“Y’ have sent for me, Sir Daniel?” said young Shelton.
“I have sent for you, indeed,” replied the knight2. “For what cometh to mine ears? Have I been to you so heavy a guardian3 that ye make haste to credit ill of me? Or sith that ye see me, for the nonce, some worsted, do ye think to quit my party? By the mass, your father was not so! Those he was near, those he stood by, come wind or weather. But you, Dick, y’ are a fair-day friend, it seemeth, and now seek to clear yourself of your allegiance.”
“An’t please you, Sir Daniel, not so,” returned Dick, firmly. “I am grateful and faithful, where gratitude4 and faith are due. And before more is said, I thank you, and I thank Sir Oliver; y’ have great claims upon me both—none can have more; I were a hound if I forgot them.”
“It is well,” said Sir Daniel; and then, rising into anger: “Gratitude and faith are words, Dick Shelton,” he continued; “but I look to deeds. In this hour of my peril5, when my name is attainted, when my lands are forfeit6, when this wood is full of men that hunger and thirst for my destruction, what doth gratitude? what doth faith? I have but a little company remaining; is it grateful or faithful to poison me their hearts with your insidious7 whisperings? Save me from such gratitude! But, come, now, what is it ye wish? Speak; we are here to answer. If ye have aught against me, stand forth8 and say it.”
“Sir,” replied Dick, “my father fell when I was yet a child. It hath come to mine ears that he was foully9 done by. It hath come to mine ears—for I will not dissemble—that ye had a hand in his undoing10. And in all verity11, I shall not be at peace in mine own mind, nor very clear to help you, till I have certain resolution of these doubts.”
“And ye think I would be guardian to the man’s son that I had murdered?” he asked.
“Nay14,” said Dick, “pardon me if I answer churlishly; but indeed ye know right well a wardship16 is most profitable. All these years have ye not enjoyed my revenues, and led my men? Have ye not still my marriage? I wot not what it may be worth—it is worth something. Pardon me again; but if ye were base enough to slay17 a man under trust, here were, perhaps, reasons enough to move you to the lesser18 baseness.”
“When I was lad of your years,” returned Sir Daniel, sternly, “my mind had not so turned upon suspicions. And Sir Oliver here,” he added, “why should he, a priest, be guilty of this act?”
“Nay, Sir Daniel,” said Dick, “but where the master biddeth there will the dog go. It is well known this priest is but your instrument. I speak very freely; the time is not for courtesies. Even as I speak, so would I be answered. And answer get I none! Ye but put more questions. I rede ye be ware19, Sir Daniel; for in this way ye will but nourish and not satisfy my doubts.”
“I will answer you fairly, Master Richard,” said the knight. “Were I to pretend ye have not stirred my wrath20, I were no honest man. But I will be just even in anger. Come to me with these words when y’ are grown and come to man’s estate, and I am no longer your guardian, and so helpless to resent them. Come to me then, and I will answer you as ye merit, with a buffet21 in the mouth. Till then ye have two courses: either swallow me down these insults, keep a silent tongue, and fight in the meanwhile for the man that fed and fought for your infancy22; or else—the door standeth open, the woods are full of mine enemies—go.”
The spirit with which these words were uttered, the looks with which they were accompanied, staggered Dick; and yet he could not but observe that he had got no answer.
“I desire nothing more earnestly, Sir Daniel, than to believe you,” he replied. “Assure me ye are free from this.”
“Will ye take my word of honour, Dick?” inquired the knight.
“That would I,” answered the lad.
“I give it you,” returned Sir Daniel. “Upon my word of honour, upon the eternal welfare of my spirit, and as I shall answer for my deeds hereafter, I had no hand nor portion in your father’s death.”
He extended his hand, and Dick took it eagerly. Neither of them observed the priest, who, at the pronunciation of that solemn and false oath, had half arisen from his seat in an agony of horror and remorse23.
“Ah,” cried Dick, “ye must find it in your great-heartedness to pardon me! I was a churl15, indeed, to doubt of you. But ye have my hand upon it; I will doubt no more.”
“Nay, Dick,” replied Sir Daniel, “y’ are forgiven. Ye know not the world and its calumnious24 nature.”
“I was the more to blame,” added Dick, “in that the rogues25 pointed26, not directly at yourself, but at Sir Oliver.”
As he spoke27, he turned towards the priest, and paused in the middle of the last word. This tall, ruddy, corpulent, high-stepping man had fallen, you might say, to pieces; his colour was gone, his limbs were relaxed, his lips stammered29 prayers; and now, when Dick’s eyes were fixed12 upon him suddenly, he cried out aloud, like some wild animal, and buried his face in his hands.
Sir Daniel was by him in two strides, and shook him fiercely by the shoulder. At the same moment Dick’s suspicions reawakened.
“Nay,” he said, “Sir Oliver may swear also. ’Twas him they accused.”
“He shall swear,” said the knight.
Sir Oliver speechlessly waved his arms.
“Ay, by the mass! but ye shall swear,” cried Sir Daniel, beside himself with fury. “Here, upon this book, ye shall swear,” he continued, picking up the breviary, which had fallen to the ground. “What! Ye make me doubt you! Swear, I say; swear!”
But the priest was still incapable30 of speech. His terror of Sir Daniel, his terror of perjury31, risen to about an equal height, strangled him.
And just then, through the high, stained-glass window of the hall, a black arrow crashed, and struck, and stuck quivering, in the midst of the long table.
Sir Oliver, with a loud scream, fell fainting on the rushes; while the knight, followed by Dick, dashed into the court and up the nearest corkscrew stair to the battlements. The sentries32 were all on the alert. The sun shone quietly on green lawns dotted with trees, and on the wooded hills of the forest which enclosed the view. There was no sign of a besieger33.
“Whence came that shot?” asked the knight.
The knight stood a little, musing35. Then he turned to Dick. “Dick,” he said, “keep me an eye upon these men; I leave you in charge here. As for the priest, he shall clear himself, or I will know the reason why. I do almost begin to share in your suspicions. He shall swear, trust me, or we shall prove him guilty.”
Dick answered somewhat coldly, and the knight, giving him a piercing glance, hurriedly returned to the hall. His first glance was for the arrow. It was the first of these missiles he had seen, and as he turned it to and fro, the dark hue36 of it touched him with some fear. Again there was some writing: one word—“Earthed.”
“Ay,” he broke out, “they know I am home, then. Earthed! Ay, but there is not a dog among them fit to dig me out.”
“Ay,” returned the knight, “I have sworn an oath, indeed, thou chucklehead; but thyself shalt swear a greater. It shall be on the blessed cross of Holywood. Look to it; get the words ready. It shall be sworn to-night.”
“Now, may Heaven lighten you!” replied the priest; “may Heaven incline your heart from this iniquity40!”
“Look you, my good father,” said Sir Daniel, “if y’ are for piety41, I say no more; ye begin late, that is all. But if y’ are in any sense bent42 upon wisdom, hear me. This lad beginneth to irk me like a wasp43. I have a need for him, for I would sell his marriage. But I tell you, in all plainness, if that he continue to weary me, he shall go join his father. I give orders now to change him to the chamber44 above the chapel45. If that ye can swear your innocency46 with a good, solid oath and an assured countenance47, it is well; the lad will be at peace a little, and I will spare him. If that ye stammer28 or blench48, or anyways boggle at the swearing, he will not believe you; and by the mass, he shall die. There is for your thinking on.”
“That same,” replied the knight. “So if ye desire to save him, save him; and if ye desire not, prithee, go to, and let me be at peace! For an I had been a hasty man, I would already have put my sword through you, for your intolerable cowardice50 and folly51. Have ye chosen? Say!”
“I have chosen,” said the priest. “Heaven pardon me, I will do evil for good. I will swear for the lad’s sake.”
“So is it best!” said Sir Daniel. “Send for him, then, speedily. Ye shall see him alone. Yet I shall have an eye on you. I shall be here in the panel room.”
The knight raised the arras and let it fall again behind him. There was the sound of a spring opening; then followed the creaking of trod stairs.
Sir Oliver, left alone, cast a timorous52 glance upward at the arras-covered wall, and crossed himself with every appearance of terror and contrition53.
“Nay, if he is in the chapel room,” the priest murmured, “were it at my soul’s cost, I must save him.”
Three minutes later, Dick, who had been summoned by another messenger, found Sir Oliver standing54 by the hall table, resolute55 and pale.
“Richard Shelton,” he said, “ye have required an oath from me. I might complain, I might deny you; but my heart is moved toward you for the past, and I will even content you as ye choose. By the true cross of Holywood, I did not slay your father.”
“Sir Oliver,” returned Dick, “when first we read John Amend-All’s paper, I was convinced of so much. But suffer me to put two questions. Ye did not slay him; granted. But had ye no hand in it?”
“None,” said Sir Oliver. And at the same time he began to contort his face, and signal with his mouth and eyebrows56, like one who desired to convey a warning, yet dared not utter a sound.
Dick regarded him in wonder; then he turned and looked all about him at the empty hall.
“What make ye?” he inquired.
“Why, naught57,” returned the priest, hastily smoothing his countenance. “I make naught; I do but suffer; I am sick. I—I—prithee, Dick, I must begone. On the true cross of Holywood, I am clean innocent alike of violence or treachery. Content ye, good lad. Farewell!”
Dick remained rooted to the spot, his eyes wandering about the room, his face a changing picture of various emotions, wonder, doubt, suspicion, and amusement. Gradually, as his mind grew clearer, suspicion took the upper hand, and was succeeded by certainty of the worst. He raised his head, and, as he did so, violently started. High upon the wall there was the figure of a savage59 hunter woven in the tapestry60. With one hand he held a horn to his mouth; in the other he brandished61 a stout62 spear. His face was dark, for he was meant to represent an African.
Now, here was what had startled Richard Shelton. The sun had moved away from the hall windows, and at the same time the fire had blazed up high on the wide hearth63, and shed a changeful glow upon the roof and hangings. In this light the figure of the black hunter had winked64 at him with a white eyelid65.
He continued staring at the eye. The light shone upon it like a gem66; it was liquid, it was alive. Again the white eyelid closed upon it for a fraction of a second, and the next moment it was gone.
There could be no mistake. The live eye that had been watching him through a hole in the tapestry was gone. The firelight no longer shone on a reflecting surface.
And instantly Dick awoke to the terrors of his position. Hatch’s warning, the mute signals of the priest, this eye that had observed him from the wall, ran together in his mind. He saw he had been put upon his trial, that he had once more betrayed his suspicions, and that, short of some miracle, he was lost.
“If I cannot get me forth out of this house,” he thought, “I am a dead man! And this poor Matcham, too—to what a cockatrice’s nest have I not led him!”
He was still so thinking, when there came one in haste, to bid him help in changing his arms, his clothing, and his two or three books, to a new chamber.
“A new chamber?” he repeated. “Wherefore so? What chamber?”
“’Tis one above the chapel,” answered the messenger.
“It hath stood long empty,” said Dick, musing. “What manner of room is it?”
“Nay, a brave room,” returned the man. “But yet”—lowering his voice—“they call it haunted.”
“Haunted?” repeated Dick, with a chill. “I have not heard of it. Nay, then, and by whom?”
The messenger looked about him; and then, in a low whisper, “By the sacrist of St. John’s,” he said. “They had him there to sleep one night, and in the morning—whew!—he was gone. The devil had taken him, they said; the more betoken67, he had drunk late the night before.”
Dick followed the man with black forebodings.
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1
discreetly
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| ad.(言行)审慎地，慎重地 | |
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2
knight
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| n.骑士，武士；爵士 | |
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guardian
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| n.监护人；守卫者，保护者 | |
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4
gratitude
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| adj.感激，感谢 | |
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peril
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| n.(严重的)危险；危险的事物 | |
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6
forfeit
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| vt.丧失；n.罚金，罚款，没收物 | |
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7
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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8
forth
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| adv.向前；向外，往外 | |
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foully
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| ad.卑鄙地 | |
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10
undoing
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| n.毁灭的原因，祸根；破坏，毁灭 | |
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11
verity
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| n.真实性 | |
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12
fixed
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| adj.固定的，不变的，准备好的；(计算机)固定的 | |
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13
fixedly
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| adv.固定地；不屈地，坚定不移地 | |
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nay
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| adv.不；n.反对票，投反对票者 | |
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15
churl
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| n.吝啬之人；粗鄙之人 | |
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16
wardship
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| 监护，保护 | |
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17
slay
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| v.杀死，宰杀，杀戮 | |
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18
lesser
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| adj.次要的，较小的；adv.较小地，较少地 | |
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19
ware
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| n.(常用复数)商品，货物 | |
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20
wrath
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| n.愤怒，愤慨，暴怒 | |
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21
buffet
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| n.自助餐；饮食柜台；餐台 | |
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22
infancy
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| n.婴儿期；幼年期；初期 | |
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23
remorse
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| n.痛恨，悔恨，自责 | |
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24
calumnious
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| adj.毁谤的，中伤的 | |
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25
rogues
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| n.流氓( rogue的名词复数 )；无赖；调皮捣蛋的人；离群的野兽 | |
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26
pointed
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| adj.尖的，直截了当的 | |
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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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28
stammer
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| n.结巴，口吃；v.结结巴巴地说 | |
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stammered
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| v.结巴地说出( stammer的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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30
incapable
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| adj.无能力的，不能做某事的 | |
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perjury
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| n.伪证；伪证罪 | |
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32
sentries
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| 哨兵，步兵( sentry的名词复数 ) | |
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besieger
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| n. 围攻者, 围攻军 | |
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clump
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| n.树丛，草丛；vi.用沉重的脚步行走 | |
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35
musing
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| n. 沉思，冥想 adj. 沉思的, 冥想的 动词muse的现在分词形式 | |
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36
hue
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| n.色度；色调；样子 | |
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37
scrambled
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| v.快速爬行( scramble的过去式和过去分词 )；攀登；争夺；（军事飞机）紧急起飞 | |
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dread
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| vt.担忧，忧虑；惧怕，不敢；n.担忧，畏惧 | |
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doomed
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| 命定的 | |
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iniquity
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| n.邪恶；不公正 | |
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41
piety
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| n.虔诚，虔敬 | |
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42
bent
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| n.爱好，癖好；adj.弯的；决心的，一心的 | |
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43
wasp
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| n.黄蜂，蚂蜂 | |
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44
chamber
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| n.房间，寝室；会议厅；议院；会所 | |
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45
chapel
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| n.小教堂，殡仪馆 | |
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46
innocency
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| 无罪，洁白 | |
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47
countenance
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| n.脸色，面容；面部表情；vt.支持，赞同 | |
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48
blench
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| v.退缩，畏缩 | |
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49
gasped
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| v.喘气( gasp的过去式和过去分词 )；喘息；倒抽气；很想要 | |
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50
cowardice
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| n.胆小，怯懦 | |
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51
folly
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| n.愚笨，愚蠢，蠢事，蠢行，傻话 | |
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52
timorous
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| adj.胆怯的，胆小的 | |
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53
contrition
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| n.悔罪，痛悔 | |
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54
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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55
resolute
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| adj.坚决的，果敢的 | |
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56
eyebrows
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| 眉毛( eyebrow的名词复数 ) | |
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57
naught
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| n.无，零 [=nought] | |
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58
alacrity
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| n.敏捷，轻快，乐意 | |
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59
savage
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| adj.野蛮的；凶恶的，残暴的；n.未开化的人 | |
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60
tapestry
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| n.挂毯，丰富多采的画面 | |
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61
brandished
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| v.挥舞( brandish的过去式和过去分词 )；炫耀 | |
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hearth
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| n.壁炉炉床，壁炉地面 | |
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64
winked
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| v.使眼色( wink的过去式和过去分词 )；递眼色（表示友好或高兴等）；（指光）闪烁；闪亮 | |
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eyelid
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| n.眼睑，眼皮 | |
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66
gem
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| n.宝石，珠宝；受爱戴的人 [同]jewel | |
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betoken
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| v.预示 | |
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