By heaping coals of fire upon its head.”
Goldsmith.
When the Countess of Dashleigh, with bitter words of reproach, had departed from the cottage of Bardon, she left her late entertainers in a state of mind little to be envied. The unfortunate Cecilia was for the rest of the day much in the position of one who, with hands tied, is caged up with a large hornet which has been irritated, and which goes about buzzing with evident determination to find or to make a foe2. Everything went wrong with the doctor, and his daughter was the only being within reach of the hornet’s sting!
Bardon’s temper broke out especially at dinner, where every little luxury which had been prepared for Annabella served as a provocation3 to her irritated host. The unfortunate chicken (a delicacy4 till lately almost unknown at the little cottage), could not have been more denounced as tough, tasteless, and uneatable, if it had been a roasted owl5. The tartlets (made surreptitiously by poor Cecilia in the[243] absence of Mrs. Bates) roused such an angry storm against all the inventors, makers6, and eaters of such abominable7 trash, that Cecilia silently resolved that they should never appear on the table again; she would rather throw them into the road! Miss Bardon’s gaily8 tinted9 bubble of grandeur10 had broken, and left behind nothing but bitterness and—bills!
The fact was that Dr. Bardon was angry with himself, though a great deal too proud to own it. He was haunted by the countenance11 of the unfortunate Dashleigh as he last had seen it in the car, and had a strong persuasion12 on his mind that the earl, in a fit of frenzy13, would fling himself out of the balloon, and be dashed to pieces in the fall! The subject of the ascent14 of the Eaglet was one so painful to Bardon that he would endure no allusion15 to it; and Cecilia soon discovered that there was no method of raising a storm so certain, as that of uttering aloud the conjectures16 and apprehensions17 to which such an event naturally gave rise. Silence, particularly on so interesting a subject, was a cruel penance18 to the poor lady, to whom gossip was one of the few remaining pleasures of life, but to that penance she was obliged to submit as being the lesser19 of two evils.
The anxious vicar himself had not passed a more disturbed night with the images of his child and his brother breaking his rest, than did the proud[244] old doctor. Conscience had at length made him miserable20, although it had not made him meek21. He was no longer stormy, but he was sullen; and he did not even choose to communicate to his daughter his intention of calling on the Aumerles as soon as his breakfast should be concluded, in order to inquire whether anything had been heard of the missing balloon.
The postman, who had just left at the vicarage “The Fairy Lake” for the Countess of Dashleigh, now called at the cottage with a letter. The doctor’s correspondents were so very few in number that such an event was sufficiently22 rare to excite attention; and Bardon’s mind was so pre-occupied with the idea of coming misfortune and death, that he turned pale on seeing that the epistle directed to him was sealed and deep-bordered with black.
Cecilia, who had her full allowance of natural curiosity, watched the countenance of her father as he broke open and perused23 the letter. She saw his colour return, while his eye-brows were elevated as if in surprise; he read the epistle twice without comment, and then silently handed it over to his daughter.
The letter was a formal notification from the executors of the late Thomas Auger24, Esq., that that gentleman had, by a will executed but a few days previous to his decease, given and bequeathed the dwelling-house called Nettleby Tower, and the land[245] appertaining thereto, to Timon Bardon, M.D., the only surviving son of their former proprietor25; and that he willed also that the said Timon Bardon should be paid from his estate a sum equal to that which had been expended26 by him in his lawsuit27 with the testator for the property above mentioned.
Cecilia, almost as much delighted as she was surprised, glanced up eagerly at her father. She read no exultation28 in his countenance, but rather a thoughtful sorrow, which his daughter could scarcely understand. Could she have penetrated29 his reflections, they would have appeared somewhat like the following: “Such, then, was the last act of the man whom I hated, over the announcement of whose death I gloated with malignant30 triumph! He remembered me on his death-bed; while struggling with the last enemy, he sought to make reparation for a wrong committed years ago, but never forgotten or forgiven by me. Through his sense of justice, I am at length restored to the home and estate of my fathers. Prosperity is sent to me, but through a channel so unexpected, and at a moment so painful, that I scarcely know how to welcome it, for I feel as though I did not deserve it.”
“Papa,” cried Cecilia, “do you not rejoice?”
Bardon turned silently away. To compare greater things with less, his were something of the emotions of a child who has justly incurred31 a parent’s displeasure, and who, while awaiting in a[246] spirit of sullen rebellion a further manifestation32 of wrath33, is surprised by a sudden token of love, unexpected as unmerited. The child, if a spark of generous feeling be left in his nature, is more pained by the kindness of his offended parent than he would have been by a sign of anger. His heart is melted; his conscience is touched. Timon Bardon had hardened his heart in adversity; he had girt on the panoply34 of pride; he had gloried in his powers of endurance, as one ready to do battle with the world, and to trample35 down all its frivolous36 distinctions. He had been ever trying to conceal37 the fact that he was a sad and disappointed man, both from himself and others, by affecting a contempt for all the worldly advantages which Providence38 had seen fit to deny; but to have these advantages suddenly restored to him, and at a period when he was conscious,—could not but be conscious,—that he had merited a Father’s chastening rod, had a much more softening39 effect upon him than would have been produced by adversity’s heaviest stroke. The tidings which came in the evening of the safety of the travellers in the Eaglet, gave a much keener sense of pleasure to Bardon than had been produced by the news of the morning.
And now we will return to the countess and her companions. The horses of their carriage were urged to speed, yet were they barely in time to catch the train, and the party had scarcely taken[247] their seats before it began to move on. Oh, how Annabella longed to give the wings of her own impatience40 to the lagging engine! How her yearning41 spirit realized the complaint,—
“Miles interminably spread,
Seem lengthening42 as I go!”
Night had closed around before the travellers reached the little station which was nearest to the place of their destination,—a small, lonely post at which the train merely stopped for two minutes to suffer the party to alight.
“Can any conveyance43 be procured44 here?” asked Aumerle of the solitary45 station official who was assisting to put down their luggage.
“No, sir,” was the unsatisfactory reply. “There was a chaise sent here two hours ago for a gentleman who came by last train; nothing of the kind is to be had here, unless it’s ordered aforehand from the town.”
“Is that chaise likely to return hither?”
“Can’t say, sir,” answered the man. “I believe that it took a doctor and nurse to a place where a nobleman’s lying ill, who was picked up to-day from the sea.”
“The sea!” echoed the astonished listeners.
“Fallen out of a balloon, as I understand,” said the man. “There was a party of three, and they were all saved by one of our fishing-smacks that was just coming in from a cruise.”
[248]
“Oh, guide us to the place where they are!” exclaimed the countess.
“Can’t leave the station, ma’am,” replied the official, looking with some curiosity and interest on the pale, eager face on which the light of the gas-lamp fell; “besides, I’ve not been long at this place, and don’t know exactly where the cottage lies.”
“What are we to do?” exclaimed Ida.
“Now I think on it,” said the station-man, slowly, “the doctor asked me when the last train would go back to Exeter to-night. I take it he’s likely to return; and you could have the chaise that brings him.”
“When does that train pass?” inquired the vicar.
“Within an hour,” replied the man, glancing round at the large clock behind him. “Will not the ladies walk into the waiting-room?—it is better than standing46 out here on the platform.”
“It appears our best course,” said the vicar, addressing the countess, “to await here the return of the doctor, and avail ourselves of the only conveyance that seems likely to call here to-night.”
“Oh no, no!” exclaimed Annabella, wildly; “every minute of delay is an age in purgatory47! The doctor may never come. Augustine will not suffer him to quit Dashleigh for an hour! I wait for no one; I will try to find my way to the cottage;—I go at once, even if I go alone!”
As Annabella remained firm in her resolution, the[249] party, after gleaning48 such scanty49 information as the man at the station could give, and procuring50 from him a lantern, set out on their dreary51 way. Perfect darkness is seldom known in Devon on a night in May, but clouds and the absence of the moon rendered the atmosphere unusually obscure. Strange and phantom-like looked the black shadows of their own forms to the travellers, as the glare of the lantern cast them on the chalky cliffs that bordered their road. The path was rough and steep, strewn with stone boulders52 here and there, which seemed to have rolled down from the rocky heights above.
After a long, toilsome struggle up a gorge53, where the countess much needed the aid of the vicar’s arm, the party emerged on the summit of a hill, whence in daylight they would have commanded an extensive prospect54. Now faint gleams of summer light alone revealed to them by glimpses what appeared to be a wild, rocky valley, sloping down on the left to the sea, the mournful murmur55 of whose billows came upon the sighing breeze. Viewed by the imperfect light, the scene was very desolate56 and drear, and in its gloomy sublimity57 struck a chill to the heart of Annabella.
“It is like the valley of the shadow of death!” she whispered to Ida Aumerle.
“Even were it so, dearest,” was the reply, “is it not beyond the dark valley that the land of promise lies?”
[250]
“I think that I hear the sound of wheels,” observed the vicar; “yes,—some vehicle is evidently slowly ascending60 the steep hill before us.”
“Surely that of Dr. G—— upon its return,” suggested Ida.
The idea made all quicken their steps. Ida’s guess had been partially61 correct; in front was the expected chaise, moving as if towards the station.
As soon as the vehicle was sufficiently near, Mr. Aumerle hailed the driver:—
“Whence do you come, my friend?”
“From Cliff Cottage,” replied a rough voice through the darkness, and then the panting of a horse was heard.
“Is it the doctor?” exclaimed Annabella, pressing eagerly forward.
“No,” replied the voice. “A gentleman is ill; the doctor is staying the night; I’m to return for him in the morning;” and the speaker cracked his whip as a signal to the weary horse to move forward.
Arrangements were speedily made with the driver by Mr. Aumerle; the conveyance was turned round at the first convenient spot, and in it the ladies and the vicar were soon on their way to the cottage in which the Earl of Dashleigh lay ill.
Few words were interchanged as the travellers descended62 the rough, and almost precipitous road;[251] indeed, the violent jolting63 would, under any circumstances, have rendered conversation impossible. Progress was necessarily slow, and it was some time before the party reached a lonely, shingle-built cottage belonging to a fisherman, which stood almost on the margin64 of the sea.
There was no need to knock at the low, rude door, for a quick ear within had caught the sound of wheels, most unusual in that lonely spot, and the vicar had scarcely had time to alight, before Mabel was in the arms of her father!
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1
sullen
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| adj.愠怒的，闷闷不乐的，(天气等)阴沉的 | |
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foe
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| n.敌人，仇敌 | |
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provocation
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| n.激怒，刺激，挑拨，挑衅的事物，激怒的原因 | |
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delicacy
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| n.精致，细微，微妙，精良；美味，佳肴 | |
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owl
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| n.猫头鹰，枭 | |
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makers
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| n.制造者，制造商（maker的复数形式） | |
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7
abominable
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| adj.可厌的，令人憎恶的 | |
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8
gaily
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| adv.欢乐地，高兴地 | |
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tinted
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| adj. 带色彩的 动词tint的过去式和过去分词 | |
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grandeur
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| n.伟大，崇高，宏伟，庄严，豪华 | |
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countenance
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| n.脸色，面容；面部表情；vt.支持，赞同 | |
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persuasion
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| n.劝说；说服；持有某种信仰的宗派 | |
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frenzy
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| n.疯狂，狂热，极度的激动 | |
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ascent
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| n.(声望或地位)提高；上升，升高；登高 | |
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allusion
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| n.暗示，间接提示 | |
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conjectures
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| 推测，猜想( conjecture的名词复数 ) | |
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17
apprehensions
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| 疑惧 | |
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penance
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| n.（赎罪的）惩罪 | |
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19
lesser
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| adj.次要的，较小的；adv.较小地，较少地 | |
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miserable
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| adj.悲惨的，痛苦的；可怜的，糟糕的 | |
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21
meek
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| adj.温顺的，逆来顺受的 | |
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sufficiently
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| adv.足够地，充分地 | |
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23
perused
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| v.读（某篇文字）( peruse的过去式和过去分词 )；（尤指）细阅；审阅；匆匆读或心不在焉地浏览（某篇文字） | |
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24
auger
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| n.螺丝钻，钻孔机 | |
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proprietor
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| n.所有人；业主；经营者 | |
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26
expended
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| v.花费( expend的过去式和过去分词 )；使用（钱等）做某事；用光；耗尽 | |
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lawsuit
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| n.诉讼，控诉 | |
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exultation
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| n.狂喜，得意 | |
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29
penetrated
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| adj. 击穿的，鞭辟入里的 动词penetrate的过去式和过去分词形式 | |
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30
malignant
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| adj.恶性的，致命的；恶意的，恶毒的 | |
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incurred
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| [医]招致的，遭受的； incur的过去式 | |
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manifestation
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| n.表现形式；表明；现象 | |
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33
wrath
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| n.愤怒，愤慨，暴怒 | |
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panoply
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| n.全副甲胄，礼服 | |
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trample
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| vt.踩，践踏；无视，伤害，侵犯 | |
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frivolous
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| adj.轻薄的；轻率的 | |
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conceal
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| v.隐藏，隐瞒，隐蔽 | |
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38
providence
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| n.深谋远虑，天道，天意；远见；节约；上帝 | |
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39
softening
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| 变软，软化 | |
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40
impatience
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| n.不耐烦，急躁 | |
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41
yearning
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| a.渴望的；向往的；怀念的 | |
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42
lengthening
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| （时间或空间）延长，伸长( lengthen的现在分词 )； 加长 | |
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43
conveyance
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| n.(不动产等的)转让，让与；转让证书；传送；运送；表达；（正）运输工具 | |
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44
procured
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| v.（努力）取得， （设法）获得( procure的过去式和过去分词 )；拉皮条 | |
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45
solitary
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| adj.孤独的，独立的，荒凉的；n.隐士 | |
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46
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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47
purgatory
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| n.炼狱；苦难；adj.净化的，清洗的 | |
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48
gleaning
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| n.拾落穗，拾遗，落穗v.一点点地收集（资料、事实）( glean的现在分词 )；（收割后）拾穗 | |
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49
scanty
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| adj.缺乏的，仅有的，节省的，狭小的，不够的 | |
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50
procuring
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| v.（努力）取得， （设法）获得( procure的现在分词 )；拉皮条 | |
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51
dreary
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| adj.令人沮丧的，沉闷的，单调乏味的 | |
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52
boulders
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| n.卵石( boulder的名词复数 )；巨砾；（受水或天气侵蚀而成的）巨石；漂砾 | |
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53
gorge
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| n.咽喉，胃，暴食，山峡；v.塞饱，狼吞虎咽地吃 | |
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54
prospect
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| n.前景，前途；景色，视野 | |
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55
murmur
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| n.低语，低声的怨言；v.低语，低声而言 | |
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56
desolate
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| adj.荒凉的，荒芜的；孤独的，凄凉的；v.使荒芜，使孤寂 | |
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57
sublimity
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| 崇高，庄严，气质高尚 | |
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58
faltered
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| （嗓音）颤抖( falter的过去式和过去分词 )； 支吾其词； 蹒跚； 摇晃 | |
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59
forth
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| adv.向前；向外，往外 | |
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60
ascending
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| adj.上升的，向上的 | |
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61
partially
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| adv.部分地，从某些方面讲 | |
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62
descended
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| a.为...后裔的，出身于...的 | |
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63
jolting
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| adj.令人震惊的 | |
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64
margin
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| n.页边空白；差额；余地，余裕；边，边缘 | |
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