You may be very sure, therefore, that I had no desire for a formal leave-taking at her departure. I took my hat and cloak, therefore, and stole out quietly.
My ramble4 was a sequestered5 one, and well screened, even at this late season, with foliage6; the pathway devious7 among the stems of old trees, and its flooring interlaced and groined with their knotted roots. Though near the house, it was a sylvan8 solitude9; a little brook10 ran darkling and glimmering11 through it, wild strawberries and other woodland plants strewed12 the ground, and the sweet notes and flutter of small birds made the shadow of the boughs13 cheery.
I had been fully14 an hour in this picturesque15 solitude when I heard in the distance the ring of carriage-wheels, announcing to me that Madame de la Rougierre had fairly set out upon her travels. I thanked heave; I could have danced and sung with delight; I heaved a great sigh and looked up through the branches to the clear blue sky.
But things are oddly timed. Just at this moment I heard Madame’s voice close at my ear, and her large bony hand was laid on my shoulder. We were instantly face to face — I recoiling16, and for a moment speechless with fright.
In very early youth we do not appreciate the restraints which act upon malignity17, or know how effectually fear protects us where conscience is wanting. Quite alone, in this solitary18 spot, detected and overtaken with an awful instinct by my enemy, what might not be about to happen to me at that moment?
“Frightened as usual, Maud,” she said quietly, and eyeing me with a sinister19 smile, “and with cause you think, no doubt. Wat ‘av you done to injure poor Madame? Well, I think I know, little girl, and have quite discover the cleverness of my sweet little Maud. Eh — is not so? Petite carogne — ah, ha, ha!”
I was too much confounded to answer.
“You see, my dear cheaile,” she said, shaking her uplifted finger with a hideous20 archness at me, “you could not hide what you ‘av done from poor Madame. You cannot look so innocent but I can see your pretty little villany quite plain — you dear little diablesse.
“Wat I ‘av done I ‘av no reproach of myself for it. If I could explain, your papa would say I ‘av done right, and you should thank me on your knees; but I cannot explain yet.”
She was speaking, as it were, in little paragraphs, with a momentary pause between each, to allow its meaning to impress itself.
“If I were to choose to explain, your papa he would implore21 me to remain. But no — I would not — notwithstanding your so cheerful house, your charming servants, your papa’s amusing society, and your affectionate and sincere heart, my sweet little maraude.
“I am to go to London first, where I ‘av, oh, so good friends! next I will go abroad for some time; but be sure, my sweetest Maud, wherever I may ‘appen to be, I will remember you — ah, ha! Yes; most certainly, I will remember you.
“And although I shall not always be near, yet I shall know everything about my charming little Maud; you will not know how, but I shall indeed, everything. And be sure, my dearest cheaile, I will some time be able to give you the sensible proofs of my gratitude22 and affection — you understand.
“The carriage is waiting at the yew-tree stile, and I must go on. You did not expect to see me — here; I will appear, perhaps, as suddenly another time. It is great pleasure to us both — this opportunity to make our adieux. Farewell! my dearest little Maud. I will never cease to think of you, and of some way to recompense the kindness you ‘av shown for poor Madame.”
My hand hung by my side, and she took, not it, but my thumb, and shook it, folded in her broad palm, and looking on me as she held it, as if meditating23 mischief24. Then suddenly she said —
“You will always remember Madame, I think, and I will remind you of me beside; and for the present farewell, and I hope you may be as ‘appy as you deserve.”
The large sinister face looked on me for a second with its latent sneer25, and then, with a sharp nod and a spasmodic shake of my imprisoned26 thumb, she turned, and holding her dress together, and showing her great bony ankles, she strode rapidly away over the gnarled roots into the perspective of the trees, and I did not awake, as it were, until she had quite disappeared in the distance.
Events of this kind made no difference with my father; but every other face in Knowl was gladdened by the removal. My energies had returned, my spirits were come again. The sunlight was happy, the flowers innocent, the songs and flutter of the birds once more gay, and all nature delightful27 and rejoicing.
After the first elation28 of relief, now and then a filmy shadow of Madame de la Rougierre would glide29 across the sunlight, and the remembrance of her menace return with an unexpected pang30 of fear.
“Well, if there isn’t impittens!” cried Mrs. Rusk. “But never you trouble your head about it, Miss. Them sort’s all alike — you never saw a rogue31 yet that was found out and didn’t threaten the honest folk as he was leaving behind with all sorts; there was Martin the gamekeeper, and Jervis the footman, I mind well how hard they swore all they would not do when they was a-going, and who ever heard of them since? They always threatens that way — them sort always does, and none ever the worse — not but she would if she could, mind ye, but there it is; she can’t do nothing but bite her nails and cuss us — not she — ha, ha, ha!”
So I was comforted. But Madame’s evil smile, nevertheless, from time to time, would sail across my vision with a silent menace, and my spirits sank, and a Fate, draped in black, whose face I could not see, took me by the hand, and led me away, in the spirit, silently, on an awful exploration from which I would rouse myself with a start, and Madame was gone for a while.
She had, however, judged her little parting well. She contrived32 to leave her glamour33 over me, and in my dreams she troubled me.
I was, however, indescribably relieved. I wrote in high spirits to Cousin Monica; and wondered what plans my father might have formed about me, and whether we were to stay at home, or go to London, or go abroad. Of the last — the pleasantest arrangement, in some respects — I had nevertheless an occult horror. A secret conviction haunted me that were we to go abroad, we should there meet Madame, which to me was like meeting an evil genius.
I have said more than once that my father was an odd man; and the reader will, by this time, have seen that there was much about him not easily understood. I often wonder whether, if he had been franker, I should have found him less odd than I supposed, or more odd still. Things that moved me profoundly did not apparently34 affect him at all. The departure of Madame, under the circumstances which attended it, appeared to my childish mind an event of the vastest importance. No one was indifferent to the occurrence in the house but its master. He never alluded35 again to Madame de la Rougierre. But whether connected with her exposure and dismissal, I could not say, there did appear to be some new care or trouble now at work in my father’s mind.
“I have been thinking a great deal about you, Maud. I am anxious. I have not been so troubled for years. Why has not Monica Knollys a little more sense?”
This oracular sentence he spoke36, having stopped me in the hall; and then saying, “We shall see,” he left me as abruptly37 as he appeared.
Did he apprehend38 any danger to me from the vindictiveness39 of Madame?
A day or two afterwards, as I was in the Dutch garden, I saw him on the terrace steps. He beckoned40 to me, and came to meet me as I approached.
“You must be very solitary, little Maud; it is not good. I have written to Monica; in a matter of detail she is competent to advise; perhaps she will come here for a short visit.”
I was very glad to hear this.
“You are more interested than for my time I can be, in vindicating41 his character.”
“Whose character, sir?” I ventured to enquire42 during the pause that followed.
One trick which my father had acquired from his habits of solitude and silence was this of assuming that the context of his thoughts was legible to others, forgetting that they had not been spoken.
“Whose? — your uncle Silas’s. In the course of nature he must survive me. He will then represent the family name. Would you make some sacrifice to clear that name, Maud?”
I answered briefly43; but my face, I believe, showed my enthusiasm.
He turned on me such an approving smile as you might fancy lighting44 up the rugged45 features of a pale old Rembrandt.
“I can tell you, Maud; if my life could have done it, it should not have been undone46 — ubi lapsus, quid feci. But I had almost made up my mind to change my plan, and leave all to time — edax rerum — to illuminate47 or to consume. But I think little Maud would like to contribute to the restitution48 of her family name. It may cost you something — are you willing to buy it at a sacrifice? Is there — I don’t speak of fortune, that is not involved — but is there any other honourable49 sacrifice you would shrink from to dispel50 the disgrace under which our most ancient and honourable name must otherwise continue to languish51?”
“Oh, none — none, indeed, sir — I am delighted!”
Again I saw the Rembrandt smile.
“Well, Maud, I am sure there is no risk; but you are to suppose there is. Are you still willing to accept it?”
Again I assented52.
“You are worthy53 of your blood, Maud Ruthyn. It will come soon, and it won’t last long. But you must not let people like Monica Knollys frighten you.”
I was lost in wonder.
“If you allow them to possess you with their follies54, you had better recede55 in time — they may make the ordeal56 as terrible as hell itself. You have zeal57 — have you nerve?”
I thought in such a cause I had nerve for anything.
“Well, Maud, in the course of a few months — and it may be sooner — there must be a change. I have had a letter from London this morning that assures me of that. I must then leave you for a time; in my absence be faithful to the duties that will arise. To whom much is committed, of him much will be required. You shall promise me not to mention this conversation to Monica Knollys. If you are a talking girl, and cannot trust yourself, say so, and we will not ask her to come. Also, don’t invite her to talk about your Uncle Silas — I have reasons. Do you quite understand my conditions?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Your uncle Silas,” he said, speaking suddenly in loud and fierce tones that sounded from so old a man almost terrible, “lies under an intolerable slander58. I don’t correspond with him; I don’t sympathise with him; I never quite did. He has grown religious, and that’s well; but there are things in which even religion should not bring a man to acquiesce59; and from what I can learn, he, the person primarily affected60 — the cause, though the innocent cause — of this great calamity61 — bears it with an easy apathy62 which is mistaken, and liable easily to be mistaken, and such as no Ruthyn, under the circumstances, ought to exhibit. I told him what he ought to do, and offered to open my purse for the purpose; but he would not, or did not; indeed, he never took my advice; he followed his own, and a foul63 and dismal64 shoal he has drifted on. It is not for his sake — why should I? — that I have longed and laboured to remove the disgraceful slur65 under which his ill-fortune had thrown us. He troubles himself little about it, I believe — he’s meek66, meeker67 than I. He cares less about his children than I about you, Maud; he is selfishly sunk in futurity — a feeble visionary. I am not so. I believe it to be a duty to take care of others beside myself. The character and influence of an ancient family is a peculiar heritage — sacred but destructible; and woe68 to him who either destroys or suffers it to perish!”
This was the longest speech I ever heard my father speak before or after. He abruptly resumed —
“Yes, we will, Maud — you and I— we’ll leave one proof on record, which, fairly read, will go far to convince the world.”
He looked round, but we were alone. The garden was nearly always solitary, and few visitors ever approached the house from that side.
“I have talked too long, I believe; we are children to the last. Leave me, Maud. I think I know you better than I did, and I am pleased with you. Go, child — I’ll sit here.”
If he had acquired new ideas of me, so had I of him from that interview. I had no idea till then how much passion still burned in that aged69 frame, nor how full of energy and fire that face, generally so stern and ashen70, could appear. As I left him seated on the rustic71 chair, by the steps, the traces of that storm were still discernible on his features. His gathered brows, glowing eyes, and strangely hectic72 face, and the grim compression of his mouth, still showed the agitation73 which, somehow, in grey of age, shocks and alarms the young.
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1
instinctively
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| adv.本能地 | |
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momentary
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| adj.片刻的，瞬息的；短暂的 | |
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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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ramble
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| v.漫步，漫谈，漫游；n.漫步，闲谈，蔓延 | |
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5
sequestered
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| adj.扣押的；隐退的；幽静的；偏僻的v.使隔绝，使隔离( sequester的过去式和过去分词 )；扣押 | |
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6
foliage
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| n.叶子，树叶，簇叶 | |
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devious
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| adj.不坦率的，狡猾的；迂回的，曲折的 | |
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sylvan
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| adj.森林的 | |
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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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brook
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| n.小河，溪；v.忍受，容让 | |
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11
glimmering
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| n.微光，隐约的一瞥adj.薄弱地发光的v.发闪光，发微光( glimmer的现在分词 ) | |
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12
strewed
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| v.撒在…上( strew的过去式和过去分词 )；散落于；点缀；撒满 | |
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13
boughs
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| 大树枝( bough的名词复数 ) | |
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14
fully
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| adv.完全地，全部地，彻底地；充分地 | |
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15
picturesque
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| adj.美丽如画的，（语言）生动的，绘声绘色的 | |
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16
recoiling
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| v.畏缩( recoil的现在分词 )；退缩；报应；返回 | |
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17
malignity
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| n.极度的恶意，恶毒；（病的）恶性 | |
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18
solitary
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| adj.孤独的，独立的，荒凉的；n.隐士 | |
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19
sinister
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| adj.不吉利的，凶恶的，左边的 | |
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20
hideous
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| adj.丑陋的，可憎的，可怕的，恐怖的 | |
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21
implore
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| vt.乞求，恳求，哀求 | |
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gratitude
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| adj.感激，感谢 | |
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meditating
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| a.沉思的，冥想的 | |
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mischief
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| n.损害，伤害，危害；恶作剧，捣蛋，胡闹 | |
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25
sneer
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| v.轻蔑；嘲笑；n.嘲笑，讥讽的言语 | |
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26
imprisoned
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| 下狱，监禁( imprison的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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27
delightful
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| adj.令人高兴的，使人快乐的 | |
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28
elation
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| n.兴高采烈，洋洋得意 | |
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glide
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| n./v.溜，滑行；(时间)消逝 | |
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pang
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| n.剧痛，悲痛，苦闷 | |
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31
rogue
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| n.流氓；v.游手好闲 | |
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32
contrived
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| adj.不自然的，做作的；虚构的 | |
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glamour
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| n.魔力，魅力；vt.迷住 | |
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apparently
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| adv.显然地；表面上，似乎 | |
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alluded
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| 提及，暗指( allude的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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36
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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37
abruptly
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| adv.突然地，出其不意地 | |
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38
apprehend
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| vt.理解，领悟，逮捕，拘捕，忧虑 | |
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39
vindictiveness
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| 恶毒；怀恨在心 | |
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40
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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41
vindicating
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| v.澄清（某人/某事物）受到的责难或嫌疑( vindicate的现在分词 )；表明或证明（所争辩的事物）属实、正当、有效等；维护 | |
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42
enquire
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| v.打听，询问；调查，查问 | |
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43
briefly
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| adv.简单地，简短地 | |
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44
lighting
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| n.照明，光线的明暗，舞台灯光 | |
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45
rugged
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| adj.高低不平的，粗糙的，粗壮的，强健的 | |
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46
undone
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| a.未做完的，未完成的 | |
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47
illuminate
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| vt.照亮，照明；用灯光装饰；说明，阐释 | |
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48
restitution
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| n.赔偿；恢复原状 | |
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49
honourable
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| adj.可敬的；荣誉的，光荣的 | |
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50
dispel
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| vt.驱走，驱散，消除 | |
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51
languish
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| vi.变得衰弱无力，失去活力，（植物等）凋萎 | |
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52
assented
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| 同意，赞成( assent的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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53
worthy
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| adj.(of)值得的，配得上的；有价值的 | |
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54
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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55
recede
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| vi.退(去)，渐渐远去；向后倾斜，缩进 | |
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56
ordeal
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| n.苦难经历，（尤指对品格、耐力的）严峻考验 | |
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57
zeal
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| n.热心，热情，热忱 | |
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58
slander
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| n./v.诽谤，污蔑 | |
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59
acquiesce
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| vi.默许，顺从，同意 | |
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60
affected
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| adj.不自然的，假装的 | |
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61
calamity
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| n.灾害，祸患，不幸事件 | |
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62
apathy
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| n.漠不关心，无动于衷；冷淡 | |
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63
foul
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| adj.污秽的；邪恶的；v.弄脏；妨害；犯规；n.犯规 | |
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64
dismal
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| adj.阴沉的，凄凉的，令人忧郁的，差劲的 | |
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65
slur
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| v.含糊地说；诋毁；连唱；n.诋毁；含糊的发音 | |
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66
meek
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| adj.温顺的，逆来顺受的 | |
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67
meeker
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| adj.温顺的，驯服的( meek的比较级 ) | |
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68
woe
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| n.悲哀，苦痛，不幸，困难；int.用来表达悲伤或惊慌 | |
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69
aged
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| adj.年老的，陈年的 | |
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70
ashen
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| adj.灰的 | |
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71
rustic
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| adj.乡村的，有乡村特色的；n.乡下人，乡巴佬 | |
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72
hectic
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| adj.肺病的；消耗热的；发热的；闹哄哄的 | |
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73
agitation
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| n.搅动；搅拌；鼓动，煽动 | |
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