After only one week of travelling in Scotland, my lord and my lady returned unexpectedly to London. Introduced to the mountains and lakes of the Highlands, her ladyship positively1 declined to improve her acquaintance with them. When she was asked for her reason, she answered with a Roman brevity, ‘I have seen Switzerland.’
For a week more, the newly-married couple remained in London, in the strictest retirement3. On one day in that week the nurse returned in a state of most uncustomary excitement from an errand on which Agnes had sent her. Passing the door of a fashionable dentist, she had met Lord Montbarry himself just leaving the house. The good woman’s report described him, with malicious4 pleasure, as looking wretchedly ill. ‘His cheeks are getting hollow, my dear, and his beard is turning grey. I hope the dentist hurt him!’
Knowing how heartily5 her faithful old servant hated the man who had deserted6 her, Agnes made due allowance for a large infusion7 of exaggeration in the picture presented to her. The main impression produced on her mind was an impression of nervous uneasiness. If she trusted herself in the streets by daylight while Lord Montbarry remained in London, how could she be sure that his next chance-meeting might not be a meeting with herself? She waited at home, privately8 ashamed of her own undignified conduct, for the next two days. On the third day the fashionable intelligence of the newspapers announced the departure of Lord and Lady Montbarry for Paris, on their way to Italy.
Mrs. Ferrari, calling the same evening, informed Agnes that her husband had left her with all reasonable expression of conjugal9 kindness; his temper being improved by the prospect10 of going abroad. But one other servant accompanied the travellers — Lady Montbarry’s maid, rather a silent, unsociable woman, so far as Emily had heard. Her ladyship’s brother, Baron11 Rivar, was already on the Continent. It had been arranged that he was to meet his sister and her husband at Rome.
One by one the dull weeks succeeded each other in the life of Agnes. She faced her position with admirable courage, seeing her friends, keeping herself occupied in her leisure hours with reading and drawing, leaving no means untried of diverting her mind from the melancholy12 remembrance of the past. But she had loved too faithfully, she had been wounded too deeply, to feel in any adequate degree the influence of the moral remedies which she employed. Persons who met with her in the ordinary relations of life, deceived by her outward serenity13 of manner, agreed that ‘Miss Lockwood seemed to be getting over her disappointment.’ But an old friend and school companion who happened to see her during a brief visit to London, was inexpressibly distressed15 by the change that she detected in Agnes. This lady was Mrs. Westwick, the wife of that brother of Lord Montbarry who came next to him in age, and who was described in the ‘Peerage’ as presumptive heir to the title. He was then away, looking after his interests in some mining property which he possessed16 in America. Mrs. Westwick insisted on taking Agnes back with her to her home in Ireland. ‘Come and keep me company while my husband is away. My three little girls will make you their playfellow, and the only stranger you will meet is the governess, whom I answer for your liking17 beforehand. Pack up your things, and I will call for you to-morrow on my way to the train.’ In those hearty18 terms the invitation was given. Agnes thankfully accepted it. For three happy months she lived under the roof of her friend. The girls hung round her in tears at her departure; the youngest of them wanted to go back with Agnes to London. Half in jest, half in earnest, she said to her old friend at parting, ‘If your governess leaves you, keep the place open for me.’ Mrs. Westwick laughed. The wiser children took it seriously, and promised to let Agnes know.
On the very day when Miss Lockwood returned to London, she was recalled to those associations with the past which she was most anxious to forget. After the first kissings and greetings were over, the old nurse (who had been left in charge at the lodgings) had some startling information to communicate, derived19 from the courier’s wife.
‘Here has been little Mrs. Ferrari, my dear, in a dreadful state of mind, inquiring when you would be back. Her husband has left Lord Montbarry, without a word of warning — and nobody knows what has become of him.’
Agnes looked at her in astonishment20. ‘Are you sure of what you are saying?’ she asked.
The nurse was quite sure. ‘Why, Lord bless you! the news comes from the couriers’ office in Golden Square — from the secretary, Miss Agnes, the secretary himself!’ Hearing this, Agnes began to feel alarmed as well as surprised. It was still early in the evening. She at once sent a message to Mrs. Ferrari, to say that she had returned.
In an hour more the courier’s wife appeared, in a state of agitation21 which it was not easy to control. Her narrative22, when she was at last able to speak connectedly, entirely23 confirmed the nurse’s report of it.
After hearing from her husband with tolerable regularity24 from Paris, Rome, and Venice, Emily had twice written to him afterwards — and had received no reply. Feeling uneasy, she had gone to the office in Golden Square, to inquire if he had been heard of there. The post of the morning had brought a letter to the secretary from a courier then at Venice. It contained startling news of Ferrari. His wife had been allowed to take a copy of it, which she now handed to Agnes to read.
The writer stated that he had recently arrived in Venice. He had previously25 heard that Ferrari was with Lord and Lady Montbarry, at one of the old Venetian palaces which they had hired for a term. Being a friend of Ferrari, he had gone to pay him a visit. Ringing at the door that opened on the canal, and failing to make anyone hear him, he had gone round to a side entrance opening on one of the narrow lanes of Venice. Here, standing26 at the door (as if she was waiting for him to try that way next), he found a pale woman with magnificent dark eyes, who proved to be no other than Lady Montbarry herself.
She asked, in Italian, what he wanted. He answered that he wanted to see the courier Ferrari, if it was quite convenient. She at once informed him that Ferrari had left the palace, without assigning any reason, and without even leaving an address at which his monthly salary (then due to him) could be paid. Amazed at this reply, the courier inquired if any person had offended Ferrari, or quarrelled with him. The lady answered, ‘To my knowledge, certainly not. I am Lady Montbarry; and I can positively assure you that Ferrari was treated with the greatest kindness in this house. We are as much astonished as you are at his extraordinary disappearance27. If you should hear of him, pray let us know, so that we may at least pay him the money which is due.’
After one or two more questions (quite readily answered) relating to the date and the time of day at which Ferrari had left the palace, the courier took his leave.
He at once entered on the necessary investigations28 — without the slightest result so far as Ferrari was concerned. Nobody had seen him. Nobody appeared to have been taken into his confidence. Nobody knew anything (that is to say, anything of the slightest importance) even about persons so distinguished29 as Lord and Lady Montbarry. It was reported that her ladyship’s English maid had left her, before the disappearance of Ferrari, to return to her relatives in her own country, and that Lady Montbarry had taken no steps to supply her place. His lordship was described as being in delicate health. He lived in the strictest retirement — nobody was admitted to him, not even his own countrymen. A stupid old woman was discovered who did the housework at the palace, arriving in the morning and going away again at night. She had never seen the lost courier — she had never even seen Lord Montbarry, who was then confined to his room. Her ladyship, ‘a most gracious and adorable mistress,’ was in constant attendance on her noble husband. There was no other servant then in the house (so far as the old woman knew) but herself. The meals were sent in from a restaurant. My lord, it was said, disliked strangers. My lord’s brother-in-law, the Baron, was generally shut up in a remote part of the palace, occupied (the gracious mistress said) with experiments in chemistry. The experiments sometimes made a nasty smell. A doctor had latterly been called in to his lordship — an Italian doctor, long resident in Venice. Inquiries30 being addressed to this gentleman (a physician of undoubted capacity and respectability), it turned out that he also had never seen Ferrari, having been summoned to the palace (as his memorandum31 book showed) at a date subsequent to the courier’s disappearance. The doctor described Lord Montbarry’s malady32 as bronchitis. So far, there was no reason to feel any anxiety, though the attack was a sharp one. If alarming symptoms should appear, he had arranged with her ladyship to call in another physician. For the rest, it was impossible to speak too highly of my lady; night and day, she was at her lord’s bedside.
With these particulars began and ended the discoveries made by Ferrari’s courier-friend. The police were on the look-out for the lost man — and that was the only hope which could be held forth33 for the present, to Ferrari’s wife.
‘What do you think of it, Miss?’ the poor woman asked eagerly. ‘What would you advise me to do?’
Agnes was at a loss how to answer her; it was an effort even to listen to what Emily was saying. The references in the courier’s letter to Montbarry — the report of his illness, the melancholy picture of his secluded34 life — had reopened the old wound. She was not even thinking of the lost Ferrari; her mind was at Venice, by the sick man’s bedside.
‘I hardly know what to say,’ she answered. ‘I have had no experience in serious matters of this kind.’
‘Do you think it would help you, Miss, if you read my husband’s letters to me? There are only three of them — they won’t take long to read.’
Agnes compassionately35 read the letters.
They were not written in a very tender tone. ‘Dear Emily,’ and ‘Yours affectionately’— these conventional phrases, were the only phrases of endearment36 which they contained. In the first letter, Lord Montbarry was not very favourably37 spoken of:—‘We leave Paris to-morrow. I don’t much like my lord. He is proud and cold, and, between ourselves, stingy in money matters. I have had to dispute such trifles as a few centimes in the hotel bill; and twice already, some sharp remarks have passed between the newly-married couple, in consequence of her ladyship’s freedom in purchasing pretty tempting38 things at the shops in Paris. “I can’t afford it; you must keep to your allowance.” She has had to hear those words already. For my part, I like her. She has the nice, easy foreign manners — she talks to me as if I was a human being like herself.’
The second letter was dated from Rome.
‘My lord’s caprices’ (Ferrari wrote) ‘have kept us perpetually on the move. He is becoming incurably39 restless. I suspect he is uneasy in his mind. Painful recollections, I should say — I find him constantly reading old letters, when her ladyship is not present. We were to have stopped at Genoa, but he hurried us on. The same thing at Florence. Here, at Rome, my lady insists on resting. Her brother has met us at this place. There has been a quarrel already (the lady’s maid tells me) between my lord and the Baron. The latter wanted to borrow money of the former. His lordship refused in language which offended Baron Rivar. My lady pacified40 them, and made them shake hands.’
The third, and last letter, was from Venice.
‘More of my lord’s economy! Instead of staying at the hotel, we have hired a damp, mouldy, rambling41 old palace. My lady insists on having the best suites42 of rooms wherever we go — and the palace comes cheaper for a two months’ term. My lord tried to get it for longer; he says the quiet of Venice is good for his nerves. But a foreign speculator has secured the palace, and is going to turn it into an hotel. The Baron is still with us, and there have been more disagreements about money matters. I don’t like the Baron — and I don’t find the attractions of my lady grow on me. She was much nicer before the Baron joined us. My lord is a punctual paymaster; it’s a matter of honour with him; he hates parting with his money, but he does it because he has given his word. I receive my salary regularly at the end of each month — not a franc extra, though I have done many things which are not part of a courier’s proper work. Fancy the Baron trying to borrow money of me! he is an inveterate43 gambler. I didn’t believe it when my lady’s maid first told me so — but I have seen enough since to satisfy me that she was right. I have seen other things besides, which — well! which don’t increase my respect for my lady and the Baron. The maid says she means to give warning to leave. She is a respectable British female, and doesn’t take things quite so easily as I do. It is a dull life here. No going into company — no company at home — not a creature sees my lord — not even the consul44, or the banker. When he goes out, he goes alone, and generally towards nightfall. Indoors, he shuts himself up in his own room with his books, and sees as little of his wife and the Baron as possible. I fancy things are coming to a crisis here. If my lord’s suspicions are once awakened45, the consequences will be terrible. Under certain provocations46, the noble Montbarry is a man who would stick at nothing. However, the pay is good — and I can’t afford to talk of leaving the place, like my lady’s maid.’
Agnes handed back the letters — so suggestive of the penalty paid already for his own infatuation by the man who had deserted her!— with feelings of shame and distress14, which made her no fit counsellor for the helpless woman who depended on her advice.
‘The one thing I can suggest,’ she said, after first speaking some kind words of comfort and hope, ‘is that we should consult a person of greater experience than ours. Suppose I write and ask my lawyer (who is also my friend and trustee) to come and advise us to-morrow after his business hours?’
Emily eagerly and gratefully accepted the suggestion. An hour was arranged for the meeting on the next day; the correspondence was left under the care of Agnes; and the courier’s wife took her leave.
Weary and heartsick, Agnes lay down on the sofa, to rest and compose herself. The careful nurse brought in a reviving cup of tea. Her quaint2 gossip about herself and her occupations while Agnes had been away, acted as a relief to her mistress’s overburdened mind. They were still talking quietly, when they were startled by a loud knock at the house door. Hurried footsteps ascended47 the stairs. The door of the sitting-room48 was thrown open violently; the courier’s wife rushed in like a mad woman. ‘He’s dead! They’ve murdered him!’ Those wild words were all she could say. She dropped on her knees at the foot of the sofa — held out her hand with something clasped in it — and fell back in a swoon.
The nurse, signing to Agnes to open the window, took the necessary measures to restore the fainting woman. ‘What’s this?’ she exclaimed. ‘Here’s a letter in her hand. See what it is, Miss.’
The open envelope was addressed (evidently in a feigned49 hand-writing) to ‘Mrs. Ferrari.’ The post-mark was ‘Venice.’ The contents of the envelope were a sheet of foreign note-paper, and a folded enclosure.
On the note-paper, one line only was written. It was again in a feigned handwriting, and it contained these words:
‘To console you for the loss of your husband’
Agnes opened the enclosure next.
It was a Bank of England note for a thousand pounds.
收听单词发音 |
1
positively
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| adv.明确地，断然，坚决地；实在，确实 | |
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quaint
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| adj.古雅的，离奇有趣的，奇怪的 | |
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retirement
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| n.退休，退职 | |
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malicious
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| adj.有恶意的，心怀恶意的 | |
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heartily
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| adv.衷心地，诚恳地，十分，很 | |
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deserted
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| adj.荒芜的，荒废的，无人的，被遗弃的 | |
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infusion
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| n.灌输 | |
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privately
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| adv.以私人的身份，悄悄地，私下地 | |
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conjugal
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| adj.婚姻的，婚姻性的 | |
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prospect
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| n.前景，前途；景色，视野 | |
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baron
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| n.男爵；(商业界等)巨头，大王 | |
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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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serenity
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| n.宁静，沉着，晴朗 | |
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distress
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| n.苦恼，痛苦，不舒适；不幸；vt.使悲痛 | |
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distressed
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| 痛苦的 | |
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possessed
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| adj.疯狂的；拥有的，占有的 | |
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liking
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| n.爱好；嗜好；喜欢 | |
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hearty
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| adj.热情友好的；衷心的；尽情的，纵情的 | |
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derived
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| vi.起源；由来；衍生；导出v.得到( derive的过去式和过去分词 )；（从…中）得到获得；源于；（从…中）提取 | |
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astonishment
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| n.惊奇，惊异 | |
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agitation
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| n.搅动；搅拌；鼓动，煽动 | |
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narrative
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| n.叙述，故事；adj.叙事的，故事体的 | |
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entirely
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| ad.全部地，完整地；完全地，彻底地 | |
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regularity
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| n.规律性，规则性；匀称，整齐 | |
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previously
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| adv.以前，先前（地） | |
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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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disappearance
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| n.消失，消散，失踪 | |
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investigations
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| （正式的）调查( investigation的名词复数 )； 侦查； 科学研究； 学术研究 | |
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distinguished
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| adj.卓越的，杰出的，著名的 | |
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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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memorandum
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| n.备忘录，便笺 | |
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32
malady
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| n.病，疾病(通常做比喻) | |
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forth
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| adv.向前；向外，往外 | |
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secluded
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| adj.与世隔绝的；隐退的；偏僻的v.使隔开，使隐退( seclude的过去式和过去分词) | |
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35
compassionately
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| adv.表示怜悯地，有同情心地 | |
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endearment
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| n.表示亲爱的行为 | |
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favourably
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| adv. 善意地，赞成地 =favorably | |
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tempting
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| a.诱人的, 吸引人的 | |
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incurably
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| ad.治不好地 | |
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pacified
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| 使（某人）安静( pacify的过去式和过去分词 )； 息怒； 抚慰； 在（有战争的地区、国家等）实现和平 | |
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rambling
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| adj.[建]凌乱的，杂乱的 | |
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suites
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| n.套( suite的名词复数 )；一套房间；一套家具；一套公寓 | |
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inveterate
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| adj.积习已深的，根深蒂固的 | |
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consul
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| n.领事；执政官 | |
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45
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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46
provocations
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| n.挑衅( provocation的名词复数 )；激怒；刺激；愤怒的原因 | |
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ascended
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| v.上升，攀登( ascend的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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48
sitting-room
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| n.（BrE）客厅，起居室 | |
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49
feigned
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| a.假装的，不真诚的 | |
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