“Well, dear,” she said, with the same pale, excited countenance2, “that certainly is a sensible and charitable arrangement. I could not have believed it possible, had I not heard it with my ears.”
“About my going to Bartram–Haugh?”
“Yes, exactly so, under Silas Ruthyn’s guardianship3, to spend two — three — of the most important years of your education and your life under that roof. Is that, my dear, what was in your mind when you were so alarmed about what you were to be called upon to do, or undergo?”
“No, no, indeed. I had no notion what it might be. I was afraid of something serious,” I answered.
“And, my dear Maud, did not your poor father speak to you as if it was something serious?” said she. “And so it is, I can tell you, something serious, and very serious; and I think it ought to be prevented, and I certainly will prevent it if I possibly can.”
I was puzzled utterly5 by the intensity6 of Lady Knollys’ protest. I looked at her, expecting an explanation of her meaning; but she was silent, looking steadfastly8 on the jewels on her right-hand fingers, with which she was drumming a staccato march on the table, very pale, with gleaming eyes, evidently thinking deeply. I began to think she had a prejudice against my uncle Silas.
“He is not very rich,” I commenced.
“Who?” said Lady Knollys.
“Uncle Silas,” I replied.
“No, certainly; he’s in debt,” she answered.
“But then, how very highly Doctor Clay spoke9 of him!” I pursued.
“Don’t talk of Doctor Clay. I do think that man is the greatest goose I ever heard talk. I have no patience with such men,” she replied.
I tried to remember what particular nonsense Doctor Clay had uttered, and I could recollect10 nothing, unless his eulogy11 upon my uncle were to be classed with that sort of declamation12.
“Danvers is a very proper man and a good accountant, I dare say; but he is either a very deep person, or a fool — I believe a fool. As for your attorney, I suppose he knows his business, and also his interest, and I have no doubt he will consult it. I begin to think the best man among them, the shrewdest and the most reliable, is that vulgar visionary in the black wig14. I saw him look at you, Maud, and I liked his face, though it is abominably15 ugly and vulgar, and cunning, too; but I think he’s a just man, and I dare say with right feelings — I’m sure he has.”
I was quite at a loss to divine the gist16 of my cousin’s criticism.
“I’ll have some talk with Dr. Bryerly; I feel convinced he takes my view, and we must really think what had best be done.”
“Is there anything in the will, Cousin Monica, that does not appear?” I asked, for I was growing very uneasy. “I wish you would tell me. What view do you mean?”
“No view in particular; the view that a desolate17 old park, and the house of a neglected old man, who is very poor, and has been desperately18 foolish, is not the right place for you, particularly at your years. It is quite shocking, and I will speak to Doctor Bryerly. May I ring the bell, dear?”
“Certainly;” and I rang it.
“When does he leave Knowl?”
I could not tell. Mrs. Rusk, however, was sent for, and she could tell us that he had announced his intention of taking the night train from Drackleton, and was to leave Knowl for that station at half-past six o’clock.
“May Rusk give or send him a message from me, dear?” asked Lady Knollys.
Of course she might.
“Then please let him know that I request he will be so good as to allow me a very few minutes, just to say a word before he goes.”
“You kind cousin!” I said, placing my two hands on her shoulders, and looking earnestly in her face; “you are anxious about me, more than you say. Won’t you tell me why? I am much more unhappy, really, in ignorance, than if I understood the cause.”
“Well, dear, haven’t I told you? The two or three years of your life which are to form you are destined19 to be passed in utter loneliness, and, I am sure, neglect. You can’t estimate the disadvantage of such an arrangement. It is full of disadvantages. How it could have entered the head of poor Austin — although I should not say that, for I am sure I do understand it — but how he could for any purpose have directed such a measure is quite inconceivable. I never heard of anything so foolish and abominable20, and I will prevent it if I can.”
At that moment Mrs. Rusk announced that Doctor Bryerly would see Lady Knollys at any time she pleased before his departure.
“It shall be this moment, then,” said the energetic lady, and up she stood, and made that hasty general adjustment before the glass, which, no matter under what circumstances, and before what sort of creature one’s appearance is to be made, is a duty that every woman owes to herself. And I heard her a moment after, at the stair-head, directing Branston to let Dr. Bryerly know that she awaited him in the drawing-room.
And now she was gone, and I began to wonder and speculate. Why should my cousin Monica make all this fuss about, after all, a very natural arrangement? My uncle, whatever he might have been, was now a good man — a religious man — perhaps a little severe; and with this thought a dark streak21 fell across my sky.
A cruel disciplinarian! had I not read of such characters? — lock and key, bread and water, and solitude22! To sit locked up all night in a dark out-of-the-way room, in a great, ghosty, old-fashioned house, with no one nearer than the other wing. What years of horror in one such night! Would not this explain my poor father’s hesitation23, and my cousin Monica’s apparently24 disproportioned opposition25? When an idea of terror presents itself to a young person’s mind, it transfixes and fills the vision, without respect of probabilities or reason.
My uncle was now a terrible old martinet26, with long Bible lessons, lectures, pages of catechism, sermons to be conned27 by rote7, and an awful catalogue of punishments for idleness, and what would seem to him impiety28. I was going, then to a frightful29 isolated30 reformatory, where for the first time in my life I should be subjected to a rigorous and perhaps barbarous discipline.
All this was an exhalation of fancy, but it quite overcame me. I threw myself, in my solitude, on the floor, upon my knees, and prayed for deliverance — prayed that Cousin Monica might prevail with Doctor Bryerly, and both on my behalf with the Lord Chancellor31, or the High Sheriff, or whoever else my proper deliverer might be; and when my cousin returned, she found me quite in an agony.
“Why, you little fool! what fancy has taken possession of you now?” she cried.
And when my new terror came to light, she actually laughed a little to reassure32 me, and she said —
“My dear child, your uncle Silas will never put you through your duty to your neighbor; all the time you are under his roof you’ll have idleness and liberty enough, and too much, I fear. It is neglect, my dear, not discipline, that I’m afraid of.”
“I think, dear Cousin Monica, you are afraid of something more than neglect,” I said, relieved, however.
“I am afraid of more than neglect,” she replied promptly33; “but I hope my fears may turn out illusory, and that possibly they may be avoided. And now, for a few hours at least, let us think of something else. I rather like that Doctor Bryerly. I could not get him to say what I wanted. I don’t think he’s Scotch34, but he is very cautious, and I am sure, though he would not say so, that he thinks of the matter exactly as I do. He says that those fine people, who are named as his co-trustees, won’t take any trouble, and will leave everything to him, and I am sure he is right. So we must not quarrel with him, Maud, nor call him hard names, although he certainly is intolerably vulgar and ugly, and at times very nearly impertinent — I suppose without knowing, or indeed very much caring.”
We had a good deal to think of, and talked incessantly35. There were bursts and interruptions of grief, and my kind cousin’s consolations36. I have often since been so lectured for giving way to grief, that I wonder at the patience exercised by her during this irksome visit. Then there was some reading of that book whose claims are always felt in the terrible days of affliction. After that we had a walk in the yew37 garden, that quaint38 little cloistered39 quadrangle — the most solemn, sad, and antiquated40 of gardens.
“And now, my dear, I must really leave you for two or three hours. I have ever so many letters to write, and my people must think I’m dead by this time.”
So till tea-time I had poor Mary Quince, with her gushes41 of simple prattle42 and her long fits of vacant silence, for my companion. And such a one, who can con13 over by rote the old friendly gossip about the dead, talk about their ways, and looks, and likings, without much psychologic refinement44, but with a simple admiration45 and liking43 that never measured them critically, but always with faith and love, is in general about as comfortable a companion as one can find for the common moods of grief.
It is not easy to recall in calm and happy hours the sensations of an acute sorrow that is past. Nothing, by the merciful ordinance46 of God, is more difficult to remember than pain. One or two great agonies of that time I do remember, and they remain to testify of the rest, and convince me, though I can see it no more, how terrible all that period was.
Next day was the funeral, that appalling47 necessity; smuggled49 away in whispers, by black familiars, unresisting, the beloved one leaves home, without a farewell, to darken those doors no more; henceforward to lie outside, far away, and forsaken51, through the drowsy52 heats of summer, through days of snow and nights of tempest, without light or warmth, without a voice near. Oh, Death, king of terrors! The body quakes and the spirit faints before thee. It is vain, with hands clasped over our eyes, to scream our reclamation53; the horrible image will not be excluded. We have just the word spoken eighteen hundred years ago, and our trembling faith. And through the broken vault54 the gleam of the Star of Bethlehem.
I was glad in a sort of agony when it was over. So long as it remained to be done, something of the catastrophe55 was still suspended. Now it was all over.
The house so strangely empty. No owner — no master! I with my strange momentary56 liberty, bereft57 of that irreplaceable love, never quite prized until it is lost. Most people have experienced the dismay that underlies58 sorrow under such circumstances.
The apartment of the poor outcast from life is now dismantled59. Beds and curtains taken down, and furniture displaced; carpets removed, windows open and doors locked; the bedroom and anteroom were henceforward, for many a day, uninhabited. Every shocking change smote60 my heart like a reproach.
I saw that day that Cousin Monica had been crying for the first time, I think, since her arrival at Knowl; and I loved her more for it, and felt consoled. My tears have often been arrested by the sight of another person weeping, and I never could explain why. But I believe that many persons experience the same odd reaction.
The funeral was conducted, in obedience61 to his brief but peremptory62 direction, very privately63 and with little expense. But of course there was an attendance, and the tenants64 of the Knowl estate also followed the hearse to the mausoleum, as it is called, in the park, where he was laid beside my dear mother. And so the repulsive65 ceremonial of that dreadful day was over. The grief remained, but there was rest from the fatigue66 of agitation67, and a comparative calm supervened.
It was not the story equinoctial weather that sounds the wild dirge68 of autumn, and marches the winter in. I love, and always did, that grand undefinable music, threatening and bewailing, with its strange soul of liberty and desolation.
By this night’s mail, as we sat listening to the storm, in the drawing-room at Knowl, there reached me a large letter with a great black seal, and a wonderfully deep-black border, like a widow’s crape. I did not recognise the handwriting; but on opening the funereal69 missive, it proved to be from my uncle Silas, and was thus expressed:—
“MY DEAREST NIECE — This letter will reach you, probably, on the day which consigns70 the mortal remains71 of my beloved brother, Austin, your dear father, to the earth. Sad ceremony, from taking my mournful part in which I am excluded by years, distance, and broken health. It will, I trust, at this season of desolation, be not unwelcome to remember that a substitute, imperfect — unworthy — but most affectionately zealous72, for the honoured parent whom you have just lost, has been appointed, in me, your uncle, by his will. I am aware that you were present during the reading of it, but I think it will be for our mutual73 satisfaction that our new and more affectionate relations should be forthwith entered upon. My conscience and your safety, and I trust convenience, will thereby74 be consulted. You will, my dear niece, remain at Knowl, until a few simple arrangements shall have been completed for your reception at this place. I will then settle the details of your little journey to us, which shall be performed as comfortably and easily as possible. I humbly75 pray that this affliction may be sanctified to us all, and that in our new duties we may be supported, comforted, and directed. I need not remind you that I now stand to you in loco parentis, which means in the relation of father, and you will not forget that you are to remain at Knowl until you hear further from me.
“I remain, my dear niece, your most affectionate uncle and guardian4,
SILAS RUTHYN.”
P.S. — Pray present my respects to Lady Knollys, who, I understand, is sojourning at Knowl. I would observe that a lady who cherishes, I have reason to fear, unfriendly feelings against your uncle, is not the most desirable companion for his ward50. But upon the express condition that I am not made the subject of your discussions — a distinction which could not conduce to your forming a just and respectful estimate of me — I do not interpose my authority to bring your intercourse76 to an immediate77 close.”
As I read this postscript78, my cheek tingled79 as if I had received a box on the ear. Uncle Silas was as yet a stranger. The menace of authority was new and sudden, and I felt with a pang80 of mortification81 the full force of the position in which my dear father’s will had placed me.
I was silent, and handed the letter to my cousin, who read it with a kind of smile until she came, as I supposed, to the postscript, when her countenance, on which my eyes were fixed82, changed, and with flushed cheeks she knocked the hand that held the letter on the table before her, and exclaimed —
“Did I ever hear! Well, if this isn’t impertinence! What an old man that is!”
There was a pause, during which Lady Knollys held her head high with a frown, and sniffed83 a little.
“I did not intend to talk about him, but now I will. I’ll talk away just whatever I like; and I’ll stay here just as long as you let me, Maud, and you need not be one atom afraid of him. Our intercourse to an “immediate close,” indeed! I only wish he were hear. He should hear something!”
And Cousin Monica drank off her entire cup of tea at one draught84, and then she said, more in her own way —
“I’m better!” and drew a long breath, and then she laughed a little in a waggish85 defiance86. “I wish we had him here, Maud, and would not we give him a bit of our minds! And this before the poor will is so much proved!”
“I am almost glad he wrote that postscript; for although I don’t think he has any authority in that matter while I am under my own roof,” I said, extemporising a legal opinion, “and, therefore, shan’t obey him, it has somehow opened my eyes to my real situation.”
I sighed, I believe, very desolately87, for Lady Knollys came over and kissed me very gently and affectionately.
“It really seems, Maud, as if he had a supernatural sense, and heard things through the air over fifty miles of heath and hill. You remember how, just as he was probably writing that very postscript yesterday, I was urging you to come and stay with me, and palling48 to move Dr. Bryerly in our favour. And so I will, Maud, and to me you shall come — my guest, mind — I should be so delighted; and really if Silas is under a cloud, it has been his own doing, and I don’t see that it is your business to fight his battle. He can’t live very long. The suspicion, whatever it is, dies with him, and what could poor dear Austin prove by his will but what everybody knew quite well before — his own strong belief in Silas’s innocence88? What an awful storm! The room trembles. Don’t you like the sound? What they used to call ‘wolving’ in the old organ at Dorminster!”
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1
determinedly
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| adv.决意地；坚决地，坚定地 | |
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countenance
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| n.脸色，面容；面部表情；vt.支持，赞同 | |
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guardianship
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| n. 监护, 保护, 守护 | |
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guardian
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| n.监护人；守卫者，保护者 | |
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utterly
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| adv.完全地，绝对地 | |
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intensity
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| n.强烈，剧烈；强度；烈度 | |
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rote
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| n.死记硬背，生搬硬套 | |
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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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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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recollect
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| v.回忆，想起，记起，忆起，记得 | |
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eulogy
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| n.颂词；颂扬 | |
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declamation
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| n. 雄辩，高调 | |
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con
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| n.反对的观点，反对者，反对票，肺病；vt.精读，学习，默记；adv.反对地，从反面；adj.欺诈的 | |
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wig
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| n.假发 | |
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abominably
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| adv. 可恶地，可恨地，恶劣地 | |
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gist
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| n.要旨；梗概 | |
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desolate
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| adj.荒凉的，荒芜的；孤独的，凄凉的；v.使荒芜，使孤寂 | |
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desperately
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| adv.极度渴望地，绝望地，孤注一掷地 | |
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destined
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| adj.命中注定的；(for)以…为目的地的 | |
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abominable
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| adj.可厌的，令人憎恶的 | |
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streak
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| n.条理，斑纹，倾向，少许，痕迹；v.加条纹，变成条纹，奔驰，快速移动 | |
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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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hesitation
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| n.犹豫，踌躇 | |
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apparently
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| adv.显然地；表面上，似乎 | |
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opposition
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| n.反对，敌对 | |
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martinet
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| n.要求严格服从纪律的人 | |
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conned
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| adj.被骗了v.指挥操舵( conn的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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impiety
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| n.不敬；不孝 | |
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frightful
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| adj.可怕的；讨厌的 | |
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isolated
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| adj.与世隔绝的 | |
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chancellor
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| n.(英)大臣；法官；(德、奥)总理；大学校长 | |
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reassure
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| v.使放心，使消除疑虑 | |
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promptly
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| adv.及时地，敏捷地 | |
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scotch
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| n.伤口，刻痕；苏格兰威士忌酒；v.粉碎，消灭，阻止；adj.苏格兰(人)的 | |
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incessantly
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| ad.不停地 | |
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consolations
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| n.安慰，慰问( consolation的名词复数 )；起安慰作用的人（或事物） | |
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yew
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| n.紫杉属树木 | |
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quaint
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| adj.古雅的，离奇有趣的，奇怪的 | |
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cloistered
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| 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 ) | |
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antiquated
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| adj.陈旧的，过时的 | |
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gushes
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| n.涌出，迸发( gush的名词复数 )v.喷，涌( gush的第三人称单数 )；滔滔不绝地说话 | |
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prattle
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| n.闲谈；v.（小孩般）天真无邪地说话；发出连续而无意义的声音 | |
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liking
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| n.爱好；嗜好；喜欢 | |
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refinement
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| n.文雅；高尚；精美；精制；精炼 | |
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admiration
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| n.钦佩，赞美，羡慕 | |
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ordinance
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| n.法令；条令；条例 | |
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appalling
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| adj.骇人听闻的，令人震惊的，可怕的 | |
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palling
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| v.（因过多或过久而）生厌，感到乏味，厌烦( pall的现在分词 ) | |
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smuggled
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| 水货 | |
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ward
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| n.守卫，监护，病房，行政区，由监护人或法院保护的人（尤指儿童）；vt.守护，躲开 | |
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Forsaken
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| adj. 被遗忘的, 被抛弃的 动词forsake的过去分词 | |
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drowsy
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| adj.昏昏欲睡的，令人发困的 | |
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53
reclamation
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| n.开垦；改造；（废料等的）回收 | |
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vault
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| n.拱形圆顶，地窖，地下室 | |
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catastrophe
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| n.大灾难，大祸 | |
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momentary
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| adj.片刻的，瞬息的；短暂的 | |
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bereft
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| adj.被剥夺的 | |
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underlies
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| v.位于或存在于（某物）之下( underlie的第三人称单数 )；构成…的基础（或起因），引起 | |
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dismantled
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| 拆开( dismantle的过去式和过去分词 )； 拆卸； 废除； 取消 | |
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smote
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| v.猛打，重击，打击( smite的过去式 ) | |
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obedience
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| n.服从，顺从 | |
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peremptory
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| adj.紧急的，专横的，断然的 | |
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privately
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| adv.以私人的身份，悄悄地，私下地 | |
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tenants
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| n.房客( tenant的名词复数 )；佃户；占用者；占有者 | |
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repulsive
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| adj.排斥的，使人反感的 | |
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fatigue
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| n.疲劳，劳累 | |
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agitation
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| n.搅动；搅拌；鼓动，煽动 | |
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dirge
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| n.哀乐，挽歌，庄重悲哀的乐曲 | |
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funereal
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| adj.悲哀的；送葬的 | |
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consigns
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| v.把…置于（令人不快的境地）( consign的第三人称单数 )；把…托付给；把…托人代售；丟弃 | |
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71
remains
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| n.剩余物，残留物；遗体，遗迹 | |
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zealous
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| adj.狂热的，热心的 | |
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mutual
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| adj.相互的，彼此的；共同的，共有的 | |
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thereby
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| adv.因此，从而 | |
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humbly
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| adv. 恭顺地，谦卑地 | |
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intercourse
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| n.性交；交流，交往，交际 | |
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immediate
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| adj.立即的；直接的，最接近的；紧靠的 | |
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postscript
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| n.附言，又及；(正文后的)补充说明 | |
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tingled
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| v.有刺痛感( tingle的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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pang
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| n.剧痛，悲痛，苦闷 | |
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81
mortification
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| n.耻辱，屈辱 | |
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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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83
sniffed
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| v.以鼻吸气，嗅，闻( sniff的过去式和过去分词 )；抽鼻子（尤指哭泣、患感冒等时出声地用鼻子吸气）；抱怨，不以为然地说 | |
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84
draught
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| n.拉，牵引，拖；一网（饮，吸，阵)；顿服药量，通风；v.起草，设计 | |
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85
waggish
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| adj.诙谐的，滑稽的 | |
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defiance
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| n.挑战，挑衅，蔑视，违抗 | |
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desolately
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| 荒凉地，寂寞地 | |
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innocence
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| n.无罪；天真；无害 | |
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