Cleve had, therefore, to read these closely written despatches with more attention than even his friend Dixie read his Bible. They were a sore trouble, for their length was at times incredible.
As he read these letters, moans, and even execrations, escaped him, such as poets describe as issuing from the abode6 of torment7 —“Good heavens! mightn’t he have said that in five words?” Then a “Pish!”—“Always grumbling8 about that executorship. Why did he take it? I do believe he likes it.”
And then Cleve read — “I see no reason why, with respect to you, I may not exercise — as between ourselves, at least — an absolute unreserve with relation to a fact of which, through a channel not necessary to particularise, I have just received an authentic9 assurance, to the effect, namely, that Sir Booth Fanshawe, whose ruin has been brought about, partly by his virtual insanity11 in opposing me with an insensate pertinacity12 and an intense ill feeling, on which I offer no observation, but involving an expense to which his impaired13 means were obviously inadequate15, and partly by early follies16, profligacies, and vices17, is now living concealed18 in the Rue19 de — — in Paris.” Cleve laughed. “He is a person to whom neither courtesy nor forbearance, as it appears to me, can reasonably be held to be in any respect due from me. There has been a recent order, charging him, as you may have seen by the public papers, with ￡2,317 costs in the collateral20 suit connected with the trust cause, in which I was, though I by no means sought the position, the plaintiff, to foreclose the mortgage over Wycroft. I have written to apprise21 Milbanke of the fact, that he may take such steps as the nature of the case may suggest.” “Well for Sir Booth he does not know he’s so near! What’s this? A postscript22! well”—“P.S. — I have opened my letter to introduce this postscript, in consequence of a letter which has just reached me in course of post from Mr. Jos. Larkin, a solicitor23, who was introduced to my notice about two years since by a member of the Brandon family, and who is unquestionably a man of some ability in his position in life. His letter is accompanied by a note from Messrs. Goldshed and Levi, and the two documents involve considerations so sudden, complicated, and momentous24, that I must defer25 opening them, and request your presence at Verney House on the 15th proximo, when I mean to visit town for the purpose of arriving at a distinct solution of the several reports thus submitted upon a subject intimately connected with my private feelings, and with the most momentous interests of my house.”
So abruptly26 ended the postscript, and for a moment Cleve was seriously alarmed. Could those meddling27 fellows who had agents everywhere have fished up some bit of Cardyllian gossip about his Malory romance?
He knew very well what the Hon. Kiffyn Fulke Verney would think of that. His uncle could make or mar28 him. He knew that he had dangerous qualities, being a narrow man, with obstinate29 resentments30. He was stunned31 for a moment; but then he reflected that all the romance in which he was living had been purely32 psychologic and internal, and that there was no overt33 act to support the case which he might not confess and laugh at.
“On the 15th proximo”— Very well; on the 15th he would be in town, and hear his uncle upon this subject, involving his “private feelings” and “the most momentous interests of his house.” Could it be that his out-cast uncle, who had been dragging out a villanous existence in Turkey, under the hospitable34 protection of the Porte — who was said to have killed the captain of a French man-of-war, in that contemplative retreat, and whom he was wont35 respectfully to call “the Old Man of the Mountains,” was dead at last?
The postscript would bear this interpretation36 and a pompous37 liking38 for mystery, which was one of his uncle’s small weaknesses, would account for his withholding39 the precise information, and nursing, and making much of his secret, and delivering it at last, like a Cabinet manifesto40 or a Sessional address.
“If the Old Man of the Mountains be really out of the way, it’s an important event for us!”
And a dark smile lighted the young man’s face, as he thought of the long train of splendid consequences that would awake at his death-bed, and begin to march before his funeral.
Ambition, they say, is the giant passion. But giants are placable and sleep at times. The spirit of emulation41 — the lust42 of distinction —hominum volitare per ora — digito monstrarier— in a wider, and still widening sphere — until all the world knows something about you — and so on and on — the same selfish aspiration43, and at best, the same barren progress, till at last it has arrived — you are a thoroughly44 advertised and conspicuous45 mediocrity, still wishing, and often tired, in the midst of drudgery46 and importance and éclat, and then — on a sudden, the other thing comes — the first of the days of darkness which are many.
“Thy house shall be of clay,
A clot47 under thy head;
Until the latter day,
The grave shall be thy bed.”
But nature has her flowers and her fruits, as well as those coarse grains and vegetables on which overgrown reputations are stall-fed. The Commons lobby, the division list, the bureau, Hansard, the newspapers, the dreary48 bombast49 of the Right Hon. Marcus Tullius Countinghouse, the ironies50 of Mr. Swelter, the jokes of Mr. Rasp — enjoy these shams51 while your faith is great — while you may, now, in the days of thy youth, before your time comes, and knowledge chills, and care catches you, and you are drawn52 in and ground under the great old machine which has been thundering round and round, and bruising53 its proper grist, ever since Adam and Eve walked out of Eden.
But beside all this delicious rape-cake and man-gold of politics, Cleve Verney had his transient perceptions of the flowers and fruits, as we say, that spring elsewhere. There are fancy, the regrets, the yearnings — something recluse54 in the human soul, which will have its day, a day, though brief it may be, of entire domination.
Now it came to pass, among the trees of lonely Malory, at eventide, when the golden air was flooded with the vesper songs of small birds, and the long gray shadows were stretching into distance, that a little brown Welsh boy, with dark lively eyes, and a wire cage in his hand, suddenly stood before Miss Margaret Fanshawe, who awaking from a reverie, with a startled look — for intruders were there unknown — fixed55 her great eyes upon him.
“You’ve climbed the wall, little gipsy,” said the beautiful lady, with a shake of her head and a little frown, raising her finger threateningly. “What! You say nothing? This is a lonely place; don’t you know there are ghosts here and fairies in Malory? And I’m one of them, perhaps,” she continued, softening56 a little, for he looked at her with round eyes of wonder and awe10.
“And what do you want here? and what have you got in that cage? Let me see it.”
Breaking through an accidental cleft57 among the old trees, one sunset ray streamed on the face of this little Welsh Murillo; and now through the wires of the cage, gilding58 them pleasantly as he raised it in his hand, and showed two little squirrels hopping59 merrily within.
“Squirrels! How curious! My poor little Whisk, there’s none like you, funny little Whisk, kind little Whisk, true little thing; you loved your mistress, and no one else, no one else. He’s buried there, under that large rose-bush; I won’t cry for you, little Whisk, any more, I said I wouldn’t.”
She looked wistfully toward the rose-bush, and the little headstone she had girlishly placed at her favourite’s grave, and the little boy saw two great crystal tears glittering in her large eyes as she gazed; and she turned and walked a hasty step or two toward it. I don’t know whether they fell or were dried, but when she came back she looked as at first.
“I’ll buy one of these little things, they are very pretty, and I’ll call it Frisk; and I’ll please myself by thinking it’s little Whisk’s brother; it may be, you know,” she said, unconsciously taking the little boy into the childish confidence. “What would you sell one of those little things for? perhaps you would not like to part with it, but I’ll make it very happy, I shall be very kind to it.”
She paused, but the little fellow only looked still silently and earnestly in her face.
“Is he deaf or dumb, or a sprite — who are you?” said the girl, looking at him curiously60.
A short sentence in Welsh, prettiest of all pretty tongues, with its pleasant accent, was the reply.
“Then all my fine sentences have been thrown away, and not one word has he understood!”
Looking at his impenetrable face, and thus speaking, she smiled; and in that sudden and beautiful radiance he smiled merrily also.
All this happened under the trees close by the old Refectory wall, at the angle of which is a small door admitting into the stable-yard. Opening this she called “Thomas Jones!” and the Cardyllian “helper,” so called, answered the invocation quickly.
“Make out from that little boy, what he is willing to take for one of his squirrels,” said she, and listened in suspense61 while the brief dialogue in Welsh proceeded.
“He says, my lady, he does not know, but will go home and ask; and if you give him a shilling for earnest, he’ll leave the cage here. So you may look at them for some time, my lady — yes, sure, and see which you would find the best of the two.”
“Oh, that’s charming!” said she, nodding and smiling her thanks to the urchin62, who received the shilling and surrendered the cage, which she set down upon the grass in triumph; and seating herself upon the turf before them, began to talk to the imprisoned63 squirrels with the irrepressible delight with which any companionable creature is welcomed by the young in the monotony and sadness of solitude64.
The sun went down, and the moon rose over Malory, but the little brown boy returned not. Perhaps his home was distant. But the next morning did not bring him back, nor the day, nor the evening; and, in fact, she saw his face no more.
“Poor little deserted65 squirrels! — two little foundlings! — what am I to think? Tell me, cousin Anne, was that little boy what he seemed, or an imp14 that haunts these woods, and wants to entangle66 me by a bargain uncompleted; or a compassionate67 spirit that came thus disguised to supply the loss of poor little Whisk; and how and when do you think he will appear again?”
She was lighting68 her bed-room candle in the faded old drawing-room of Malory, as, being about to part for the night, she thus addressed her gray cousin Anne. That old spinster yawned at her leisure, and then said —
“He’ll never appear again, dear.”
“I should really say, to judge by that speech, that you knew something about him,” said Margaret Fanshawe, replacing her candle on the table as she looked curiously in her face.
The old lady smiled mysteriously.
“What is it?” said the girl; “you must tell me — you shall tell me. Come, cousin Anne, I don’t go to bed to-night till you tell me all you know.”
The young lady had a will of her own, and sat down, it might be for the night, in her chair again.
“As to knowing, my dear, I really know nothing; but I have my suspicions.”
“H-m!” said Margaret, for a moment dropping her eyes to the table, so that only their long silken fringes were visible. Then she raised them once more gravely to her kinswoman’s face. “Yes, I will know what you suspect.”
“Well, I think that handsome young man, Mr. Cleve Verney, is at the bottom of the mystery,” said Miss Sheckleton, with the same smile.
Again the young lady dropped her eyes, and was for a moment silent. “Was she pleased or dis-pleased? Proud and sad her face looked.
“There’s no one here to tell him that I lost my poor little squirrel. It’s quite impossible — the most unlikely idea imaginable.”
“I told him on Sunday,” said Miss Sheckleton, smiling.
“He had no business to talk about me.”
“Why, dear, unless he was a positive brute69, he could not avoid asking for you; so I told him you were désolé about your bereavement70 — your poor little Whisk, and he seemed so sorry and kind; and I’m perfectly71 certain he got these little animals to supply its place.”
“And so has led me into taking a present?” said the young lady, a little fiercely —“he would not have taken that liberty ——”
“Liberty, my dear?”
“Yes, liberty; if he did not think that we were fallen, ruined people ——”
“Now, my dear child, your father’s not ruined, I maintain it; there will be more left, I’m very certain, than he supposes; and I could have almost beaten you the other day for using that expression in speaking to Mr. Verney; but you are so impetuous— and then, could any one have done a more thoughtful or a kinder thing, and in a more perfectly delicate way? He hasn’t made you a present; he has only contrived72 that a purchase should be thrown in your way, which of all others was exactly what you most wished; he has not appeared, and never will appear in it; and I know, for my part, I’m very much obliged to him —if he has done it — and I think he admires you too much to run a risk of offending you.”
“What?”
“I do — I think he admires you.”
The girl stood up again, and glanced at the mirror, I think, pleased, for a moment — and then took her candle, but paused by the table, looking thoughtfully. Was she paler than usual? or was it only that the light of the candle in her hand was thrown upward on her features? Then she said in a spoken meditation73 —
“There are dreams that have in them, I think, the germs of insanity; and the sooner we dissipate them, don’t you think, the better and the wiser?”
She smiled, nodded, and went away.
Whose dreams did she mean? Cleve Verney’s, Miss Sheckleton’s, or — could it be, her own?
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1
ware
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| n.(常用复数)商品，货物 | |
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remittance
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| n.汇款，寄款，汇兑 | |
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rote
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| n.死记硬背，生搬硬套 | |
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pointedly
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| adv.尖地，明显地 | |
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inconvenient
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| adj.不方便的，令人感到麻烦的 | |
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abode
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| n.住处，住所 | |
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torment
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| n.折磨；令人痛苦的东西(人)；vt.折磨；纠缠 | |
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grumbling
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| adj. 喃喃鸣不平的, 出怨言的 | |
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9
authentic
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| a.真的，真正的；可靠的，可信的，有根据的 | |
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awe
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| n.敬畏，惊惧；vt.使敬畏，使惊惧 | |
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insanity
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| n.疯狂，精神错乱；极端的愚蠢，荒唐 | |
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pertinacity
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| n.执拗，顽固 | |
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13
impaired
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| adj.受损的；出毛病的；有（身体或智力）缺陷的v.损害，削弱( impair的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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14
imp
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| n.顽童 | |
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inadequate
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| adj.(for,to)不充足的，不适当的 | |
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follies
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| 罪恶，时事讽刺剧； 愚蠢，蠢笨，愚蠢的行为、思想或做法( folly的名词复数 ) | |
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vices
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| 缺陷( vice的名词复数 )； 恶习； 不道德行为； 台钳 | |
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concealed
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| a.隐藏的，隐蔽的 | |
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rue
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| n.懊悔，芸香，后悔；v.后悔，悲伤，懊悔 | |
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collateral
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| adj.平行的；旁系的；n.担保品 | |
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apprise
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| vt.通知，告知 | |
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postscript
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| n.附言，又及；(正文后的)补充说明 | |
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23
solicitor
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| n.初级律师，事务律师 | |
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momentous
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| adj.重要的，重大的 | |
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defer
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| vt.推迟，拖延；vi.(to)遵从，听从，服从 | |
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abruptly
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| adv.突然地，出其不意地 | |
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meddling
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| v.干涉，干预（他人事务）( meddle的现在分词 ) | |
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mar
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| vt.破坏，毁坏，弄糟 | |
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obstinate
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| adj.顽固的，倔强的，不易屈服的，较难治愈的 | |
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resentments
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| （因受虐待而）愤恨，不满，怨恨( resentment的名词复数 ) | |
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stunned
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| adj. 震惊的，惊讶的 动词stun的过去式和过去分词 | |
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purely
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| adv.纯粹地，完全地 | |
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overt
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| adj.公开的，明显的，公然的 | |
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hospitable
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| adj.好客的；宽容的；有利的，适宜的 | |
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wont
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| adj.习惯于；v.习惯；n.习惯 | |
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interpretation
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| n.解释，说明，描述；艺术处理 | |
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pompous
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| adj.傲慢的，自大的；夸大的；豪华的 | |
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liking
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| n.爱好；嗜好；喜欢 | |
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withholding
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| 扣缴税款 | |
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manifesto
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| n.宣言，声明 | |
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emulation
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| n.竞争；仿效 | |
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lust
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| n.性(淫)欲；渴(欲)望；vi.对…有强烈的欲望 | |
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aspiration
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| n.志向，志趣抱负；渴望；(语)送气音；吸出 | |
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thoroughly
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| adv.完全地，彻底地，十足地 | |
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conspicuous
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| adj.明眼的，惹人注目的；炫耀的，摆阔气的 | |
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drudgery
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| n.苦工，重活，单调乏味的工作 | |
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clot
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| n.凝块；v.使凝成块 | |
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dreary
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| adj.令人沮丧的，沉闷的，单调乏味的 | |
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bombast
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| n.高调，夸大之辞 | |
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ironies
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| n.反语( irony的名词复数 )；冷嘲；具有讽刺意味的事；嘲弄 | |
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51
shams
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| 假象( sham的名词复数 )； 假货； 虚假的行为（或感情、言语等）； 假装…的人 | |
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drawn
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| v.拖，拉，拔出；adj.憔悴的，紧张的 | |
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bruising
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| adj.殊死的；十分激烈的v.擦伤(bruise的现在分词形式) | |
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recluse
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| n.隐居者 | |
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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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softening
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| 变软，软化 | |
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cleft
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| n.裂缝；adj.裂开的 | |
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gilding
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| n.贴金箔，镀金 | |
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hopping
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| n. 跳跃 动词hop的现在分词形式 | |
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curiously
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| adv.有求知欲地；好问地；奇特地 | |
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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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urchin
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| n.顽童；海胆 | |
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imprisoned
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| 下狱，监禁( imprison的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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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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deserted
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| adj.荒芜的，荒废的，无人的，被遗弃的 | |
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entangle
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| vt.缠住，套住；卷入，连累 | |
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compassionate
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| adj.有同情心的，表示同情的 | |
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lighting
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| n.照明，光线的明暗，舞台灯光 | |
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brute
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| n.野兽，兽性 | |
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bereavement
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| n.亲人丧亡，丧失亲人，丧亲之痛 | |
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71
perfectly
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| adv.完美地，无可非议地，彻底地 | |
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72
contrived
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| adj.不自然的，做作的；虚构的 | |
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meditation
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| n.熟虑，（尤指宗教的）默想，沉思，（pl.）冥想录 | |
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