After an interval3 of nearly half an hour, he drew near again, and sat down in a high-backed arm-chair, beside the fire, and nearly opposite to me, and looked at me steadfastly4 for some time, as was his wont5, before speaking; and said he —
“This won’t do — you must have a governess.”
In cases of this kind I merely set down my book or work, as it might be, and adjusted myself to listen without speaking.
“Your French is pretty well, and you Italian; but you have no German. Your music may be pretty good — I’m no judge — but your drawing might be better — yes — yes. I believe there are accomplished7 ladies — finishing governesses, they call them — who undertake more than any one teacher would have professed8 in my time, and do very well. She can prepare you, and next winter, then, you shall visit France and Italy, where you may be accomplished as highly as you please.”
“Thank you, sir.”
“You shall. It is nearly six months since Miss Ellerton left you — too long without a teacher.”
Then followed an interval.
“Dr. Bryerly will ask you about that key, and what it opens; you show all that to him, and no one else.”
“But,” I said, for I had a great terror of disobeying him in even so minute a matter, “you will then be absent, sir — how am I to find the key?”
He smiled on me suddenly — a bight but wintry smile — it seldom came, and was very transitory, and kindly9 though mysterious.
“True, child; I’m glad you are so wise; that, you will find, I have provided for, and you shall know exactly where to look. You have remarked how solitary10 I live. You fancy, perhaps, I have not got a friend, and you are nearly right — nearly, but not altogether. I have a very sure friend — one — a friend whom I once misunderstood, but now appreciate.”
I wondered silently whether it could be Uncle Silas.
“He’ll make a call, some day soon; I’m not quite sure when. I won’t tell you his name — you’ll hear that soon enough, and I don’t want it talked of; and I must make a little journey with him. You’ll not be afraid of being left alone for a time?”
“And have you promised, sir?” I answered, with another question, my curiosity and anxiety overcoming my awe11. He took my questioning very good-humouredly.
“Well — promise? — no, child; but I’m under condition; he’s not to be denied. I must make the excursion with him the moment he calls. I have no choice; but, on the whole, I rather like it — remember, I say, I rather like it.”
And he smiled again, with the same meaning, that was at once stern and sad. The exact purport12 of these sentences remained fixed13 in my mind, so that even at this distance of time I am quite sure of them.
A person quite unacquainted with my father’s habitually14 abrupt15 and odd way of talking, would have fancied that he was possibly a little disordered in his mind. But no such suspicion for a moment troubled me. I was quite sure that he spoke16 of a real person who was coming, and that his journey was something momentous17; and when the visitor of whom he spoke did come, and he departed with him upon that mysterious excursion, I perfectly18 understood his language and his reasons for saying so much and yet so little.
You are not to suppose that all my hours were passed in the sort of conference and isolation19 of which I have just given you a specimen20; and singular and even awful as were sometimes my tête-à-têtes with my father, I had grown so accustomed to his strange ways, and had so unbounded a confidence in his affection, that they never depressed21 or agitated22 me in the matter you might have supposed. I had a great deal of quite a different sort of chat with good old Mrs. Rusk, and very pleasant talks with Mary Quince, my somewhat ancient maid; and besides all this, I had now and then a visit of a week or so at the house of some one of our country neighbours, and occasionally a visitor — but this, I must own, very rarely — at Knowl.
There had come now a little pause in my father’s revelations, and my fancy wandered away upon a flight of discovery. Who, I again thought, could this intending visitor be, who was to come, armed with the prerogative23 to make my stay-at-home father forthwith leave his household goods — his books and his child — to whom he clung, and set forth24 on an unknown knight-errantry? Who but Uncle Silas, I thought — that mysterious relative whom I had never seen — who was, it had in old times been very darkly hinted to me, unspeakable unfortunate or unspeakably vicious — whom I had seldom heard my father mention, and then in a hurried way, and with a pained, thoughtful look. Only once he had said anything from which I could gather my father’s opinion of him, and then it was so slight and enigmatical that I might have filled in the character very nearly as I pleased.
It happened thus. One day Mrs. Rusk was in the oak-room, I being then about fourteen. She was removing a stain from a tapestry25 chair, and I watched the process with a childish interest. She sat down to rest herself — she had been stooping over her work — and threw her head back, for her neck was weary, and in this position she fixed her eyes on a portrait that hung before her.
It was a full-length, and represented a singularly handsome young man, dark, slender, elegant, in a costume then quite obsolete26, though I believe it was seen at the beginning of this century — white leather pantaloons and top-boots, a buff waist-coat, and a chocolate-coloured coat, and the hair long and brushed back.
There was a remarkable27 elegance28 and a delicacy29 in the features, but also a character of resolution and ability that quite took the portrait out of the category of mere6 fops or fine men. When people looked at it for the first time, I have so often heard the exclamation30 —“What a wonderfully handsome man!” and then, “What a clever face!” An Italian greyhound stood by him, and some slender columns and a rich drapery in the background. But though the accessories were of the luxurious31 sort, and the beauty, as I have said, refined, there was a masculine force in that slender oval face, and a fire in the large, shadowy eyes, which were very peculiar32, and quite redeemed33 it from the suspicion of effeminacy.
“Is not that Uncle Silas?” said I.
“Yes, dear,” answered Mrs. Rusk, looking, with her resolute34 little face, quietly on the portrait.
“He must be a very handsome man, Mrs. Rusk. Don’t you think so?” I continued.
“He was, my dear — yes; but it is forty years since that was painted — the date is there in the corner, in the shadow that comes from his foot, and forty years, I can tell you, makes a change in most of us;” and Mrs. Rusk laughed, in cynical35 good-humour.
There was a little pause, both still looking on the handsome man in top-boots, and I said —
“And why, Mrs. Rusk, is papa always so sad about Uncle Silas?”
“What’s that, child?” said my father’s voice, very near. I looked round, with a start, and flushed and faltered36, receding37 a step from him.
“No harm, dear. You have said nothing wrong,” he said gently, observing my alarm. “You said I was always sad, I think, about Uncle Silas. Well, I don’t know how you gather that; but if I were, I will now tell you, it would not be unnatural38. Your uncle is a man of great talents, great faults, and great wrongs. His talents have not availed him; his faults are long ago repented39 of; and his wrongs I believe he feels less than I do, but they are deep. Did she say any more, madam?” he demanded abruptly40 of Mrs. Rusk.
“Nothing, sir,” with a stiff little courtesy, answered Mrs. Rusk, who stood in awe of him.
“And there is no need, child,” he continued, addressing himself to me, “that you should think more of him at present. Clear your head of Uncle Silas. One day, perhaps, you will know him — yes, very well — and understand how villains41 have injured him.”
Then my father retired42, and at the door he said —
“Mrs. Rusk, a word, if you please,” beckoning43 to that lady, who trotted44 after him to the library.
I think he then laid some injunction upon the housekeeper45, which was transmitted by her to Mary Quince, for from that time forth I could never lead either to talk with me about Uncle Silas. They let me talk on, but were reserved and silent themselves, and seemed embarrassed, and Mrs. Rusk sometimes pettish46 and angry, when I pressed for information.
Thus curiosity was piqued47; and round the slender portrait in the leather pantaloons and top-boots gathered many-coloured circles of mystery, and the handsome features seemed to smile down upon my baffled curiosity with a provoking significance.
Why is it that this form of ambition — curiosity — which entered into the temptation of our first parent, is so specially48 hard to resist? Knowledge is power — and power of one sort or another is the secret lust49 of human souls; and here is, beside the sense of exploration, the undefinable interest of a story, and above all, something forbidden, to stimulate50 the contumacious51 appetite.
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1
uproar
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| n.骚动，喧嚣，鼎沸 | |
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tenor
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| n.男高音（歌手），次中音（乐器），要旨，大意 | |
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interval
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| n.间隔，间距；幕间休息，中场休息 | |
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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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wont
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| adj.习惯于；v.习惯；n.习惯 | |
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mere
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| adj.纯粹的；仅仅，只不过 | |
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accomplished
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| adj.有才艺的；有造诣的；达到了的 | |
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professed
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| 公开声称的，伪称的，已立誓信教的 | |
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kindly
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| adj.和蔼的，温和的，爽快的；adv.温和地，亲切地 | |
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solitary
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| adj.孤独的，独立的，荒凉的；n.隐士 | |
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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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purport
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| n.意义，要旨，大要；v.意味著，做为...要旨，要领是... | |
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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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habitually
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| ad.习惯地，通常地 | |
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abrupt
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| adj.突然的，意外的；唐突的，鲁莽的 | |
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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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momentous
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| adj.重要的，重大的 | |
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perfectly
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| adv.完美地，无可非议地，彻底地 | |
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isolation
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| n.隔离，孤立，分解，分离 | |
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specimen
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| n.样本，标本 | |
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depressed
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| adj.沮丧的，抑郁的，不景气的，萧条的 | |
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agitated
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| adj.被鼓动的，不安的 | |
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prerogative
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| n.特权 | |
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forth
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| adv.向前；向外，往外 | |
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tapestry
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| n.挂毯，丰富多采的画面 | |
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obsolete
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| adj.已废弃的，过时的 | |
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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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elegance
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| n.优雅；优美，雅致；精致，巧妙 | |
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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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exclamation
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| n.感叹号，惊呼，惊叹词 | |
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luxurious
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| adj.精美而昂贵的；豪华的 | |
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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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redeemed
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| adj. 可赎回的，可救赎的 动词redeem的过去式和过去分词形式 | |
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resolute
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| adj.坚决的，果敢的 | |
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cynical
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| adj.(对人性或动机)怀疑的，不信世道向善的 | |
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faltered
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| （嗓音）颤抖( falter的过去式和过去分词 )； 支吾其词； 蹒跚； 摇晃 | |
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receding
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| v.逐渐远离( recede的现在分词 )；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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unnatural
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| adj.不自然的；反常的 | |
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repented
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| 对（自己的所为）感到懊悔或忏悔( repent的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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40
abruptly
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| adv.突然地，出其不意地 | |
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41
villains
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| n.恶棍( villain的名词复数 )；罪犯；（小说、戏剧等中的）反面人物；淘气鬼 | |
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42
retired
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| adj.隐退的，退休的，退役的 | |
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43
beckoning
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| adj.引诱人的，令人心动的v.（用头或手的动作）示意，召唤( beckon的现在分词 ) | |
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44
trotted
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| 小跑，急走( trot的过去分词 )； 匆匆忙忙地走 | |
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45
housekeeper
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| n.管理家务的主妇，女管家 | |
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46
pettish
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| adj.易怒的，使性子的 | |
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47
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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48
specially
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| adv.特定地；特殊地；明确地 | |
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49
lust
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| n.性(淫)欲；渴(欲)望；vi.对…有强烈的欲望 | |
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50
stimulate
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| vt.刺激，使兴奋；激励，使…振奋 | |
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51
contumacious
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| adj.拒不服从的，违抗的 | |
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