“We have had some interesting — I may say very interesting — conversation, your papa and I, Miss Ruthyn,” said my reverend vis-à-vis, so soon as nature was refreshed, smiling and shining, as he leaned back in his chair, his hand upon the table, and his finger curled gently upon the stem of his wine-glass. “It never was your privilege, I believe, to see you uncle, Mr. Silas Ruthyn, of Bartram–Haugh?”
“No — never; he leads so retired3 — so very retired a life.”
“Oh, no — of course, no; but I was going to remark a likeness4 — I mean, of course, a family likeness — only that sort of thing — you understand — between him and the profile of Lady Margaret in the drawing-room — is not it Lady Margaret? — which you were so good as to show me on Wednesday last. There certainly is a likeness. I think you would agree with me, if you had the pleasure of seeing your uncle.”
“You know him, then? I have never seen him.”
“Oh dear, yes — I am happy to say, I know him very well. I have that privilege. I was for three years curate of Feltram, and I had the honour of being a pretty constant visitor at Bartram–Haugh during that, I may say, protracted5 period; and I think it really never has been my privilege and happiness, I may say, to enjoy the acquaintance and society of so very experienced a Christian6, as my admirable friend, I may call him, Mr. Ruthyn, of Bartram–Haugh. I look upon him, I do assure you, quite in the light of a saint; not, of course, in the Popish sense, but in the very highest, you will understand me, which our Church allows — a man built up in faith — full of faith — faith and grace — altogether exemplary; and I often ventured to regret, Miss Ruthyn, that Providence7 in its mysterious dispensations should have placed him so far apart from his brother, your respected father. His influence and opportunities would, no doubt, we may venture to hope, at least have been blessed; and, perhaps, we — my valued rector and I— might possibly have seen more of him at church, than, I deeply regret, we have done.” He shook his head a little, as he smiled with a sad complacency on me through his blue steel spectacles, and then sipped8 a little meditative9 sherry.
“And you saw a good deal of my uncle?”
“Well, a good deal, Miss Ruthyn — I may say a good deal — principally at his own house. His health is wretched — miserable10 health — a sadly afflicted11 man he had been, as, no doubt, you are aware. But afflictions, my dear Miss Ruthyn, as you remember Doctor Clay so well remarked on Sunday last, though birds of ill omen12, yet spiritually resemble the ravens13 who supplied the prophet; and when they visit the faithful, come charged with nourishment14 for the soul.
“He is a good deal embarrassed pecuniarily15, I should say,” continued the curate, who was rather a good man than a very well-bred one. “He found a difficulty — in fact, it was not in his power — to subscribe16 generally to our little funds, and — and objects, and I used to say to him, and I really felt it, that it was more gratifying, such were his feeling and his power of expression, to be refused by him than assisted by others.”
“Did papa wish you to speak to me about my uncle?” I enquired17, as a sudden thought struck me; and then I felt half ashamed of my question.
He looked surprised.
“No, Miss Ruthyn, certainly not. Oh dear, no. It was merely a conversation between Mr. Ruthyn and me. He never suggested my opening that, or indeed any other point in my interview with you, Miss Ruthyn — not the least.”
“I was not aware before that Uncle Silas was so religious.”
He smiled tranquilly18, not quite up to the ceiling, but gently upward, and shook his head in pity for my previous ignorance, as he lowered his eyes —
“I don’t say that there may not be some little matters in a few points of doctrine19 which we could, perhaps, wish otherwise. But these, you know, are speculative20, and in all essentials he is Church — not in the perverted21 modern sense; far from it — unexceptionably Church, strictly22 so. Would there were more among us of the same mind that is in him! Ay, Miss Ruthyn, even in the highest places in the Church herself.”
The Rev. William Fairchild, while fighting against the Dissenters23 with his right hand, was, with his left, hotly engaged with the Tractarians. A good man I am sure he was, and I dare say sound in doctrine, though naturally, I think, not very wise. This conversation with him gave me new ideas about my uncle Silas. It quite agreed with what my father had said. These principles and his increasing years would necessarily quiet the turbulence24 of his resistance to injustice25, and teach him to acquiesce26 in his fate.
You would have fancied that one so young as I, born to wealth so vast, and living a life of such entire seclusion27, would have been exempt28 from care. But you have seen how troubled my life was with fear and anxiety during the residence of Madame de la Rougierre, and now there rested upon my mind a vague and awful anticipation29 of the trial which my father had announced, without defining it.
An “ordeal” he called it, requiring not only zeal30 but nerve, which might possibly, were my courage to fail, become frightful31 and even intolerable. What, and of what nature, could it be? Not designed to vindicate32 the fair name of the meek33 and submissive old man — who, it seemed, had ceased to care for his bygone wrongs, and was looking to futurity — but the reputation of our ancient family.
Sometimes I repented34 my temerity35 in having undertaken it. I distrusted my courage. Had I not better retreat, while it was yet time? But there was shame and even difficulty in the thought. How should I appear before my father? Was it not important — had I not deliberately36 undertaken it — and was I not bound in conscience? Perhaps he had already taken steps in the matter which committed him. Besides, was I sure that, even were I free again, I would not once more devote myself to the trial, be it what it might? You perceive I had more spirit than courage. I think I had the mental attributes of courage; but then I was but a hysterical37 girl, and in so far neither more nor less than a coward.
No wonder I distrusted myself; no wonder also my will stood out against my timidity. It was a struggle, then; a proud, wild resolve against constitutional cowardice38.
Those who have eve had cast upon them more than their strength seemed framed to bear — the weak, the aspiring39, the adventurous40 and self-sacrificing in will, and the faltering41 in nerve — will understand the kind of agony which I sometimes endured.
But, again, consolation42 would come, and it seemed to me that I must be exaggerating my risk in the coming crisis; and certain at least, if my father believed it attended with real peril43, he would never have wished to see me involved in it. But the silence under which I was bound was terrifying — double so when the danger was so shapeless and undivulged.
I was soon to understand it all — soon, too, to know all about my father’s impending44 journey, whither, with what visitor, and why guarded from me with so awful a mystery.
That day there came a lively and goodnatured letter from Lady Knollys. She was to arrive at Knowl in two or three days’ time. I thought my father would have been pleased, but he seemed apathetic45 and dejected.
“One does not always feel quite equal to Monica. But for you — yes, thank God. I wish she could only stay, Maud, for a month or two; I may be going then, and would be glad — provided she talks about suitable things — very glad, Maud, to leave her with you for a week or so.”
There was something, I thought, agitating46 my father secretly that day. He had the strange hectic47 flush I had observed when he grew excited in our interview in the garden about Uncle Silas. There was something painful, perhaps even terrible in the circumstances of the journey he was about to make, and from my heart I wished the suspense48 were over, the annoyance49 past, and he returned.
That night my father bid me good-night early and went up-stairs. After I had been in bed some little time, I heard his hand-bell ring. This was not usual. Shortly after I heard his man, Ridley, talking with Mrs. Rusk in the gallery. I could not be mistaken in their voices. I knew not why I was startled and excited, and had raised myself to listen on my elbow. But they were talking quietly, like persons giving or taking an ordinary direction, and not in the haste of an unusual emergency.
Then I heard the man bid Mrs. Rusk good-night and walk down the gallery to the stairs, so that I concluded he was wanted no more, and all must therefore be well. So I laid myself down again, though with a throbbing50 at my heart, and an ominous51 feeling of expectation, listening and fancying footsteps.
I was going to sleep when I heard the bell ring again; and, in a few minutes, Mrs. Rusk’s energetic step passed along the gallery; and, listening intently, I heard, or fancied, my father’s voice and hers in dialogue. All this was very unusual, and again I was, with a beating heart, leaning with my elbow on my pillow.
Mrs. Rusk came along the gallery in a minute or so after, and stopping at my door, began to open it gently. I was startled, and challenged my visitor with —
“Who’s there?”
“It’s only Rusk, Miss. Dearie me! and are you awake still?”
“Is papa ill?”
“Ill! not a bit ill, thank God. Only there’s a little black book as I took for your prayer-book, and brought in here; ay, here it is, sure enough, and he wants it. And then I must go down to the study, and look out this one, ‘C, 15;’ but I can’t read the name, noways; and I was afraid to ask him again; if you be so kind to read it, Miss — I suspeck my eyes is a-going.”
I read the name; and Mrs. Rusk was tolerably expert at finding out books, as she had often been employed in that way before. So she departed.
I suppose that this particular volume was hard to find, for she must have been a long time away, and I had actually fallen into a doze52 when I was roused in an instant by a dreadful crash and a piercing scream from Mrs. Rusk. Scream followed scream, wilder and more terror-stricken. I shrieked53 to Mary Quince, who was sleeping in the room with me:—“Mary, do you hear? what is it? It is something dreadful.”
The crash was so tremendous that the solid flooring even of my room trembled under it, and to me it seemed as if some heavy man had burst through the top o the window, and shook the whole house with his descent. I found myself standing54 at my own door, crying, “Help, help! murder! murder!” and Mary Quince, frightened half out of her wits, by my side.
I could not think what was going on. It was plainly something most horrible, for Mrs. Rusk’s screams pealed55 one after the other unabated, though with a muffled56 sound, as if the door was shut upon her; and by this time the bells of my father’s room were ringing madly.
“They are trying to murder him!” I cried, and I ran along the gallery to his door, followed by Mary Quince, whose white face I shall never forget, though her entreaties57 only sounded like unmeaning noises in my ears.
“Here! help, help, help!” I cried, trying to force open the door.
“Shove it, shove it, for God’s sake! he’s across it,” cried Mrs. Rusk’s voice from within; “drive it in. I can’t move him.”
I strained all I could at the door, but ineffectually. We heard steps approaching. The men were running to the spot, and shouting as they did so —
“Never mind; hold on a bit; here we are; all right;” and the like.
We drew back, as they came up. We were in no condition to be seen. We listened, however, at my open door.
Then came the straining and bumping at the door. Mrs. Rusk’s voice subsided58 to a sort of wailing59; the men were talking all together, and I suppose the door opened, for I heard some of the voices, on a sudden, as if in the room; and then came a strange lull60, and talking in very low tones, and not much even of that.
“What is it, Mary? what can it be?” I ejaculated, not knowing what horror to suppose. And now, with a counterpane about my shoulders, I called loudly and imploringly61, in my horror, to know what had happened.
But I heard only the subdued62 and eager talk of men engaged in some absorbing task, and the dull sounds of some heavy body being moved.
Mrs. Rusk came towards us looking half wild, and pale as a spectre, and putting her thin hands to my shoulders, she said —“Now, Miss Maud, darling, you must go back again; ‘tisn’t no place for you; you’ll see all, my darling, time enough — you will. There now, there, like a dear, do get into your room.”
What was that dreadful sound? Who had entered my father’s chamber63? It was the visitor whom we had so long expected, with whom he was to make the unknown journey, leaving me alone. The intruder was Death!
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1
rev
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| v.发动机旋转，加快速度 | |
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confirmation
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| n.证实，确认，批准 | |
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retired
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| adj.隐退的，退休的，退役的 | |
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likeness
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| n.相像，相似（之处） | |
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protracted
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| adj.拖延的；延长的v.拖延“protract”的过去式和过去分词 | |
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Christian
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| adj.基督教徒的；n.基督教徒 | |
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providence
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| n.深谋远虑，天道，天意；远见；节约；上帝 | |
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8
sipped
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| v.小口喝，呷，抿( sip的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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meditative
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| adj.沉思的，冥想的 | |
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miserable
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| adj.悲惨的，痛苦的；可怜的，糟糕的 | |
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afflicted
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| 使受痛苦，折磨( afflict的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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omen
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| n.征兆，预兆；vt.预示 | |
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ravens
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| n.低质煤；渡鸦( raven的名词复数 ) | |
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nourishment
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| n.食物，营养品；营养情况 | |
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pecuniarily
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| adv.在金钱上，在金钱方面 | |
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16
subscribe
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| vi.(to)订阅，订购；同意；vt.捐助，赞助 | |
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17
enquired
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| 打听( enquire的过去式和过去分词 )； 询问； 问问题； 查问 | |
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18
tranquilly
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| adv. 宁静地 | |
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doctrine
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| n.教义；主义；学说 | |
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speculative
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| adj.思索性的，暝想性的，推理的 | |
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21
perverted
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| adj.不正当的v.滥用( pervert的过去式和过去分词 )；腐蚀；败坏；使堕落 | |
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22
strictly
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| adv.严厉地，严格地；严密地 | |
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dissenters
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| n.持异议者，持不同意见者( dissenter的名词复数 ) | |
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turbulence
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| n.喧嚣，狂暴，骚乱，湍流 | |
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injustice
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| n.非正义，不公正，不公平，侵犯（别人的）权利 | |
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acquiesce
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| vi.默许，顺从，同意 | |
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seclusion
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| n.隐遁，隔离 | |
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exempt
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| adj.免除的；v.使免除；n.免税者，被免除义务者 | |
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anticipation
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| n.预期，预料，期望 | |
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30
zeal
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| n.热心，热情，热忱 | |
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frightful
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| adj.可怕的；讨厌的 | |
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vindicate
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| v.为…辩护或辩解，辩明；证明…正确 | |
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meek
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| adj.温顺的，逆来顺受的 | |
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34
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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35
temerity
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| n.鲁莽，冒失 | |
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deliberately
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| adv.审慎地；蓄意地；故意地 | |
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hysterical
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| adj.情绪异常激动的，歇斯底里般的 | |
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cowardice
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| n.胆小，怯懦 | |
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aspiring
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| adj.有志气的；有抱负的；高耸的v.渴望；追求 | |
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adventurous
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| adj.爱冒险的；惊心动魄的，惊险的，刺激的 | |
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faltering
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| 犹豫的，支吾的，蹒跚的 | |
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42
consolation
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| n.安慰，慰问 | |
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peril
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| n.(严重的)危险；危险的事物 | |
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impending
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| a.imminent, about to come or happen | |
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apathetic
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| adj.冷漠的，无动于衷的 | |
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46
agitating
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| 搅动( agitate的现在分词 )； 激怒； 使焦虑不安； （尤指为法律、社会状况的改变而）激烈争论 | |
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47
hectic
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| adj.肺病的；消耗热的；发热的；闹哄哄的 | |
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48
suspense
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| n.（对可能发生的事）紧张感，担心，挂虑 | |
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49
annoyance
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| n.恼怒，生气，烦恼 | |
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50
throbbing
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| a. 跳动的,悸动的 | |
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ominous
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| adj.不祥的，不吉的，预兆的，预示的 | |
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doze
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| v.打瞌睡；n.打盹，假寐 | |
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53
shrieked
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| v.尖叫( shriek的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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standing
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| n.持续，地位；adj.永久的，不动的，直立的，不流动的 | |
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55
pealed
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| v.（使）（钟等）鸣响，（雷等）发出隆隆声( peal的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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56
muffled
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| adj.（声音）被隔的；听不太清的；（衣服）裹严的；蒙住的v.压抑，捂住( muffle的过去式和过去分词 )；用厚厚的衣帽包着（自己） | |
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57
entreaties
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| n.恳求，乞求( entreaty的名词复数 ) | |
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58
subsided
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| v.（土地）下陷（因在地下采矿）( subside的过去式和过去分词 )；减弱；下降至较低或正常水平；一下子坐在椅子等上 | |
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59
wailing
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| v.哭叫，哀号( wail的现在分词 )；沱 | |
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60
lull
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| v.使安静，使入睡，缓和，哄骗；n.暂停，间歇 | |
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imploringly
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| adv. 恳求地, 哀求地 | |
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subdued
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| adj. 屈服的，柔和的，减弱的 动词subdue的过去式和过去分词 | |
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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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