Sedet post equitem atra cura ——
Still though the headlong cavalier,
O’er rough and smooth, in wild career,
Seems racing1 with the wind;
His sad companion — ghastly pale,
And darksome as a widow’s veil,
CARE— keeps her seat behind.
HORACE.
Well was it that night for Mowbray, that he had always piqued2 himself on his horses, and that the animal on which he was then mounted was as sure-footed and sagacious as he was mettled and fiery3. For those who observed next day the print of the hoofs4 on the broken and rugged5 track through which the creature had been driven at full speed by his furious master, might easily see, that in more than a dozen of places the horse and rider had been within a few inches of destruction. One bough6 of a gnarled and stunted7 oak-tree, which stretched across the road, seemed in particular to have opposed an almost fatal barrier to the horseman’s career. In striking his head against this impediment, the force of the blow had been broken in some measure by a high-crowned hat, yet the violence of the shock was sufficient to shiver the branch to pieces. Fortunately, it was already decayed; but, even in that state, it was subject of astonishment8 to every one that no fatal damage had been sustained in so formidable an encounter. Mowbray himself was unconscious of the accident.
Scarcely aware that he had been riding at an unusual rate, scarce sensible that he had ridden faster perhaps than ever he followed the hounds, Mowbray alighted at his stable door, and flung the bridle10 to his groom11, who held up his hands in astonishment when he beheld12 the condition of the favourite horse; but, concluding that his master must be intoxicated13, he prudently14 forbore to make any observations.
No sooner did the unfortunate traveller suspend that rapid motion by which he seemed to wish to annihilate15, as far as possible, time and space, in order to reach the place he had now attained16, than it seemed to him as if he would have given the world that seas and deserts had lain between him and the house of his fathers, as well as that only sister with whom he was now about to have a decisive interview.
“But the place and the hour are arrived,” he said, biting his lip with anguish17; “this explanation must be decisive; and whatever evils may attend it, suspense18 must be ended now, at once and for ever.”
He entered the Castle, and took the light from the old domestic, who, hearing the clatter19 of his horse’s feet, had opened the door to receive him.
“Is my sister in her parlour?” he asked, but in so hollow a voice, that the old man only answered the question by another, “Was his honour well?”
“Quite well, Patrick — never better in my life,” said Mowbray; and turning his back on the old man, as if to prevent his observing whether his countenance20 and his words corresponded, he pursued his way to his sister’s apartment. The sound of his step upon the passage roused Clara from a reverie, perhaps a sad one; and she had trimmed her lamp, and stirred her fire, so slow did he walk, before he at length entered her apartment.
“You are a good boy, brother,” she said, “to come thus early home; and I have some good news for your reward. The groom has fetched back Trimmer — He was lying by the dead hare, and he had chased him as far as Drumlyford — the shepherd had carried him to the shieling, till some one should claim him.”
“I would he had hanged him, with all my heart!” said Mowbray.
“How! — hang Trimmer? — your favourite Trimmer, that has beat the whole country? — and it was only this morning you were half-crying because he was amissing, and like to murder man and mother’s son?”
“The better I like any living thing,” answered Mowbray, “the more reason I have for wishing it dead and at rest; for neither I, nor any thing that I love, will ever be happy more.”
“You cannot frighten me, John, with these flights,” answered Clara, trembling, although she endeavoured to look unconcerned —“You have used me to them too often.”
“It is well for you then; you will be ruined without the shock of surprise.”
“So much the better — We have been,” said Clara,
“‘So constantly in poortith’s sight,
The thoughts on’t gie us little fright.’
So say I with honest Robert Burns.”
“D— n Barns and his trash!” said Mowbray, with the impatience21 of a man determined22 to be angry with every thing but himself, who was the real source of the evil.
“And why damn poor Burns?” said Clara, composedly; “it is not his fault if you have not risen a winner, for that, I suppose, is the cause of all this uproar23.”
“Would it not make any one lose patience,” said Mowbray, “to hear her quoting the rhapsodies of a hobnail’d peasant, when a man is speaking of the downfall of an ancient house! Your ploughman, I suppose, becoming one degree poorer than he was born to be, would only go without his dinner, or without his usual potation of ale. His comrades would cry ‘poor fellow!’ and let him eat out of their kit24, and drink out of their bicker25 without scruple26, till his own was full again. But the poor gentleman — the downfallen man of rank — the degraded man of birth — the disabled and disarmed27 man of power! — it is he that is to be pitied, who loses not merely drink and dinner, but honour, situation, credit, character, and name itself!”
“You are declaiming in this manner in order to terrify me,” said Clara: “but, friend John, I know you and your ways, and I have made up my mind upon all contingencies28 that can take place. I will tell you more — I have stood on this tottering29 pinnacle30 of rank and fashion, if our situation can be termed such, till my head is dizzy with the instability of my eminence31; and I feel that strange desire of tossing myself down, which the devil is said to put into folk’s heads when they stand on the top of steeples — at least, I had rather the plunge32 were over.”
“Be satisfied, then; if that will satisfy you — the plunge is over, and we are — what they used to call it in Scotland — gentle beggars — creatures to whom our second, and third, and fourth, and fifth cousins may, if they please, give a place at the side-table, and a seat in the carriage with the lady’s maid, if driving backwards33 will not make us sick.”
“They may give it to those who will take it,” said Clara; “but I am determined to eat bread of my own buying — I can do twenty things, and I am sure some one or other of them will bring me all the little money I will need. I have been trying, John, for several months, how little I can live upon, and you would laugh if you heard how low I have brought the account.”
“There is a difference, Clara, between fanciful experiments and real poverty — the one is a masquerade, which we can end when we please, the other is wretchedness for life.”
“Methinks, brother,” replied Miss Mowbray, “it would be better for you to set me an example how to carry my good resolutions into effect, than to ridicule34 them.”
“Why, what would you have me do?” said he, fiercely —“turn postilion, or rough-rider, or whipper-in? — I don’t know any thing else that my education, as I have used it, has fitted me for — and then some of my old acquaintances would, I dare say, give me a crown to drink now and then for old acquaintance’ sake.”
“This is not the way, John, that men of sense think or speak of serious misfortunes,” answered his sister; “and I do not believe that this is so serious as it is your pleasure to make it.”
“Believe the very worst you can think,” replied he, “and you will not believe bad enough! — You have neither a guinea, nor a house, nor a friend; — pass but a day, and it is a chance that you will not have a brother.”
“My dear John, you have drunk hard — rode hard.”
“Yes — such tidings deserved to be carried express, especially to a young lady who receives them so well,” answered Mowbray, bitterly. “I suppose, now, it will make no impression, if I were to tell you that you have it in your power to stop all this ruin?”
“By consummating35 my own, I suppose? — Brother, I said you could not make me tremble, but you have found a way to do it.”
“What, you expect I am again to urge you with Lord Etherington’s courtship? — That might have saved all, indeed — But that day of grace is over.”
“I am glad of it, with all my spirit,” said Clara; “may it take with it all that we can quarrel about! — But till this instant I thought it was for this very point that this long voyage was bound, and that you were endeavouring to persuade me of the reality of the danger of the storm, in order to reconcile me to the harbour.”
“You are mad, I think, in earnest,” said Mowbray; “can you really be so absurd as to rejoice that you have no way left to relieve yourself and me from ruin, want, and shame?”
“From shame, brother?” said Clara. “No shame in honest poverty, I hope.”
“That is according as folks have used their prosperity, Clara. — I must speak to the point. — There are strange reports going below — By Heaven! they are enough to disturb the ashes of the dead! Were I to mention them, I should expect our poor mother to enter the room — Clara Mowbray, can you guess what I mean?”
It was with the utmost exertion36, yet in a faltering37 voice, that she was able, after an ineffectual effort, to utter the monosyllable, “No!”
“By Heaven! I am ashamed — I am even afraid to express my own meaning! — Clara, what is there which makes you so obstinately38 reject every proposal of marriage? — Is it that you feel yourself unworthy to be the wife of an honest man? — Speak out! — Evil Fame has been busy with your reputation — speak out! — Give me the right to cram39 their lies down the throats of the inventors, and when I go among them tomorrow, I shall know how to treat those who cast reflections on you! The fortunes of our house are ruined, but no tongue shall slander40 its honour. — Speak — speak, wretched girl! why are you silent?”
“Stay at home, brother!” said Clara; “stay at home, if you regard our house’s honour — murder cannot mend misery41 — Stay at home, and let them talk of me as they will — they can scarcely say worse of me than I deserve!”E13
The passions of Mowbray, at all times ungovernably strong, were at present inflamed42 by wine, by his rapid journey, and the previously43 disturbed state of his mind. He set his teeth, clenched44 his hands, looked on the ground, as one that forms some horrid45 resolution, and muttered almost unintelligibly46, “It were charity to kill her!”
“Oh! no — no — no!” exclaimed the terrified girl, throwing herself at his feet; “Do not kill me, brother! I have wished for death — thought of death — prayed for death — but, oh! it is frightful47 to think that he is near — Oh! not a bloody48 death, brother, nor by your hand!”
She held him close by the knees as she spoke49, and expressed, in her looks and accents, the utmost terror. It was not, indeed, without reason; for the extreme solitude50 of the place, the violent and inflamed passions of her brother, and the desperate circumstances to which he had reduced himself, seemed all to concur51 to render some horrid act of violence not an improbable termination of this strange interview.
Mowbray folded his arms, without unclenching his hands, or raising his head, while his sister continued on the floor, clasping him round the knees with all her strength, and begging piteously for her life and for mercy.
“Fool!” he said, at last, “let me go! — Who cares for thy worthless life? — who cares if thou live or die? Live, if thou canst — and be the hate and scorn of every one else, as much as thou art mine!”
He grasped her by the shoulder, with one hand pushed her from him, and, as she arose from the floor, and again pressed to throw her arms around his neck, he repulsed52 her with his arm and hand, with a push — or blow — it might be termed either one or the other — violent enough, in her weak state, to have again extended her on the ground, had not a chair received her as she fell. He looked at her with ferocity, grappled a moment in his pocket; then ran to the window, and throwing the sash violently up, thrust himself as far as he could without falling, into the open air. Terrified, and yet her feelings of his unkindness predominating even above her fears, Clara continued to exclaim.
“Oh, brother, say you did not mean this! — Oh, say you did not mean to strike me! — Oh, whatever I have deserved, be not you the executioner! — It is not manly53 — it is not natural — there are but two of us in the world!”
He returned no answer; and, observing that he continued to stretch himself from the window, which was in the second story of the building, and overlooked the court, a new cause of apprehension54 mingled55, in some measure, with her personal fears. Timidly, and with streaming eyes and uplifted hands, she approached her angry brother, and, fearfully, yet firmly, seized the skirt of his coat, as if anxious to preserve him from the effects of that despair, which so lately seemed turned against her, and now against himself.
He felt the pressure of her hold, and drawing himself angrily back, asked her sternly what she wanted.
“Nothing,” she said, quitting her hold of his coat; “but what — what did he look after so anxiously?”
“After the devil!” he answered, fiercely; then drawing in his head, and taking her hand, “By my soul, Clara — it is true, if ever there was truth in such a tale! — He stood by me just now, and urged me to murder thee! — What else could have put my hunting-knife into my thought? — Ay, by God, and into my very hand — at such a moment? — Yonder I could almost fancy I see him fly, the wood, and the rock, and the water, gleaming back the dark-red furnace-light, that is shed on them by his dragon wings! By my soul, I can hardly suppose it fancy — I can hardly think but that I was under the influence of an evil spirit — under an act of fiendish possession! But gone as he is, gone let him be — and thou, too ready implement56 of evil, be thou gone after him!” He drew from his pocket his right hand, which had all this time held his hunting-knife, and threw the implement into the court-yard as he spoke, then, with a sad quietness, and solemnity of manner, shut the window, and led his sister by the hand to her usual seat, which her tottering steps scarce enabled her to reach. “Clara,” he said, after a pause of mournful silence, “we must think what is to be done, without passion or violence — there may be something for us in the dice57 yet, if we do not throw away our game. A blot58 is never a blot till it is hit — dishonour59 concealed60, is not dishonour in some respects. — Dost thou attend to me, wretched girl?” he said, suddenly and sternly raising his voice.
“Yes, brother — yes, indeed, brother!” she hastily replied, terrified even by delay again to awaken62 his ferocious63 and ungovernable temper.
“Thus it must be, then,” he said. “You must marry this Etherington — there is no help for it, Clara — You cannot complain of what your own vice64 and folly65 have rendered inevitable66.”
“But, brother!”— said the trembling girl.
“Be silent. I know all that you would say. You love him not, you would say. I love him not, no more than you. Nay67, what is more, he loves you not; if he did, I might scruple to give you to him, you being such as you have owned yourself. But you shall wed9 him out of hate, Clara — or for the interest of your family — or for what reason you will — But wed him you shall and must.”
“Brother — dearest brother — one single word!”
“Not of refusal or expostulation — that time is gone by,” said her stern censurer. “When I believed thee what I thought thee this morning, I might advise you, but I could not compel. But, since the honour of our family has been disgraced by your means, it is but just, that, if possible, its disgrace should be hidden; and it shall — ay, if selling you for a slave would tend to conceal61 it!”
“You do worse — you do worse by me! A slave in an open market may be bought by a kind master — you do not give me that chance — you wed me to one who”——
“Fear him not, nor the worst that he can do, Clara,” said her brother. “I know on what terms he marries; and being once more your brother, as your obedience68 in this matter will make me, he had better tear his flesh from his bones with his own teeth, than do thee any displeasure! By Heaven, I hate him so much — for he has outreached me every way — that methinks it is some consolation69 that he will not receive in thee the excellent creature I thought thee! — Fallen as thou art, thou art still too good for him.”
Encouraged by the more gentle and almost affectionate tone in which her brother spoke, Clara could not help saying, although almost in a whisper, “I trust it will not be so — I trust he will consider his own condition, honour, and happiness, better than to share it with me.”
“Let him utter such a scruple if he dares,” said Mowbray —“But he dares not hesitate — he knows that the instant he recedes70 from addressing you, he signs his own death-warrant or mine, or perhaps that of both; and his views, too, are of a kind that will not be relinquished71 on a point of scrupulous72 delicacy73 merely. Therefore, Clara, nourish no such thought in your heart as that there is the least possibility of your escaping this marriage! The match is booked — Swear you will not hesitate.”
“I will not,” she said, almost breathlessly, terrified lest he was about to start once more into the fit of unbridled fury which had before seized on him.
“Do not even whisper or hint an objection, but submit to your fate, for it is inevitable.”
“I will — submit”— answered Clara, in the same trembling accent.
“And I,” he said, “will spare you — at least at present — and it may be for ever — all enquiry into the guilt74 which you have confessed. Rumours75 there were of misconduct, which reached my ears even in England; but who could have believed them that looked on you daily, and witnessed your late course of life? — On this subject I will be at present silent — perhaps may not again touch on it — that is, if you do nothing to thwart76 my pleasure, or to avoid the fate which circumstances render unavoidable. — And now it is late — retire, Clara, to your bed — think on what I have said as what necessity has determined, and not my selfish pleasure.”
He held out his hand, and she placed, but not without reluctant terror, her trembling palm in his. In this manner, and with a sort of mournful solemnity, as if they had been in attendance upon a funeral, he handed his sister through a gallery hung with old family pictures, at the end of which was Clara’s bedchamber. The moon, which at this moment looked out through a huge volume of mustering78 clouds that had long been boding79 storm, fell on the two last descendants of that ancient family, as they glided80 hand in hand, more like the ghosts of the deceased than like living persons, through the hall and amongst the portraits of their forefathers81. The same thoughts were in the breast of both, but neither attempted to say, while they cast a flitting glance on the pallid82 and decayed representations, “How little did these anticipate this catastrophe83 of their house!” At the door of the bedroom Mowbray quitted his sister’s hand, and said, “Clara, you should to-night thank God, that saved you from a great danger, and me from a deadly sin.”
“I will,” she answered —“I will.” And, as if her terror had been anew excited by this allusion84 to what had passed, she bid her brother hastily good-night, and was no sooner within her apartment, than he heard her turn the key in the lock, and draw two bolts besides.
“I understand you, Clara,” muttered Mowbray between his teeth, as he heard one bar drawn85 after another. “But if you could earth yourself under Ben Nevis, you could not escape what fate has destined86 for you. — Yes!” he said to himself, as he walked with slow and moody87 pace through the moonlight gallery, uncertain whether to return to the parlour, or to retire to his solitary88 chamber77, when his attention was roused by a noise in the court-yard.
The night was not indeed very far advanced, but it had been so long since Shaws-Castle received a guest, that had Mowbray not heard the rolling of wheels in the court-yard, he might have thought rather of housebreakers than of visitors. But, as the sound of a carriage and horses was distinctly heard, it instantly occurred to him, that the guest must be Lord Etherington, come, even at this late hour, to speak with him on the reports which were current to his sister’s prejudice, and perhaps to declare his addresses to her were at an end. Eager to know the worst, and to bring matters to a decision, he re-entered the apartment he had just left, where the lights were still burning, and, calling loudly to Patrick, whom he heard in communing with the postilion, commanded him to show the visitor to Miss Mowbray’s parlour. It was not the light step of the young nobleman which came tramping, or rather stamping, through the long passage, and up the two or three steps at the end of it. Neither was it Lord Etherington’s graceful89 figure which was seen when the door opened, but the stout90 square substance of Mr. Peregrine Touchwood.
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1
racing
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| n.竞赛，赛马；adj.竞赛用的，赛马用的 | |
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piqued
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| v.伤害…的自尊心( pique的过去式和过去分词 )；激起（好奇心） | |
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3
fiery
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| adj.燃烧着的，火红的；暴躁的；激烈的 | |
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4
hoofs
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| n.（兽的）蹄，马蹄( hoof的名词复数 )v.（兽的）蹄，马蹄( hoof的第三人称单数 ) | |
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rugged
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| adj.高低不平的，粗糙的，粗壮的，强健的 | |
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bough
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| n.大树枝，主枝 | |
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stunted
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| adj.矮小的；发育迟缓的 | |
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8
astonishment
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| n.惊奇，惊异 | |
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9
wed
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| v.娶，嫁，与…结婚 | |
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bridle
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| n.笼头，束缚；vt.抑制，约束；动怒 | |
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groom
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| vt.给（马、狗等）梳毛，照料，使...整洁 | |
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12
beheld
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| v.看，注视( behold的过去式和过去分词 )；瞧；看呀；（叙述中用于引出某人意外的出现）哎哟 | |
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13
intoxicated
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| 喝醉的，极其兴奋的 | |
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prudently
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| adv. 谨慎地，慎重地 | |
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annihilate
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| v.使无效；毁灭；取消 | |
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16
attained
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| （通常经过努力）实现( attain的过去式和过去分词 )； 达到； 获得； 达到（某年龄、水平、状况） | |
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17
anguish
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| n.(尤指心灵上的)极度痛苦，烦恼 | |
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suspense
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| n.（对可能发生的事）紧张感，担心，挂虑 | |
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clatter
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| v./n.(使)发出连续而清脆的撞击声 | |
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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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impatience
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| n.不耐烦，急躁 | |
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determined
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| adj.坚定的；有决心的 | |
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uproar
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| n.骚动，喧嚣，鼎沸 | |
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kit
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| n.用具包，成套工具；随身携带物 | |
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bicker
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| vi.(为小事)吵嘴，争吵 | |
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scruple
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| n./v.顾忌，迟疑 | |
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disarmed
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| v.裁军( disarm的过去式和过去分词 )；使息怒 | |
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contingencies
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| n.偶然发生的事故，意外事故( contingency的名词复数 )；以备万一 | |
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29
tottering
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| adj.蹒跚的，动摇的v.走得或动得不稳( totter的现在分词 )；踉跄；蹒跚；摇摇欲坠 | |
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pinnacle
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| n.尖塔，尖顶，山峰；(喻)顶峰 | |
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eminence
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| n.卓越，显赫；高地，高处；名家 | |
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plunge
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| v.跳入，(使)投入，(使)陷入；猛冲 | |
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backwards
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| adv.往回地，向原处，倒，相反，前后倒置地 | |
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ridicule
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| v.讥讽，挖苦；n.嘲弄 | |
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consummating
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| v.使结束( consummate的现在分词 )；使完美；完婚；（婚礼后的）圆房 | |
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exertion
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| n.尽力，努力 | |
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faltering
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| 犹豫的，支吾的，蹒跚的 | |
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38
obstinately
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| ad.固执地，顽固地 | |
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39
cram
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| v.填塞，塞满，临时抱佛脚，为考试而学习 | |
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40
slander
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| n./v.诽谤，污蔑 | |
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41
misery
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| n.痛苦，苦恼，苦难；悲惨的境遇，贫苦 | |
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42
inflamed
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| adj.发炎的，红肿的v.（使）变红，发怒，过热( inflame的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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43
previously
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| adv.以前，先前（地） | |
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44
clenched
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| v.紧握，抓紧，咬紧( clench的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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horrid
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| adj.可怕的；令人惊恐的；恐怖的；极讨厌的 | |
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unintelligibly
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| 难以理解地 | |
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frightful
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| adj.可怕的；讨厌的 | |
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bloody
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| adj.非常的的；流血的；残忍的；adv.很；vt.血染 | |
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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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solitude
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| n. 孤独; 独居,荒僻之地,幽静的地方 | |
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concur
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| v.同意，意见一致，互助，同时发生 | |
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repulsed
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| v.击退( repulse的过去式和过去分词 )；驳斥；拒绝 | |
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manly
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| adj.有男子气概的；adv.男子般地，果断地 | |
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apprehension
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| n.理解，领悟；逮捕，拘捕；忧虑 | |
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mingled
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| 混合，混入( mingle的过去式和过去分词 )； 混进，与…交往[联系] | |
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implement
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| n.(pl.)工具，器具；vt.实行，实施，执行 | |
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dice
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| n.骰子；vt.把（食物）切成小方块，冒险 | |
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blot
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| vt.弄脏（用吸墨纸）吸干；n.污点，污渍 | |
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dishonour
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| n./vt.拒付（支票、汇票、票据等）；vt.凌辱，使丢脸；n.不名誉，耻辱，不光彩 | |
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concealed
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| a.隐藏的，隐蔽的 | |
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conceal
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| v.隐藏，隐瞒，隐蔽 | |
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awaken
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| vi.醒，觉醒；vt.唤醒，使觉醒，唤起，激起 | |
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ferocious
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| adj.凶猛的，残暴的，极度的，十分强烈的 | |
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vice
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| n.坏事；恶习；[pl.]台钳，老虎钳；adj.副的 | |
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folly
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| n.愚笨，愚蠢，蠢事，蠢行，傻话 | |
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inevitable
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| adj.不可避免的，必然发生的 | |
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nay
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| adv.不；n.反对票，投反对票者 | |
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obedience
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| n.服从，顺从 | |
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consolation
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| n.安慰，慰问 | |
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recedes
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| v.逐渐远离( recede的第三人称单数 )；向后倾斜；自原处后退或避开别人的注视；尤指问题 | |
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relinquished
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| 交出，让给( relinquish的过去式和过去分词 )； 放弃 | |
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scrupulous
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| adj.审慎的，小心翼翼的，完全的，纯粹的 | |
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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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guilt
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| n.犯罪；内疚；过失，罪责 | |
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rumours
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| n.传闻( rumour的名词复数 )；风闻；谣言；谣传 | |
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thwart
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| v.阻挠，妨碍，反对；adj.横(断的) | |
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chamber
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| n.房间，寝室；会议厅；议院；会所 | |
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mustering
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| v.集合，召集，集结（尤指部队）( muster的现在分词 )；（自他人处）搜集某事物；聚集；激发 | |
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boding
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| adj.凶兆的，先兆的n.凶兆，前兆，预感v.预示，预告，预言( bode的现在分词 )；等待，停留( bide的过去分词 )；居住；（过去式用bided）等待 | |
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glided
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| v.滑动( glide的过去式和过去分词 )；掠过；（鸟或飞机 ） 滑翔 | |
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forefathers
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| n.祖先，先人；祖先，祖宗( forefather的名词复数 )；列祖列宗；前人 | |
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82
pallid
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| adj.苍白的，呆板的 | |
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83
catastrophe
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| n.大灾难，大祸 | |
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84
allusion
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| n.暗示，间接提示 | |
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85
drawn
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| v.拖，拉，拔出；adj.憔悴的，紧张的 | |
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86
destined
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| adj.命中注定的；(for)以…为目的地的 | |
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87
moody
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| adj.心情不稳的，易怒的，喜怒无常的 | |
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88
solitary
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| adj.孤独的，独立的，荒凉的；n.隐士 | |
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graceful
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| adj.优美的，优雅的；得体的 | |
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