
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| adj.纯粹的；仅仅，只不过 | |
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53
beseechingly
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| adv. 恳求地 | |
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54
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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55
tempt
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| vt.引诱，勾引，吸引，引起…的兴趣 | |
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56
tarnished
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| （通常指金属）（使）失去光泽，（使）变灰暗( tarnish的过去式和过去分词 )； 玷污，败坏 | |
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57
brass
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| n.黄铜；黄铜器，铜管乐器 | |
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58
murmurs
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| n.低沉、连续而不清的声音( murmur的名词复数 )；低语声；怨言；嘀咕 | |
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