Branston met us, announced the arrival, and handed me the stranger’s credentials1. My cousin and I stopped in the passage to read them.
“That’s your uncle Silas’s,” said Lady Knollys, touching2 one of the two letters with the tip of her finger.
“Shall we have lunch, Miss?”
“Certainly.” So Branston bowed.
“Read it with me, Cousin Monica,” I said. And a very curious letter it was. It spoke3 as follows:—
“How can I thank my beloved niece for remembering her aged4 and forlorn kinsman5 at such a moment of anguish6?”
I had written a note of a few, I dare say, incoherent words by the next post after my dear father’s death.
“It is, however, in the hour of bereavement7 that we most value the ties that are broken, and yearn8 for the sympathy of kindred.”
Here came a little distich of French verse, of which I could only read ciel and l’amour.
“Our quiet household here is clouded with a new sorrow. How inscrutable are the ways of Providence9! I— though a few years younger — how much the more infirm — how shattered in energy and in mind — how a mere10 burden — how entirely11 de trop — am spared to my said place in a world where I can be no longer useful, where I have but one business — prayer, but one hope — the tomb; and he — apparently12 so robust13 — the centre of so much good — so necessary to you — so necessary alas14! to me — is taken! He is gone to his rest — for us, what remains15 but to bow our heads, and murmur16, ‘His will be done’? I trace these lines with a trembling hand, while tears dim my old eyes. I did not think that any earthly event could have moved me so profoundly. From the world I have long stood aloof17. I once led a life of pleasure — alas! of wickedness — as I now do one of austerity; but as I never was rich, so my worst enemy will allow I never was avaricious18. My sins, I thank my Maker19, have been of a more reducible kind, and have succumbed20 to the discipline which Heaven has provided. To earth and its interests, as well as to its pleasures, I have long been dead. For the few remaining years of my life I ask but quiet — an exemption21 from the agitations22 and distractions23 of struggle and care, and I trust to the Giver of all Good for my deliverance — well knowing, at the same time, that whatever befalls will, under His direction, prove best. Happy shall I be, my dearest niece, if in your most interesting and, in some respects, forlorn situation, I can be of any use to you. My present religious adviser25 — of whom I ventured to ask counsel on your behalf — states that I ought to send some one to represent me at the melancholy26 ceremony of reading the will which my beloved and now happy brother has, no doubt, left behind; and the idea that the experience and professional knowledge possessed27 by the gentleman whom I have selected may possibly be of use to you, my dearest niece, determines me to place him at your disposal. He is the junior partner in the firm of Archer28 and Sleigh, who conduct any little business which I may have from time to time; may I entreat29 your hospitality for him during a brief stay at Knowl? I write, even for a moment, upon these small matters of business with an effort — a painful one, but necessary. Alas! my brother! The cup of bitterness is now full. Few and evil must the remainder of my old days be. Yet, while they last, I remain always for my beloved niece, that which all her wealth and splendour cannot purchase — a loving and faithful kinsman and friend,
SILAS RUTHYN
“Is it not a kind letter?” I said, while tears stood in my eyes.
“Yes,” answered Lady Knollys, drily.
“But don’t you think it so, really?”
“Oh! kind, very kind,” she answered in the same tone, “and perhaps a little cunning.”
“Cunning! — how?”
“Well, you know I’m a peevish30 old Tabby, and of course I scratch now and then, and see in the dark. I dare say Silas is sorry, but I don’t think he is in sackcloth and ashes. He has reason to be sorry and anxious, and I say I think he is both; and you know he pities you very much, and also himself a good deal; and he wants money, and you — his beloved niece — have a great deal — and altogether it is an affectionate and prudent31 letter; and he has sent his attorney here to make a note of the will; and you are to give the gentleman his meals and lodging32; and Silas, very thoughtfully, invites you to confide33 your difficulties and troubles to his solicitor34. It is very kind, but not imprudent.”
“Oh, Cousin Monica, don’t you think at such a moment it is hardly natural that he should form such petty schemes, even were he capable at other times of practising so low? Is it not judging him hardly? and you, you know, so little acquainted with him.”
“I told you, dear, I’m a cross old thing — and there’s an end; and I really don’t care two pence about him; and of the two I’d much rather he were no relation of ours.”
Now, was not this prejudice? I dare say in part it was. So, too, was my vehement35 predisposition in his favour. I am afraid we women are factionists; we always take a side, and nature has formed us for advocates rather than judges; and I think the function, if less dignified36, is more amiable37.
I sat alone at the drawing-room window, at nightfall, awaiting my cousin Monica’s entrance.
Feverish38 and frightened I felt that night. It was a sympathy, I fancy, with the weather. The sun had set stormily. Though the air was still, the sky looked wild and storm-swept. The crowding clouds, slanting39 in the attitude of flight, reflected their own sacred aspect upon my spirits. My grief darkened with a wild presaging40 of danger, and a sense of the supernatural fell upon me. It was the saddest and most awful evening that had come since my beloved father’s death.
All kinds of shapeless fears environed me in silence. For the first time, dire24 misgivings41 about the form of faith affrighted me. Who were these Swedenborgians who had got about him — no one could tell how — and held him so fast to the close of his life? Who was this bilious42, bewigged, black-eyed Doctor Bryerly, whom none of us quite liked and all a little feared; who seemed to rise out of the ground, and came and went, no one knew whence or whither, exercising, as I imagined, a mysterious authority over him? Was it all good and true, or a heresy43 and a witchcraft44? Oh, my beloved father! was it all well with you?
When Lady Knollys entered, she found me in floods of tears, walking distractedly up and down the room. She kissed me in silence; she walked back and forward with me, and did her best to console me.
“I think, Cousin Monica, I would wish to see him once more. Shall we go up?”
“Unless you really wish it very much, I think, darling, you had better not mind it. It is happier to recollect45 them as they were; there’s a change, you know, darling, and there is seldom any comfort in the sight.”
“But I do wish it very much. Oh! won’t you come with me?”
And so I persuaded her, and up we went hand in hand, in the deepening twilight46; and we halted at the end of the dark gallery, and I called Mrs. Rusk, growing frightened.
“Tell her to let us in, Cousin Monica,” I whispered.
“She wishes to see him, my lady — does she?” enquired47 Mrs. Rusk, in an under-tone, and with a mysterious glance at me, as she softly fitted the key to the lock.
“Are you quite sure, Maud, dear?”
“Yes, yes.”
But when Mrs. Rusk entered bearing the candle, whose beam mixed dismally48 with the expiring twilight, disclosing a great black coffin49 standing50 upon trestles, near the foot of which she took her stand, gazing sternly into it, I lost heart again altogether and drew back.
“No, Mrs. Rusk, she won’t; and I am very glad, dear,” she added to me. “Come, Mrs. Rusk, come away. Yes, darling,” she continued to me, “it is much better for you;” and she hurried me away, and down-stairs again. But the awful outlines of that large black coffin remained upon my imagination with a new and terrible sense of death.
I had no more any wish to see him. I felt a horror even of the room, and for more than an hour after a kind of despair and terror, such as I have never experienced before or since at the idea of death.
Cousin Monica had had her bed placed in my room, and Mary Quince’s moved to the dressing-room adjoining it. For the first time the superstitious51 awe52 that follows death, but not immediately, visited me. The idea of seeing my father enter the room, or open the door and look in, haunted me. After Lady Knollys and I were in bed, I could not sleep. The wind sounded mournfully outside, and the small sounds, the rattlings, and strainings that responded from within, constantly startled me, and simulated the sounds of steps, of doors opening, of knockings, and so forth53, rousing me with a palpitating heart as often as I fell into a doze54.
At length the wind subsided55, and these ambiguous noises abated56, and I, fatigued57, dropped into a quiet sleep. I was awakened58 by a sound in the gallery — which I could not define. A considerable time had passed, for the wind was now quite lulled59. I sat up in my bed a good deal scared, listening breathlessly for I knew not what.
I heard a step moving stealthily along the gallery. I called my cousin Monica softly; and we both heard the door of the room in which my father’s body lay unlocked, some one furtively60 enter, and the door shut.
“What can it be? Good Heavens, Cousin Monica, do you hear it?”
“Yes, dear; and it is two o’clock.”
Everyone at Knowl was in bed at eleven. We knew very well that Mrs. Rusk was rather nervous, and would not, for worlds, go alone, and at such an hour, to the room. We called Mary Quince. We all three listened, but we heard no other sound. I set these things down here because they made so terrible an impression upon me at the time.
It ended by our peeping out, all three in a body, upon the gallery. Through each window in the perspective came its blue sheet of moonshine; but the door on which our attention was fixed61 was in the shade, and we thought we could discern the glare of a candle through the key-hole. While in whispers we were debating this point together, the door opened, the dusky light of a candle emerge, the shadow of a figure crossed it within, and in another moment the mysterious Doctor Bryerly — angular, ungainly, in the black cloth coat that fitted little better than a coffin — issued from the chamber62, candle in hand; murmuring, I suppose, a prayer — it sounded like a farewell — stepped cautiously upon the gallery floor, shutting and locking the door upon the dead; and then having listened for a second, the saturnine63 figure, casting a gigantic and distorted shadow upon the ceiling and side-wall from the lowered candle, strode lightly down the long dark passage, away from us.
I can only speak for myself, and I can honestly say that I felt as much frightened as if I had just seen a sorcerer stealing from his unhallowed business. I think Cousin Monica was also affected64 in the same way, for she turned the key on the inside of the door when we entered. I do not think one of us believed at the moment that what we had seen was a Doctor Bryerly of flesh and blood, and yet the first thing we spoke of in the morning was Doctor Bryerly’s arrival. The mind is a different organ by night and by day.
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1
credentials
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| n.证明，资格，证明书，证件 | |
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touching
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| adj.动人的，使人感伤的 | |
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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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aged
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| adj.年老的，陈年的 | |
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kinsman
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| n.男亲属 | |
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anguish
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| n.(尤指心灵上的)极度痛苦，烦恼 | |
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bereavement
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| n.亲人丧亡，丧失亲人，丧亲之痛 | |
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yearn
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| v.想念；怀念；渴望 | |
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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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mere
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| adj.纯粹的；仅仅，只不过 | |
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entirely
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| ad.全部地，完整地；完全地，彻底地 | |
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apparently
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| adv.显然地；表面上，似乎 | |
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robust
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| adj.强壮的，强健的，粗野的，需要体力的，浓的 | |
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alas
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| int.唉(表示悲伤、忧愁、恐惧等) | |
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remains
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| n.剩余物，残留物；遗体，遗迹 | |
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murmur
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| n.低语，低声的怨言；v.低语，低声而言 | |
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aloof
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| adj.远离的；冷淡的，漠不关心的 | |
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avaricious
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| adj.贪婪的，贪心的 | |
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maker
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| n.制造者，制造商 | |
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succumbed
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| 不再抵抗（诱惑、疾病、攻击等）( succumb的过去式和过去分词 )； 屈从； 被压垮； 死 | |
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exemption
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| n.豁免，免税额，免除 | |
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22
agitations
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| （液体等的）摇动( agitation的名词复数 )； 鼓动； 激烈争论； （情绪等的）纷乱 | |
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23
distractions
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| n.使人分心的事[人]( distraction的名词复数 )；娱乐，消遣；心烦意乱；精神错乱 | |
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dire
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| adj.可怕的，悲惨的，阴惨的，极端的 | |
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adviser
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| n.劝告者，顾问 | |
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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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possessed
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| adj.疯狂的；拥有的，占有的 | |
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archer
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| n.射手，弓箭手 | |
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entreat
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| v.恳求，恳请 | |
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peevish
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| adj.易怒的，坏脾气的 | |
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prudent
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| adj.谨慎的，有远见的，精打细算的 | |
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lodging
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| n.寄宿，住所；(大学生的)校外宿舍 | |
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confide
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| v.向某人吐露秘密 | |
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solicitor
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| n.初级律师，事务律师 | |
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vehement
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| adj.感情强烈的；热烈的；(人)有强烈感情的 | |
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dignified
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| a.可敬的，高贵的 | |
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amiable
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| adj.和蔼可亲的，友善的，亲切的 | |
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feverish
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| adj.发烧的，狂热的，兴奋的 | |
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slanting
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| 倾斜的，歪斜的 | |
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40
presaging
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| v.预示，预兆( presage的现在分词 ) | |
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41
misgivings
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| n.疑虑，担忧，害怕；疑虑，担心，恐惧( misgiving的名词复数 )；疑惧 | |
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42
bilious
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| adj.胆汁过多的；易怒的 | |
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43
heresy
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| n.异端邪说；异教 | |
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44
witchcraft
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| n.魔法，巫术 | |
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45
recollect
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| v.回忆，想起，记起，忆起，记得 | |
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46
twilight
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| n.暮光，黄昏；暮年，晚期，衰落时期 | |
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47
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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48
dismally
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| adv.阴暗地，沉闷地 | |
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49
coffin
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| n.棺材，灵柩 | |
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50
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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51
superstitious
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| adj.迷信的 | |
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52
awe
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| n.敬畏，惊惧；vt.使敬畏，使惊惧 | |
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53
forth
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| adv.向前；向外，往外 | |
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54
doze
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| v.打瞌睡；n.打盹，假寐 | |
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55
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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56
abated
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| 减少( abate的过去式和过去分词 )； 减去； 降价； 撤消（诉讼） | |
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57
fatigued
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| adj. 疲乏的 | |
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58
awakened
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| v.（使）醒( awaken的过去式和过去分词 )；（使）觉醒；弄醒；（使）意识到 | |
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59
lulled
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| vt.使镇静，使安静（lull的过去式与过去分词形式） | |
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60
furtively
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| adv. 偷偷地, 暗中地 | |
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61
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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chamber
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| n.房间，寝室；会议厅；议院；会所 | |
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saturnine
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| adj.忧郁的，沉默寡言的，阴沉的，感染铅毒的 | |
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affected
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| adj.不自然的，假装的 | |
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