“Well, Miss Maud, dear, I will send to please you, but it is all to no use. If only you saw him yourself you’d know that. Mary Quince, run you down and tell Thomas, Miss Maud desires he’ll go down this minute to the village for Dr. Elweys.”
Every minute of the interval6 seemed to me like an hour. I don’t know what I said, but I fancied that if he were not already dead, he would lose his life by the delay. I suppose I was speaking very wildly, for Mrs. Rusk said —
“My dear child, you ought to come in and see him; indeed but you should, Miss Maud. He’s quite dead an hour ago. You’d wonder all the blood that’s come from him — you would indeed; it’s soaked through the bed already.”
“Oh, don’t, don’t, don’t, Mrs. Rusk.”
“Will you come in and see him, just?”
“Oh, no, no, no, no!”
“Well, then, my dear, don’t of course, if you don’t like; there’s no need. Would not you like to lie down, Miss Maud? Mary Quince, attend to her. I must go into the room for a minute or two.”
I was walking up and down the room in distraction7. It was a cool night; but I did not feel it. I could only cry:—“Oh, Mary, Mary! what shall I do? Oh, Mary Quince! what shall I do?”
It seemed to me it must be near daylight by the time the Doctor arrived. I had dressed myself. I dared not go into the room where my beloved father lay.
I had gone out of my room to the gallery, where I awaited Dr. Elweys, when I saw him walking briskly after the servant, his coat buttoned up to his chin, his hat in his hand, and his bald head shining. I felt myself grow cold as ice, and colder and colder, and with a sudden sten my heart seemed to stand still.
I heard him ask the maid who stood at the door, in that low, decisive, mysterious tone which doctors cultivate —
“In here?”
And then, with a nod, I saw him enter.
“Would not you like to see the Doctor, Miss Maud?” asked Mary Quince.
The question roused me a little.
“Thank you, Mary; yes, I must see him.”
And so, in a few minutes, I did. He was very respectful, very sad, semi-undertakerlike, in air and countenance8, but quite explicit9. I heard that my dear father “had died palpably from the rupture10 of some great vessel11 near the heart.” The disease had, no doubt, been “long established, and is in its nature incurable12.” It is “consolatory13 in these cases that in the act of dissolution, which is instantaneous, there can be no suffering.” These, and a few more remarks, were all he had to offer; and having had his fee from Mrs. Rusk, he, with a respectful melancholy14, vanished.
I returned to my room, and broke into paroxysms of grief, and after an hour or more grew more tranquil15.
From Mrs. Rusk I learned that he had seemed very well — better than usual, indeed — that night, and that on her return from the study with the book he required, he was noting down, after his wont16, some passages which illustrated17 the text on which he was employing himself. He took the book, detaining her in the room, and then mounting on a chair to take down another book from a shelf, he had fallen, with the dreadful crash I had heard, dead upon the floor. He fell across the door, which caused the difficulty in opening it. Mrs. Rusk found she had not strength to force it open. No wonder she had given way to terror. I think I should have almost lost my reason.
Everyone knows the reserved aspect and taciturn mood of the house, one of whose rooms is tenanted by that mysterious guest.
I do not know how those awful days, and more awful nights, passed over. The remembrance is repulsive18. I hate to think of them. I was soon draped in the conventional black, with its heavy folds of crape. Lady Knollys came, and was very kind. She undertook the direction of all those details which were to me so inexpressibly dreadful. She wrote letters for me beside, and was really most kind and useful, and her society supported me indescribably. She was odd, but her eccentricity19 was leavened20 with strong common sense; and I have often thought since with admiration21 and gratitude22 of the tact23 with which she managed my grief.
There is no dealing24 with great sorrow as if it were under the control of our wills. It is a terrible phenomenon, whose laws we must study, and to whose conditions we must submit, if we would mitigate25 it. Cousin Monica talked a great deal of my father. This was easy to her, for her early recollections were full of him.
One of those terrible dislocations of our habits of mind respecting the dead is that our earthly future is robbed of them, and we thrown exclusively upon retrospect26. From the long look forward they are removed, and every plan, imagination, and hope henceforth a silent and empty perspective. But in the past they are all they ever were. Now let me advise all who would comfort people in a new bereavement27 to talk to them, very freely, all they can, in this way of the dead. They will engage in it with interest, they will talk of their own recollections of the dead, and listen to yours, though they become sometimes pleasant, sometimes even laughable. I found it so. It robbed the calamity28 of something of its supernatural and horrible abruptness29; it prevented that monotony of object which is to the mind what it is to the eye, and prepared the faculty30 for those mesmeric illusions that derange31 its sense.
Cousin Monica, I am sure, cheered me wonderfully. I grow to love her more and more, as I think of all her trouble, care, and kindness.
I had not forgotten my promise to dear papa about the key, concerning which he had evinced so great an anxiety. It was found in the pocket where he desired me to remember he always kept it, except when it was placed, while he slept, under his pillow.
“And so, my dear, that wicked woman was actually found picking the lock of your poor papa’s desk. I wonder he did not punish her — you know that is burglary.”
“Well, Lady Knollys, you know she is gone, and so I care no more about her — that is, I mean, I need not fear her.”
“No, my dear, but you must call me Monica — do you mind — I’m your cousin, and you call me Monica, unless you wish to vex32 me. No, of course, you need not be afraid of her. And she’s gone. But I’m an old thing, you know, and not so tender-hearted as you; and I confess I should have been very glad to hear that the wicked old witch had been sent to prison and hard labour — I should. And what do you suppose she was looking for — what did she want to steal? I think I can guess — what do you think?”
“To read the papers; maybe to take bank-notes — I’m not sure,” I answered.
“Well, I think most likely she wanted to get at your poor papa’s will — that’s my idea.
“There is nothing surprising in the supposition, dear,” she resumed. “Did not you read the curious trial at York, the other day? There is nothing so valuable to steal as a will, when a great deal of property is to be disposed of by it. Why, you would have given her ever so much money to get it back again. Suppose you go down, dear — I’ll go with you, and open the cabinet in the study.”
“I don’t think I can, for I promised to give the key to Dr. Bryerly, and the meaning was that he only should open it.”
Cousin Monica uttered an inarticulate “H’m!” of surprise or disapprobation.
“Has he been written to?”
“No, I do not know his address.”
“Not know his address! come, that is curious,” said Knollys, a little testily33.
I could not — no one now living in the house could furnish even a conjecture34. There was even a dispute as to which train he had gone by — north or south — they crossed the station at an interval of five minutes. If Dr. Bryerly had been an evil spirit, evoked35 by a secret incantation, there could not have been more complete darkness as to the immediate36 process of his approach.
“And how long to you mean to wait, my dear? No matter; at all events you may open the desk; you may find papers to direct you — you may find Dr. Bryerly’s address — you may find, heaven knows what.”
So down we went — I assenting37 — and we opened the desk. How dreadful the desecration38 seems — all privacy abrogated39 — the shocking compensation for the silence of death!
Henceforward all is circumstantial evidence — all conjectural40 — except the litera scripta, and to this evidence every note-book, and every scrap41 of paper and private letter, must contribute — ransacked42, bare in the light of day — what it can.
At the top of the desk lay two notes sealed, one to Cousin Monica, the other to me. Mine was a gentle and loving little farewell — nothing more — which opened afresh the fountains of my sorrow, and I cried and sobbed43 over it bitterly and long.
The other was for “Lady Knollys.” I did not see how she received it, for I was already absorbed in mine. But in awhile she came and kissed me in her girlish, goodnatured way. Her eyes used to fill with tears at sight of my paroxysms of grief. Then she would begin, “I remember it was a saying of his,” and so she would repeat it — something maybe wise, maybe playful, at all events consolatory — and the circumstances in which she had heard him say it, and then would follow the recollections suggested by these; and so I was stolen away half by him, and half by Cousin Monica, from my despair and lamentation44.
Along with these lay a large envelope, inscribed45 with the words “Directions to be complied with immediately on my death.” One of which was, “Let the event be forthwith published in the county and principal London papers.” This step had been already taken. We found no record of Dr. Bryerly’s address.
We made search everywhere, except in the cabinet, which I would on no account permit to be opened except, according to his direction, by Dr. Bryerly’s hand. But nowhere was a will, or any document resembling one, to be found. I had now, therefore, no doubt that his will was placed in the cabinet.
In the search among my dear father’s papers we found two sheafs of letters, neatly46 tied up and labelled — these were from my uncle Silas.
My cousin Monica looked down upon these papers with a strange smile; was it satire47 — was it that indescribable smile with which a mystery which covers a long reach of years is sometimes approached?
These were odd letters. If here and there occurred passages that were querulous and even abject48, there were also long passages of manly49 and altogether noble sentiment, and the strangest rodomontade and maunderings about religion. Here and there a letter would gradually transform itself into a prayer, and end with a doxology and no signature; and some of them expressed such wild and disordered views respecting religion, as I imagine he can never have disclosed to good Mr. Fairfield, and which approached more nearly to the Swedenborg visions than to anything in the Church of England.
I read these with a solemn interest, but my cousin Monica was not similarly moved. She read them with the same smile — faint, serenely50 contemptuous, I though — with which she had first looked down upon them. It was the countenance of a person who amusedly traces the working of a character that is well understood.
“Uncle Silas is very religious?” I said, not quite liking51 Lady Knollys’ looks.
“Very,” she said, without raising her eyes or abating52 her old bitter smile, as she glanced over a passage in one of his letters.
“You don’t think he is, Cousin Monica?” said I. She raised her head and looked straight at me.
“Why do you say that, Maud?”
“Because you smile incredulously, I think, over his letters.”
“Do I?” said she; “I was not thinking — it was quite an accident. The fact is, Maud, your poor papa quite mistook me. I had no prejudice respecting him — no theory. I never knew what to think about him. I do not think Silas a product of nature, but a child of the Sphinx, and I never could understand him — that’s all.”
“I always felt so too; but that was because I was left to speculation53, and to glean54 conjectures55 as I might from his portrait, or anywhere. Except what you told me, I never heard more than a few sentences; poor papa did not like me to ask questions about him, and I think he ordered the servants to be silent.”
“And much the same injunction this little note lays upon me — not quite, but something like it; and I don’t know the meaning of it.”
And she looked enquiringly at me.
“You are not to be alarmed about your uncle Silas, because your being afraid would unfit you for an important service which you have undertaken for you family, the nature of which I shall soon understand, and which, although it is quite passive, would be made very said if illusory fears were allowed to steal into your mind.”
She was looking into the letter in poor papa’s handwriting, which she had found addressed to her in his desk, and emphasised the words, I suppose, which she quoted from it.
“Have you any idea, Maud, darling, what this service may be?” she enquired56, with a grave and anxious curiosity in her countenance.
“None, Cousin Monica; but I have thought long over my undertaking57 to do it, or submit to it, be it what it may; and I will keep the promise I voluntarily made, although I know what a coward I am, and often distrust my courage.”
“Well, I am not to frighten you.”
“How could you? Why should I be afraid? Is there anything frightful58 to be disclosed? Do tell me — you must tell me.”
“No, darling, I did not mean that — I don’t mean that; — I could, if I would; I— I don’t know exactly what I meant. But your poor papa knew him better than I— in fact, I did not know him at all — that is, ever quite understood him — which your poor papa, I see, had ample opportunities of doing.” And after a little pause, she added —“So you do not know what you are expected to do or to undergo.”
“Oh! Cousin Monica, I know you think he committed that murder,” I cried, starting up, I don’t know why, and I felt that I grew deadly pale.
“I don’t believe any such thing, you little fool; you must not say such horrible things, Maud,” she said, rising also, and looking both pale and angry. “Shall we go out for a little walk? Come, lock up these papers, dear, and get your things on; and if that Dr. Bryerly does not turn up to-morrow, you must send for the Rector, good Doctor Clay, and let him make search for the will — there may be directions about many things, you know; and, my dear Maud, you are to remember that Silas is my cousin as well as your uncle. Come, dear, put on your hat.”
So we went out together for a little cloistered59 walk.
点击
收听单词发音
收听单词发音 |
1
deferred
|
|
| adj.延期的，缓召的v.拖延，延缓，推迟( defer的过去式和过去分词 )；服从某人的意愿，遵从 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
2
enigma
|
|
| n.谜，谜一样的人或事 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
3
consolation
|
|
| n.安慰，慰问 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
4
rugged
|
|
| adj.高低不平的，粗糙的，粗壮的，强健的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
5
tumult
|
|
| n.喧哗；激动，混乱；吵闹 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
6
interval
|
|
| n.间隔，间距；幕间休息，中场休息 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
7
distraction
|
|
| n.精神涣散，精神不集中，消遣，娱乐 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
8
countenance
|
|
| n.脸色，面容；面部表情；vt.支持，赞同 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
9
explicit
|
|
| adj.详述的，明确的；坦率的；显然的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
10
rupture
|
|
| n.破裂；(关系的)决裂；v.(使)破裂 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
11
vessel
|
|
| n.船舶；容器，器皿；管，导管，血管 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
12
incurable
|
|
| adj.不能医治的，不能矫正的，无救的；n.不治的病人，无救的人 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
13
consolatory
|
|
| adj.慰问的，可藉慰的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
14
melancholy
|
|
| n.忧郁，愁思；adj.令人感伤（沮丧）的，忧郁的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
15
tranquil
|
|
| adj. 安静的, 宁静的, 稳定的, 不变的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
16
wont
|
|
| adj.习惯于；v.习惯；n.习惯 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
17
illustrated
|
|
| adj. 有插图的，列举的 动词illustrate的过去式和过去分词 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
18
repulsive
|
|
| adj.排斥的，使人反感的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
19
eccentricity
|
|
| n.古怪，反常，怪癖 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
20
leavened
|
|
| adj.加酵母的v.使（面团）发酵( leaven的过去式和过去分词 )；在…中掺入改变的因素 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
21
admiration
|
|
| n.钦佩，赞美，羡慕 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
22
gratitude
|
|
| adj.感激，感谢 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
23
tact
|
|
| n.机敏，圆滑，得体 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
24
dealing
|
|
| n.经商方法，待人态度 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
25
mitigate
|
|
| vt.（使）减轻，（使）缓和 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
26
retrospect
|
|
| n.回顾，追溯；v.回顾，回想，追溯 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
27
bereavement
|
|
| n.亲人丧亡，丧失亲人，丧亲之痛 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
28
calamity
|
|
| n.灾害，祸患，不幸事件 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
29
abruptness
|
|
| n. 突然，唐突 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
30
faculty
|
|
| n.才能；学院，系；(学院或系的)全体教学人员 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
31
derange
|
|
| v.使精神错乱 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
32
vex
|
|
| vt.使烦恼，使苦恼 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
33
testily
|
|
| adv. 易怒地, 暴躁地 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
34
conjecture
|
|
| n./v.推测，猜测 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
35
evoked
|
|
| [医]诱发的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
36
immediate
|
|
| adj.立即的；直接的，最接近的；紧靠的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
37
assenting
|
|
| 同意，赞成( assent的现在分词 ) | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
38
desecration
|
|
| n. 亵渎神圣, 污辱 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
39
abrogated
|
|
| 废除（法律等）( abrogate的过去式和过去分词 )； 取消； 去掉； 抛开 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
40
conjectural
|
|
| adj.推测的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
41
scrap
|
|
| n.碎片；废料；v.废弃，报废 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
42
ransacked
|
|
| v.彻底搜查( ransack的过去式和过去分词 )；抢劫，掠夺 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
43
sobbed
|
|
| 哭泣，啜泣( sob的过去式和过去分词 )； 哭诉，呜咽地说 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
44
lamentation
|
|
| n.悲叹，哀悼 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
45
inscribed
|
|
| v.写，刻( inscribe的过去式和过去分词 )；内接 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
46
neatly
|
|
| adv.整洁地，干净地，灵巧地，熟练地 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
47
satire
|
|
| n.讽刺，讽刺文学，讽刺作品 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
48
abject
|
|
| adj.极可怜的，卑屈的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
49
manly
|
|
| adj.有男子气概的；adv.男子般地，果断地 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
50
serenely
|
|
| adv.安详地，宁静地，平静地 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
51
liking
|
|
| n.爱好；嗜好；喜欢 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
52
abating
|
|
| 减少( abate的现在分词 )； 减去； 降价； 撤消（诉讼） | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
53
speculation
|
|
| n.思索，沉思；猜测；投机 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
54
glean
|
|
| v.收集(消息、资料、情报等) | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
55
conjectures
|
|
| 推测，猜想( conjecture的名词复数 ) | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
56
enquired
|
|
| 打听( enquire的过去式和过去分词 )； 询问； 问问题； 查问 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
57
undertaking
|
|
| n.保证，许诺，事业 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
58
frightful
|
|
| adj.可怕的；讨厌的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
59
cloistered
|
|
| adj.隐居的，躲开尘世纷争的v.隐退，使与世隔绝( cloister的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
| 欢迎访问英文小说网 |