A girl of a little more than seventeen, looking, I believe, younger still; slight and rather tall, with a great deal of golden hair, dark grey-eyed, and with a countenance6 rather sensitive and melancholy7, was sitting at the tea-table, in a reverie. I was that girl.
The only other person in the room — the only person in the house related to me — was my father. He was Mr. Ruthyn, of Knowl, so called in this county, but he had many other places, was of a very ancient lineage, who had refused a baronetage often, and it was said even a viscounty, being of a proud and defiant8 spirit, and thinking themselves higher in station and purer of blood than two-thirds of the nobility into whose ranks it was said, they had been invited to enter. Of all this family lore9 I knew but little and vaguely10; only what is to be gathered from the fireside talk of old retainers in the nursery.
I am sure my father loved me, and I know I loved him. With the sure instinct of childhood I apprehended11 his tenderness, although it was never expressed in common ways. But my father was an oddity. He had been early disappointed in Parliament, where it was his ambition to succeed. Though a clever man, he failed there, where very inferior men did extremely well. Then he went abroad, and became a connoisseur13 and a collector; took a part, on his return, in literary and scientific institutions, and also in the foundation and direction of some charities. But he tired of this mimic14 government, and gave himself up to a country life, not that of a sportsman, b rather of a student, staying sometimes at one of his places and sometimes at another, and living a secluded15 life.
Rather late in his life he married, and his beautiful young wife died, leaving me, their only child, to his care. This bereavement16, I have been told, changed him — made him more odd and taciturn than ever, and his temper also, except to me, more severe. There was also some disgrace about his younger brother — my uncle Silas — which he felt bitterly.
He was now walking up and down this spacious17 old room, which, extending round an angle at the far end, was very dark in that quarter. It was his wont18 to walk up and down thus, without speaking — an exercise which used to remind me of Chateaubriand’s father in the great chamber20 of the Chateau19 de Combourg. At the far end he nearly disappeared in the gloom, and then returning emerged for a few minutes, like a portrait with a background of shadow, and then again in silence faded nearly out of view.
This monotony and silence would have been terrifying to a person less accustomed to it than I. As it was, it had its effect. I have known my father a whole day without ounce speaking to me. Though I loved him very much, I was also much in awe21 of him.
While my father paced the floor, my thoughts were employed about the events of a month before. So few things happened at Knowl out of the accustomed routine, that a very trifling22 occurrence was enough to set people wondering and conjecturing23 in that serene24 household. My father lived in remarkable25 seclusion26; except for a ride, he hardly ever left the grounds of Knowl; and I don’t think it happened twice in the year that a visitor sojourned among us.
There was not even that mild religious bustle27 which sometimes besets28 the wealthy and moral recluse29. My father had left the Church of England for some odd sect30, I forget its name, and ultimately became, I was told, a Swedenborgian. But he did not care to trouble me upon the subject. So the old carriage brought my governess, when I had one, the old housekeeper31, Mrs. Rusk, and myself to the parish church every Sunday. And my father, in the view of the honest rector who shook his head over him —“a cloud without water, carried about of winds, and a wandering star to whom is reserved the blackness of darkness”— corresponded with the “minister” of his church, and was provokingly contented32 with his own fertility and illumination; and Mrs. Rusk, who was a sound and bitter churchwoman, said he fancied he saw visions and talked with angels like the rest of that “rubbitch.”
I don’t know that she had any better foundation than analogy and conjecture33 for charging my father with supernatural pretensions34; and in all points when her orthodoxy was not concerned, she loved her master and was a loyal housekeeper.
I found her one morning superintending preparations for the reception of a visitor, in the hunting-room it was called, from the pieces of tapestry35 that covered its walls, representing scenes à la Wouvermans, of falconry, and the chase, dogs, hawks36, ladies, gallants, and pages. In the midst of whom Mrs. Rusk, in black silk, was rummaging37 drawers, counting linen38, and issuing orders.
“Who is coming, Mrs. Rusk?”
Well, she only knew his name. It was a Mr. Bryerly. My papa expected him to dinner, and to stay for some days.
“I guess he’s one of those creatures, dear, for I mentioned his name just to Dr. Clay (the rector), and he says there is a Doctor Bryerly, a great conjurer among the sss sect — and that’s him, I do suppose.”
In my hazy39 notions of these sectaries there was mingled40 a suspicion of necromancy41, and a weird42 freemasonry, that inspired something of awe and antipathy43.
Mr. Bryerly arrived time enough to dress at his leisure, before dinner. He entered the drawing-room — a tall, lean man, all in ungainly black, with a white choker, with either a black wig44, or black hair dressed in imitation of one, a pair of spectacles, and a dark, sharp, short visage, rubbing his large hands together, and with a short brisk not to me, whom he plainly regarded merely as a child, he sat down before the fire, crossed his legs, and took up a magazine.
This treatment was mortifying45, and I remember very well the resentment46 of which he was quite unconscious.
His stay was not very long; not one of us divined the object of his visit, and he did not prepossesses us favourably47. He seemed restless, as men of busy habits do in country houses, and took walks, and a drive, and read in the library, and wrote half a dozen letters.
His bed-room and dressing-room were at the side of the gallery, directly opposite to my father’s, which had a sort of ante-room en suite48, in which were some of his theological books.
The day after Mr. Bryerly’s arrival, I was about to see whether my father’s water caraffe and glass had been duly laid on the table in this ante-room, and in doubt whether he was there, I knocked at the door.
I suppose they were too intent on other matters to hear, but receiving no answer, I entered the room. My father was sitting in his chair, with his coat and waistcoat off, Mr. Bryerly kneeling on a stool beside him, rather facing him, his black scratch wig leaning close to my father’s grizzled hair. There was a large tome of their divinity lore, I suppose, open on the table close by. The lank49 black figure of Mr. Bryerly stood up, and he concealed50 something quickly in the breast of his coat.
My father stood up also, looking paler, I think, than I ever saw him till then, and he pointed12 grimly to the door, and said, “Go.”
Mr. Bryerly pushed me gently back with his hands to my shoulders, and smiled down from his dark features with an expression quite unintelligible51 to me.
I had recovered myself in a second, and withdrew without a word. The last thing I saw at the door was the tall, slim figure in black, and the dark, significant smile following me: and then the door was shut and locked, and the two sssians were left to their mysteries.
I remember so well the kind of shock and disgust I felt in the certainty that I had surprised them at some, perhaps, debasing incantation — a suspicion of this Mr. Bryerly, of the ill-fitting black coat, and white choker — and a sort of fear came upon me, and I fancied he was asserting some kind of mastery over my father, which very much alarmed me.
I fancied all sorts of dangers in the enigmatical smile of the lank high-priest. The image of my father, as I had seen him, it might be, confessing to this man in black, who was I knew not what, haunted me with the disagreeable uncertainties52 of a mind very uninstructed as to the limits of the marvellous.
I mentioned it to no one. But I was immensely relieved when the sinister53 visitor took his departure the morning after, and it was upon this occurrence that my mind was now employed.
Some one said that Dr. Johnson resembled a ghost, who must be spoken to before it will speak. But my father, in whatever else he may have resembled a ghost, did not in that particular; for no one but I in his household — and I very seldom — dared to address him until first addressed by him. I had no notion how singular this was until I began to go out a little among friends and relations, and found no such rule in force anywhere else.
As I leaned back in my chair thinking, this phantasm of my father came, and turned, and vanished with a solemn regularity54. It was a peculiar55 figure, strongly made, thick-set, with a face large, and very stern; he wore a loose, black velvet56 coat and waistcoat. It was, however, the figure of an elderly rather than an old man — though he was then past seventy — but firm, and with no sign of feebleness.
I remember the start with which, not suspecting that he was close by me, I lifted my eyes, and saw that large, rugged57 countenance looking fixedly58 on me, from less than a yard away.
After I saw him, he continued to regard me for a second or two; and then, taking one of the heavy candlesticks in his gnarled hand, he beckoned59 me to follow him; which, in silence and wondering, I accordingly did.
He led me across the hall, where there were lights burning, and into a lobby by the foot of the back stairs, and so into his library.
It is a long, narrow room, with two tall, slim windows at the far end, now draped in dark curtains. Dusky it was with but one candle; and he paused near the door, at the left-hand side of which stood, in those days, an old-fashioned press or cabinet of carved oak. In front of this he stopped.
He had odd, absent ways, and talked more to himself, I believe, than to all the rest of the world put together.
“She won’t understand,” he whispered, looking at me enquiringly. “No, she won’t. Will she?”
Then there was a pause, during which he brought forth60 from his breast pocket a small bunch of some half-dozen keys, on one of which he looked frowningly, every now and then balancing it a little before his eyes, between his finger and thumb, as he deliberated.
I knew him too well, of course, to interpose a word.
“They are easily frightened — ay, they are. I’d better do it another way.”
And pausing, he looked in my face as he might upon a picture.
“They are — yes — I had better do it another way — another way; yes — and she’ll not suspect — she’ll not suppose.”
Then he looked steadfastly61 upon the key, and from it to me, suddenly lifting it up, and said abruptly62, “See, child,” and, after a second or two, “Remember this key.”
It was oddly shaped, and unlike others.
“Yes, sir.” I always called him “sir.”
“It opens that,” and he tapped it sharply on the door of the cabinet. “In the daytime it is always here,” at which word he dropped it into his pocket again. “You see? — and at night under my pillow — you hear me?”
“Yes, sir.”
“You won’t forget this cabinet — oak — next the door — on your left — you won’t forget?”
“No, sir.”
“Pity she’s a girl, and so young — ay, a girl, and so young — no sense — giddy. You say, you’ll remember?”
“Yes, sir.”
“It behoves you.”
He turned round and looked full upon me, like a man who has taken a sudden resolution; and I think for a moment he had made up his mind to tell me a great deal more. But if so, he changed it again; and after another pause, he said slowly and sternly —
“You will tell nobody what I have said, under pain of my displeasure.”
“Oh! no, sir!”
“Good child!”
“Except,” he resumed, “under one contingency63; that is, in case I should be absent, and Dr. Bryerly — you recollect64 the tin gentleman, in spectacles and a black wig, who spent three days here last month — should come and enquire65 for the key, you understand, in my absence.”
“Yes, sir.”
So he kissed me on the forehead, and said —
“Let us return.”
Which, accordingly, we did, in silence; the storm outside, like a dirge66 on a great organ, accompanying our flitting.
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1
gusts
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| 一阵强风( gust的名词复数 )； （怒、笑等的）爆发； （感情的）迸发； 发作 | |
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rattling
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| adj. 格格作响的, 活泼的, 很好的 adv. 极其, 很, 非常 动词rattle的现在分词 | |
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3
wailing
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| v.哭叫，哀号( wail的现在分词 )；沱 | |
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glimmered
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| v.发闪光，发微光( glimmer的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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graceful
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| adj.优美的，优雅的；得体的 | |
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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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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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defiant
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| adj.无礼的，挑战的 | |
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lore
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| n.传说；学问，经验，知识 | |
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vaguely
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| adv.含糊地，暖昧地 | |
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apprehended
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| 逮捕，拘押( apprehend的过去式和过去分词 )； 理解 | |
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pointed
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| adj.尖的，直截了当的 | |
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connoisseur
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| n.鉴赏家，行家，内行 | |
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14
mimic
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| v.模仿，戏弄；n.模仿他人言行的人 | |
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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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16
bereavement
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| n.亲人丧亡，丧失亲人，丧亲之痛 | |
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spacious
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| adj.广阔的，宽敞的 | |
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wont
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| adj.习惯于；v.习惯；n.习惯 | |
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chateau
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| n.城堡，别墅 | |
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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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21
awe
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| n.敬畏，惊惧；vt.使敬畏，使惊惧 | |
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trifling
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| adj.微不足道的；没什么价值的 | |
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23
conjecturing
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| v. & n. 推测，臆测 | |
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24
serene
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| adj. 安详的，宁静的，平静的 | |
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remarkable
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| adj.显著的，异常的，非凡的，值得注意的 | |
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seclusion
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| n.隐遁，隔离 | |
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bustle
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| v.喧扰地忙乱，匆忙，奔忙；n.忙碌；喧闹 | |
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besets
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| v.困扰( beset的第三人称单数 )；不断围攻；镶；嵌 | |
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recluse
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| n.隐居者 | |
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sect
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| n.派别，宗教，学派，派系 | |
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housekeeper
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| n.管理家务的主妇，女管家 | |
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32
contented
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| adj.满意的，安心的，知足的 | |
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conjecture
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| n./v.推测，猜测 | |
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34
pretensions
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| 自称( pretension的名词复数 )； 自命不凡； 要求； 权力 | |
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tapestry
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| n.挂毯，丰富多采的画面 | |
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hawks
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| 鹰( hawk的名词复数 )； 鹰派人物，主战派人物 | |
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37
rummaging
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| 翻找，搜寻( rummage的现在分词 )； 海关检查 | |
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38
linen
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| n.亚麻布，亚麻线，亚麻制品；adj.亚麻布制的，亚麻的 | |
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hazy
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| adj.有薄雾的，朦胧的；不肯定的，模糊的 | |
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40
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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41
necromancy
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| n.巫术；通灵术 | |
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42
weird
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| adj.古怪的，离奇的；怪诞的，神秘而可怕的 | |
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43
antipathy
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| n.憎恶；反感，引起反感的人或事物 | |
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44
wig
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| n.假发 | |
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45
mortifying
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| adj.抑制的，苦修的v.使受辱( mortify的现在分词 )；伤害（人的感情）；克制；抑制（肉体、情感等） | |
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46
resentment
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| n.怨愤，忿恨 | |
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47
favourably
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| adv. 善意地，赞成地 =favorably | |
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48
suite
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| n.一套(家具)；套房；随从人员 | |
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49
lank
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| adj.瘦削的；稀疏的 | |
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50
concealed
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| a.隐藏的，隐蔽的 | |
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51
unintelligible
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| adj.无法了解的，难解的，莫明其妙的 | |
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52
uncertainties
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| 无把握( uncertainty的名词复数 )； 不确定； 变化不定； 无把握、不确定的事物 | |
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53
sinister
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| adj.不吉利的，凶恶的，左边的 | |
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54
regularity
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| n.规律性，规则性；匀称，整齐 | |
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peculiar
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| adj.古怪的，异常的；特殊的，特有的 | |
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56
velvet
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| n.丝绒，天鹅绒；adj.丝绒制的，柔软的 | |
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57
rugged
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| adj.高低不平的，粗糙的，粗壮的，强健的 | |
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58
fixedly
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| adv.固定地；不屈地，坚定不移地 | |
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59
beckoned
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| v.（用头或手的动作）示意，召唤( beckon的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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60
forth
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| adv.向前；向外，往外 | |
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steadfastly
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| adv.踏实地，不变地；岿然；坚定不渝 | |
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abruptly
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| adv.突然地，出其不意地 | |
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contingency
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| n.意外事件，可能性 | |
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recollect
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| v.回忆，想起，记起，忆起，记得 | |
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65
enquire
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| v.打听，询问；调查，查问 | |
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66
dirge
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| n.哀乐，挽歌，庄重悲哀的乐曲 | |
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