But there was an end of this now. A new phase of life had begun for Chudleigh Wilmot, when he recoiled8, like one who has received a deadly thrust, and whose life-blood rushes forth9 in answer to it, from the announcement made to him by his servant. He realised the truth of the man's statement as the words passed his lips; he was not a man whose brain was ever slow to take any impression, and he knew in an instant and thoroughly10 understood that his wife was dead. A very few minutes more sufficed to show him all that was implied by that tremendous truth. His wife was dead; not of a sudden illness assailing11 the fortress12 of life and carrying it by one blow, but of an illness that had had time in which to do its deadly work. His wife was dead; had died alone, in the care of hirelings, while he had been away in attendance upon a stranger, one out of his own sphere, not even a regular patient, one for whom he had already neglected pressing duties--not so sacred indeed as that which he could now never fulfil or recall, but binding13 enough to have brought severe reflections upon him for their neglect. The thought of all this surged up within him, and overwhelmed him in a sea of trouble, while yet his face had not subsided14 from the look of horror with which he had heard his servant's awful announcement.
He turned abruptly15 into his consulting-room and shut the door between him and the man, who had attempted to follow him, but who now turned his attention to dismissing the cab and getting in his master's luggage, during which process he informed cabby of the state of affairs.
"I thought there were something up," remarked that individual, "when I see the two-pair front with the windows open and the blinds down, and all the house shut up; but he didn't notice it." An observation which the servant commented upon later, and drew certain conclusions from, considerably16 nearer the truth than Wilmot would have liked, had he had heart or leisure for any minor17 considerations. Presently Wilmot called the man; who entered the consulting-room, and found his master almost as pale as the corpse18 upstairs in "the two-pair front," where the windows were open and the blinds were down, but perfectly19 calm and quiet.
"Is there a nurse in the house?"
"Yes, sir; a nurse has been here since this day week, sir."
"Send her here--stay--has Dr. Whittaker been here to-day?"
"No, sir; he were here last night, a half an hour after my missus departed, sir; but he ain't been here since. He said he would come at one, sir, to see your answer to the telegraft, sir."
"Very well; send the nurse to me;" and Wilmot strode towards the darkened window, and leaned against the wire-blind which covered the lower compartment20. He had not to wait long. Presently the man returned.
"If you please, sir, the nurse has gone home to fetch some clothes, and Susan is a-watchin' the body."
Chudleigh Wilmot started, and ground his teeth. It was perfectly true; the proper phrase had been used by this poor churl21, who had no notion of fine susceptibilities and no intention of wounding them, who would not have remained away from his own wife if she had been ill, not to say dying, for the highest wages and the best perquisites22 to be had in any house in London, but to whom a corpse was a corpse, and that was all about it. The phrase did not make the dreadful truth a bit more dreadful or more true, but it made Wilmot wince23 and quiver.
"Is there no one else--upstairs?" he asked.
"No, sir. Mrs. Prendergast were here all night, sir, and she is coming again to meet Dr. Whittaker; but there's no one but Susan a-watchin' now, sir. We was waiting for orders from you."
"Tell Susan to leave the room, if you please; I am going upstairs."
The man went away, and returned in a few minutes with a key, which he laid upon the table, and then silently withdrew. His master was still standing25 by the window, his face turned away. A considerable interval26 elapsed before the silent group of listeners, comprising all the servants of the establishment, upon the kitchen-stairs, heard the widower27's slow and heavy step ascending28 the front staircase.
The sight which Chudleigh Wilmot had to see, the strife29 of feeling which he had to encounter, were none the less terrible to him that death was familiar to him in every shape, in every preliminary of anguish30 and fear, in all that distorts its repose31 and renders its features terrible. It is an error surely to suppose that the familiarity of the physician with suffering and death, with all the ills that render the pilgrimage of life burdensome and the earthy vesture repulsive32, makes the experience of these things when brought home to him easier to bear. The sickness that defies his skill, the life that eludes33 his grasp, is as dark an enigma34, as terrible a defeat to him as to the man who knows nothing about the dissolving frame but that it holds the being he loves and is doomed35 to lose.
If Chudleigh Wilmot had had a deadly, vindictive36, and relentless37 enemy,--one of those creatures of romance, but incredible in real life, who gloat over the misery38 of a hated object, and would increase it by every fiendish device within their ingenuity39 and power,--that fabulous40 being might have been satisfied with the mental torture which he endured when he found himself within the room, so formally arranged, so faultlessly orderly, so terribly suggestive of the cessation of life, in which his dead wife lay. As he turned the key in the lock, for the first time a sense of unreality, of impossibility came over him, with a swift bewildering remembrance--rather a vision than a recollection--of the last time he had seen her. He saw her standing in the hall, in the low light of the autumn evening, her pretty fresh dinner-dress lifted daintily out of the way of the servant carrying his portmanteau to the cab; her head, with its coronet of dark hair, held up to receive her husband's careless kiss, as he followed the man to the door. He remembered how carelessly he had kissed her, and how--he had never thought of it before--she had not returned the caress41. When had she kissed him last? This was a trifling42 thing, that he had never thought about till now--a question he could not answer, and had never asked till now; and in another moment he would be looking at her dead face!
The window-blinds fluttered in the faint autumn wind as Wilmot opened the door, then quickly closed and locked it; and the rustling43 sound added to the impressiveness of the great human silence. The hands of the stern woman who loved her had ordered all the surroundings of the dead tenderly and gracefully44; and the tranquil46 form lay in its deep rest very fair and solemn, and not terrible to look upon, if that can ever be said of death, in its garments of linen47 and lace. The head was a little bent48, the face turned gently to one side, and the long dark eyelashes lay on the cheek, which was hardly at all sunken, as if they might be lifted up again and the light of life seen under them. Death was indeed there, but the sign and the seal were not impressed upon the face yet for a little while. Wilmot looked upon the dead tearless and still for some minutes, and then a quick short shudder49 ran through him, and he replaced the covering which had concealed50 the features, and sat down by the bedside, hiding his face with his hands.
Who could put on paper the thoughts that swept over him then, and swept his mind away in their turmoil51, and tossed him to and fro in a tempest of anguish which even the majestic52 tranquillity53 of death in presence was powerless to quell54? Who could measure the punishment, the tremendous retribution of those hours, in which, if the world could have known anything about them, the world would have seen only the natural, the praiseworthy grief of bereavement55? Who shall say through what purifying fires of self-knowledge and self-abasement the nature of the erring56 man passed in that dreadful vigil? And yet he did not know the truth. His conscience had been rudely awakened57, but his comprehension had not yet been enlightened. He did not yet know the terrible depths of meaning which he had still to explore in the words which were the only articulate sounds that had formed themselves amid the chaos59 of his grief--"Too late; too late!" The failure in duty, the poverty, the niggardliness60 in love, the negligence61, the dallying62 with right, in so far as his wife had been concerned, were all there, keeping him ghastly company, as he sat by the side of the dead; but the grimmest and the ghastliest phantoms63 which were to swarm64 around him were not yet evoked65.
To do Chudleigh Wilmot justice, he had no notion that his wife had been unhappy. That he had never rightly understood her character or read her heart, was the soundest proof that he had not loved her; but he had never taken himself to task on that point, and had been quite satisfied to impute66 such symptoms of discontent as he could not fail to notice to her sullenness67 of temper, of which he considered himself wonderfully tolerant. So little did this wise, rising man understand women, that he actually believed that indifference68 to his wife's moods was a good-humoured sort of kindness she could not fail to appreciate. She had appreciated it only too truly. The source of much of the remorse69 and self-condemnation which tortured him now was to be traced to his own newly-awakened feelings, to the fresh and novel susceptibility which the experience of the past few weeks had aroused, and in which lay the germs of some terrible lessons for the man whose studies in all but the lore58 of the human heart had been so deep, whose knowledge of that had been so strangely shallow. And now no knowledge could avail. The harm, the wrong, the cruel ill that had been done, was gone before him to the judgment70; and he must live to learn its extent, to feel its bitterness with every day of life, which could never avail to lessen71 or repair it.
When Dr. Whittaker arrived, he found Wilmot in his consulting-room, quite calm and steady, and prepared to receive his professional account of the "melancholy72 occurrence," on which he condoled73 with the bereaved74 husband after the most approved models. He did not attempt to disguise from Wilmot that he had been disagreeably surprised by his non-return under the circumstances. "Also," he added, "by your not sending me any instructions, though indeed at that stage nothing could have availed, I am convinced."
Wilmot received these observations with such unmistakable surprise that an explanation ensued, which elicited75 the fact that he had never received any letter from Dr. Whittaker, and indeed had had no intimation of his wife's illness, beyond that conveyed in a letter from herself a fortnight previous to her death, and in which she treated it as quite a trifling matter.
"Very extraordinary indeed," said Dr. Whittaker in a dry and unsatisfactory tone. "I can only repeat that I sent you the fullest possible report, and entreated76 you to return at once. I was particularly anxious, as Mrs. Wilmot confessed to me that you were unaware77 of her situation."
"I never had the letter," said Wilmot; "I never heard of or from you, beyond the memoranda78 enclosed in my wife's letters."
"Very extraordinary," repeated Dr. Whittaker still more drily than before. "She took the letter at her own particular request, saying she would direct it, that the sight of her handwriting on the envelope, she being unable to write more, might reassure79 you."
Wilmot coloured deeply and angrily under his brother physician's searching gaze. He had not looked for his wife's infrequent letters with any anxiety; he had had no quick, love-inspired apprehension80 to be assuaged81 by her womanly considerateness. He felt an uneasy sort of gladness that she had thought he had had such apprehension--better so, even now, when all mistakes were doomed to be everlasting,--or when they were quite cleared up. Which was it? He did not know; he did not like to think. All was over; all was too late.
"I never received any such letter," he said again; "and I am astonished you did not write again when you got no answer."
"I did not write again, because Mrs. Wilmot gave me so very decidedly to understand that you had told her you could not, under any circumstances, leave Kilsyth; and danger was not imminent82 until Monday, when I telegraphed, just too late to catch you."
No more was said upon the point; but on Wilmot's mind was left a painful and disagreeable impression that Dr. Whittaker had received his explanation with distrust. The colloquy83 between the two physicians lasted long; and Wilmot was further engaged for a long time in giving the necessary attention to the distressing84 details which claim a hearing just at the time when they most disturb and jar with the tone of feeling. A sense of shock and hurry--a difficulty of realising the event which had occurred, quite other than the stunned85 feeling of conviction which had come with the first reception of the intelligence--beset him, while the nameless evidences of death were constantly pressed upon his attention. He sat in his consulting-room, receiving messages and communications of every kind, hearing the subdued86 voices of the servants as they replied to inquiries87, feeling as though he were living through a terrible feverish88 dream, conscious of all around him, and yet strangely, awfully89 conscious too of the dead white face upstairs growing, as he knew, more stiff and stark90 and awful as the hours, so crowded yet so lonely, so busy yet so dreary91, flew, no, dragged--which was it?--along.
Many times that day, as Chudleigh Wilmot sat cold and grave, and, although deeply sad, more composed, more like himself than most men would have been in similar circumstances--a vision rose before his mind. It was a vision such as has come to many a mourner--a vision of what might have been. For it was not only his wife's death that the new-made widower had learned that day; he had learned that which had made her death doubly sad, far more untimely. The vision Chudleigh saw in his day-dream was of a fair young mother and her child, a happy wife in the summer-time of her beauty and her pride of motherhood--this was what might have been. What was, was a dead white face upstairs upon the bed, waiting for the coffin92 and the grave, and a blighted93 hope, a promise never to be fulfilled, which had never even been whispered between the living and the dead.
Mrs. Prendergast had been in the darkened house for many hours of that long day. Wilmot knew she was there; but she had sent him no message, and he had made no attempt to see her. He shrank from seeing her; and yet he wished to know all that she, and she alone, could tell him. If he had ever loved his wife sufficiently94 to be jealous of any other sharing or even usurping95 her confidence, to have resented that any other should have a more intimate knowledge of Mabel's sentiments and tastes, should have occupied her time and her attention more fully45 than he, Henrietta Prendergast's intimacy96 with her might have elicited such feeling. But Chudleigh Wilmot had not loved his wife enough for jealousy97 of the nobler, and was too much of a gentleman for jealousy of the baser kind. No such insidious98 element of ill ever had a place in his nature; and, except that he did not like Mrs. Prendergast, whom he considered a clever woman of a type more objectionable than common--and Wilmot was not an admirer of clever women generally--he never resented, or indeed noticed, the exceptional place she occupied among the number of his wife's friends. But there was something lurking99 in his thoughts to-day; there was some unfaced, some unquestioned misery at work within him, something beyond the tremendous shock he had received, the deep natural grief and calamity100 which enshrouded him, that made him shrink from seeing Henrietta until he should have had more time to get accustomed to the truth.
When the night had fallen, he heard the light tread of women's feet in the hall and a gentle whispering. Then the street-door was softly shut, and carriage-wheels rolled away. The gas had been lighted in Wilmot's room, but he had turned it almost out, and was sitting in the dim light, when a knock at the door aroused his attention. The intruder was the "Susan" already mentioned. Mrs. Wilmot had not boasted an "own maid;" but this girl, one of the housemaids, had been in fact her personal attendant. She came timidly towards her master, her eyes red and her face pale with grief and watching.
"Well, what is it now?" said Wilmot impatiently. He was weary of disturbance101; he wanted to be securely alone, and to think it out.
"Mrs. Prendergast desired me to give you this, sir," the girl replied, handing him a small packet, "and to say she wants to see you, sir, to-morrow--respecting some messages from missus."
He took the parcel from her, and Susan left the room. Before she reached the stairs, her master called her back. "Susan," he said, "where's the seal-ring your mistress always wore? This parcel contains her keys and her wedding-ring; where is the seal-ring? Has it been left on her hand?"
"No, sir," said Susan; "and I can't think where it can have got to. Missus hasn't wore it, sir, not this fortnight; and I have looked everywhere for it. You'll find all her things quite right, sir, except that ring; and Mrs. Prendergast, she knows nothing about it neither; for I called her my own self to take off missus's wedding-ring, as it was missus's own wish as she should do it, and she missed the seal-ring there and then, sir, and couldn't account for it no more than me."
"Very well, Susan, it can't be helped," replied Wilmot; and Susan again left him.
He sat long, looking at the golden circlet as it lay in the broad palm of his hand. It had never meant so much to him before; and even yet he was far from knowing all it had meant to her from whose dead hand it had been taken. At last, and with some difficulty, he placed the ring upon the little finger of his left hand, saying as he did so, "I must find the other, and always wear them both.".
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1
possessed
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| adj.疯狂的；拥有的，占有的 | |
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reticence
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| n.沉默，含蓄 | |
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intensified
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| v.（使）增强， （使）加剧( intensify的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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warped
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| adj.反常的；乖戾的；（变）弯曲的；变形的v.弄弯，变歪( warp的过去式和过去分词 )；使（行为等）不合情理，使乖戾， | |
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wholesome
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| adj.适合；卫生的；有益健康的；显示身心健康的 | |
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dubious
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| adj.怀疑的，无把握的；有问题的，靠不住的 | |
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distinctive
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| adj.特别的，有特色的，与众不同的 | |
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recoiled
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| v.畏缩( recoil的过去式和过去分词 )；退缩；报应；返回 | |
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forth
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| adv.向前；向外，往外 | |
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thoroughly
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| adv.完全地，彻底地，十足地 | |
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assailing
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| v.攻击( assail的现在分词 )；困扰；质问；毅然应对 | |
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fortress
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| n.堡垒，防御工事 | |
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binding
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| 有约束力的，有效的，应遵守的 | |
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subsided
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| v.（土地）下陷（因在地下采矿）( subside的过去式和过去分词 )；减弱；下降至较低或正常水平；一下子坐在椅子等上 | |
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abruptly
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| adv.突然地，出其不意地 | |
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considerably
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| adv.极大地；相当大地；在很大程度上 | |
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minor
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| adj.较小(少)的，较次要的；n.辅修学科；vi.辅修 | |
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corpse
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| n.尸体，死尸 | |
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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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compartment
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| n.卧车包房，隔间；分隔的空间 | |
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churl
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| n.吝啬之人；粗鄙之人 | |
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perquisites
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| n.（工资以外的）财务补贴( perquisite的名词复数 )；额外收入；（随职位而得到的）好处；利益 | |
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wince
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| n.畏缩，退避，（因痛苦，苦恼等)面部肌肉抽动；v.畏缩，退缩，退避 | |
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spoke
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| 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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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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interval
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| n.间隔，间距；幕间休息，中场休息 | |
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widower
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| n.鳏夫 | |
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ascending
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| adj.上升的，向上的 | |
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strife
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| n.争吵，冲突，倾轧，竞争 | |
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anguish
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| n.(尤指心灵上的)极度痛苦，烦恼 | |
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repose
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| v.(使)休息；n.安息 | |
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repulsive
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| adj.排斥的，使人反感的 | |
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eludes
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| v.（尤指机敏地）避开( elude的第三人称单数 )；逃避；躲避；使达不到 | |
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enigma
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| n.谜，谜一样的人或事 | |
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doomed
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| 命定的 | |
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vindictive
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| adj.有报仇心的，怀恨的，惩罚的 | |
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relentless
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| adj.残酷的，不留情的，无怜悯心的 | |
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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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ingenuity
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| n.别出心裁；善于发明创造 | |
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fabulous
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| adj.极好的；极为巨大的；寓言中的，传说中的 | |
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caress
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| vt./n.爱抚，抚摸 | |
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trifling
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| adj.微不足道的；没什么价值的 | |
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rustling
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| n. 瑟瑟声，沙沙声 adj. 发沙沙声的 | |
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gracefully
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| ad.大大方方地；优美地 | |
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fully
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| adv.完全地，全部地，彻底地；充分地 | |
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tranquil
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| adj. 安静的, 宁静的, 稳定的, 不变的 | |
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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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bent
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| n.爱好，癖好；adj.弯的；决心的，一心的 | |
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shudder
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| v.战粟，震动，剧烈地摇晃；n.战粟，抖动 | |
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concealed
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| a.隐藏的，隐蔽的 | |
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turmoil
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| n.骚乱，混乱，动乱 | |
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52
majestic
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| adj.雄伟的，壮丽的，庄严的，威严的，崇高的 | |
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tranquillity
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| n. 平静, 安静 | |
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quell
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| v.压制，平息，减轻 | |
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55
bereavement
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| n.亲人丧亡，丧失亲人，丧亲之痛 | |
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erring
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| 做错事的，错误的 | |
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57
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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lore
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| n.传说；学问，经验，知识 | |
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chaos
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| n.混乱，无秩序 | |
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niggardliness
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negligence
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| n.疏忽，玩忽，粗心大意 | |
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dallying
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| v.随随便便地对待( dally的现在分词 )；不很认真地考虑；浪费时间；调情 | |
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phantoms
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| n.鬼怪，幽灵( phantom的名词复数 ) | |
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swarm
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| n.(昆虫)等一大群；vi.成群飞舞；蜂拥而入 | |
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evoked
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| [医]诱发的 | |
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impute
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| v.归咎于 | |
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sullenness
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| n. 愠怒, 沉闷, 情绪消沉 | |
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indifference
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| n.不感兴趣，不关心，冷淡，不在乎 | |
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remorse
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| n.痛恨，悔恨，自责 | |
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judgment
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| n.审判；判断力，识别力，看法，意见 | |
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lessen
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| vt.减少，减轻；缩小 | |
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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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condoled
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| v.表示同情，吊唁( condole的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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bereaved
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| adj.刚刚丧失亲人的v.使失去（希望、生命等）( bereave的过去式和过去分词)；（尤指死亡）使丧失（亲人、朋友等）；使孤寂；抢走（财物） | |
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elicited
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| 引出，探出( elicit的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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entreated
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| 恳求，乞求( entreat的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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unaware
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| a.不知道的，未意识到的 | |
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memoranda
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| n. 备忘录, 便条 名词memorandum的复数形式 | |
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reassure
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| v.使放心，使消除疑虑 | |
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apprehension
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| n.理解，领悟；逮捕，拘捕；忧虑 | |
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assuaged
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| v.减轻( assuage的过去式和过去分词 )；缓和；平息；使安静 | |
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imminent
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| adj.即将发生的，临近的，逼近的 | |
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colloquy
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| n.谈话，自由讨论 | |
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distressing
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| a.使人痛苦的 | |
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stunned
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| adj. 震惊的，惊讶的 动词stun的过去式和过去分词 | |
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subdued
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| adj. 屈服的，柔和的，减弱的 动词subdue的过去式和过去分词 | |
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inquiries
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| n.调查( inquiry的名词复数 )；疑问；探究；打听 | |
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feverish
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| adj.发烧的，狂热的，兴奋的 | |
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awfully
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| adv.可怕地，非常地，极端地 | |
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stark
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| adj.荒凉的；严酷的；完全的；adv.完全地 | |
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dreary
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| adj.令人沮丧的，沉闷的，单调乏味的 | |
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coffin
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| n.棺材，灵柩 | |
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blighted
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| adj.枯萎的，摧毁的 | |
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sufficiently
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| adv.足够地，充分地 | |
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usurping
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| 篡夺，霸占( usurp的现在分词 )； 盗用； 篡夺，篡权 | |
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intimacy
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| n.熟悉，亲密，密切关系，亲昵的言行 | |
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jealousy
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| n.妒忌，嫉妒，猜忌 | |
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insidious
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| adj.阴险的，隐匿的，暗中为害的，（疾病）不知不觉之间加剧 | |
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lurking
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| 潜在 | |
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calamity
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| n.灾害，祸患，不幸事件 | |
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101
disturbance
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| n.动乱，骚动；打扰，干扰；(身心)失调 | |
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