“The storm blows from that point,” I said, indicating it with my hand and eye, although the window shutters4 and curtains were closed. “I saw all the trees bend that way this evening. That way stands the great lonely wood, where my darling father and mother lie. Oh, how dreadful on nights like this, to think of them — a vault5! — damp, and dark, and solitary6 — under the storm.”
Cousin Monica looked wistfully in the same direction, and with a short sigh she said —
“We think too much of the poor remains7, and too little of the spirit which lives for ever. I am sure they are happy.” And she sighed again. “I wish I dare hope as confidently for myself. Yes, Maud, it is sad. We are such materialists, we can’t help feeling so. We forget how well it is for us that our present bodies are not to last always. They are constructed for a time and place of trouble — plainly mere8 temporary machines that wear out, constantly exhibiting failure and decay, and with such tremendous capacity for pain. The body lies alone, and so it ought for it is plainly its good Creator’s will; it is only the tabernacle, not the person, who is clothed upon after death, Saint Paul says, ‘with a house which is from heaven.’ So Maud, darling, although the thought will trouble us again and again, there is nothing in it; and the poor mortal body is only the cold ruin of a habitation which they have forsaken9 before we do. So this great wind, you say, is blowing toward us from the wood there. If so, Maud, it is blowing from Bartram–Haugh, too, over the trees and chimneys of that old place, and the mysterious old man, who is quite right in thinking I don’t like him; and I can fancy him an old enchanter in his castle, waving his familiar spirits on the wind to fetch and carry tidings of our occupations here.”
I lifted my head and listened to the storm, drying away to the distance sometimes — sometimes swelling11 and pealing12 around and above us — and through the dark and solitude13 my thoughts sped away to Bartram–Haugh and Uncle Silas.
“This letter,” I said at last,” makes me feel differently. I think he is a stern old man — is he?”
“It is twenty years, now, since I saw him,” answered Lady Knollys. “I did not choose to visit at his house.”
“Was that before the dreadful occurrence at Bartram–Haugh?”
“Yes — before, dear. He was not a reformed rake, but only a ruined one then. Austin was very good to him. Mr. Danvers says it is quite unaccountable how Silas can have made away with the immense sums he got from his brother from time to time without benefiting himself in the least. But, my dear, he played; and trying to help a man who plays, and is unlucky — and some men are, I believe, habitually14 unlucky — is like trying to fill a vessel15 that has no bottom. I think, by-the-by, my hopeful nephew, Charles Oakley, plays. Then Silas went most unjustifiably into all manner of speculations16, and your poor father had to pay everything. He lost something quite astounding17 in that bank that ruined so many country gentlemen — poor Sir Harry18 Shackleton, in Yorkshire, had to sell half his estate. But your kind father went on helping19 him, up to his marriage — I mean in that extravagant20 way which was really totally useless.”
“Has my aunt been long dead?”
“Twelve or fifteen years — more, indeed — she died before your poor mamma. She was very unhappy, and I am sure would have given her right hand she had never married Silas.”
“Did you like her?”
“No, dear; she was a coarse, vulgar woman.”
“Coarse and vulgar, and Uncle Silas’s wife;” I echoed in extreme surprise, for Uncle Silas was a man of fashion — a beau in his day — and might have married women of good birth and fortune, I had no doubt, and so I expressed myself.”
“Yes, dear; so he might, and poor dear Austin was very anxious he should, and would have helped him with a handsome settlement, I dare say, but he chose to marry the daughter of a Denbigh innkeeper.”
“How utterly21 incredible!” I exclaimed.
“Not the least incredible, dear — a kind of thing not at all so uncommon22 as you fancy.”
“What! — a gentleman of fashion and refinement23 marry a person ——”
“A barmaid! — just so,” said Lady Knollys. “I think I could count half a dozen men of fashion who, to my knowledge, have ruined themselves just in a similar way.”
“Well, at all events, it must be allowed that in this he proved himself altogether unworldly.”
“Not a bit unworldly, but very vicious,” replied Cousin Monica, with a careless little laugh. “She was very beautiful, curiously24 beautiful, for a person in her station. She was very like that Lady Hamilton who was Nelson’s sorceress — elegantly beautiful, but perfectly25 low and stupid. I believe, to do him justice, he only intended to ruin her; but she was cunning enough to insist upon marriage. Men who have never in all their lives denied themselves an indulgence of a single fancy, cost what it may, will not be baulked even by that condition if the penchant26 be only violent enough.”
I did not half understand this piece of worldly psychology27, at which Lady Knollys seemed to laugh.
“Poor Silas, certainly he struggled honestly against the consequences, for he tried after the honeymoon28 to prove the marriage bad. But the Welsh parson and the innkeeper papa were too strong for him, and the young lady was able to hold her struggling swain fast in that respectable noose29 — and a pretty prize he proved!”
“And she died, poor thing, broken-hearted, I heard.”
“She died, at all events, about ten years after her marriage; but I really can’t say about her heart. She certainly had enough ill-usage, I believe, to kill her; but I don’t know that she had feeling enough to die of it, if it had not been that she drank: I am told that Welsh women often do. There was jealousy30, of course, and brutal31 quarrelling, and all sorts of horrid32 stories. I visited at Bartram–Haugh for a year or two, though no one else would. But when that sort of thing began, of course I gave it up; it was out of the question. I don’t think poor Austin ever knew how bad it was. And then came that odious33 business about wretched Mr. Clarke. You know he — he committed suicide at Bartram.”
“I never heard about that,” I said; and we both paused, and she looked sternly at the fir, and the storm roared and ha-ha-ed till the old house shook again.
“But Uncle Silas could not help that,” I said at last.
“No, he could not help it,” she acquiesced34 unpleasantly.
“And Uncle Silas was”— I pause din10 a sort of fear.
“He was suspected by some people of having killed him”— she completed the sentence.
There was another long pause here, during which the storm outside bellowed35 and hooted36 like an angry mob roaring at the windows for a victim. An intolerable and sickening sensation overpowered me.
“But you did not suspect him, Cousin Knollys?” I said, trembling very much.
“No,” she answered very sharply. “I told you so before. Of course I did not.”
There was another silence.
“I wish, Cousin Monica,” I said, drawing close to her, “you had not said that about Uncle Silas being like a wizard, and sending his spirits on the wind to listen. But I’m very glad you never suspected him.” I insinuated37 my cold hand into hers, and looked into her face I know not with what expression. She looked down into mine with a hard, haughty38 stare, I thought.
“Of course I never suspected him; and never ask me that question again, Maud Ruthyn.”
Was if family pride, or what was it, that gleamed so fiercely from her eyes as she said this? I was frightened — I was wounded — I burst into tears.
“What is my darling crying for? I did not mean to be cross. Was I cross?” said this momentary39 phantom of a grim Lady Knollys, in an instant translated again into kind, pleasant Cousin Monica, with her arms about my neck.
“No, no, indeed — only I thought I had vexed40 you; and, I believe, thinking of Uncle Silas makes me nervous, and I can’t help thinking of him nearly always.”
“Nor can I, although we might both easily find something better to think of. Suppose we try?” said Lady Knollys.
“But, first, I must know a little more about that Mr. Clarke, and what circumstances enabled Uncle Silas’s enemies to found on his death that wicked slander41, which has done no one any good, and caused some persons so much misery42. There is Uncle Silas, I may say, ruined by it; and we all know how it darkened the life of my dear father.”
“People will talk, my dear. Your uncle Silas had injured himself before that in the opinion of the people of his county. He was a black sheep, in fact. Very bad stories were told and believed of him. His marriage certainly was a disadvantage, you know, and the miserable43 scenes that went on in his disreputable house — all that predisposed people to believe ill of him.”
“How long is it since it happened?”
“Oh, a long time; I think before you were born,” answered she.
“And the injustice44 still lives — they have not forgotten it yet?” said I, for such a period appeared to me long enough to have consigned45 anything in its nature perishable46 to oblivion.
Lady Knollys smiled.
“Tell me, like a darling cousin, the whole story as well as you can recollect47 it. Who was Mr. Clarke?”
“Mr. Clarke, my dear, was a gentleman on the turf — that is the phrase, I think — one of those London men, without birth or breeding, who merely in right of their vices48 and their money are admitted to associate with young dandies who like hounds and horses, and all that sort of thing. That set knew him very well, but of course no one else. He was at the Matlock races, and your uncle asked him to Bartram–Haugh; and the creature, Jew or Gentile, or whatever he was, fancied there was more honour than, perhaps, there really was in a visit to Bartram–Haugh.”
“For the kind of person you describe, it was, I think, a rather unusual honour to be invited to stay in the house of a man of Uncle Ruthyn’s birth.”
“Well, so it was perhaps; for though they knew him very well on the course, and would ask him to their tavern49 dinners, they would not, of course, admit him to the houses where ladies were. But Silas’s wife was not much regarded at Bartram–Haugh. Indeed, she was very little seen, for she was every evening tipsy in her bedroom, poor woman!”
“How miserable!” I exclaimed.
“I don’t think it troubled Silas very much, for she drank gin, they said, poor thing, and the expense was not much; and, on the whole, I really think he was glad she drank, for it kept her out of his way, and was likely to kill her. At this time your poor father, who was thoroughly50 disgusted at his marriage, had stopped the supplies, you know, and Silas was very poor, and as hungry as a hawk51, and they said he pounced52 upon this rich London gamester, intending to win his money. I am telling you know all that was said afterwards. The races lasted I forget how many days, and Mr. Clarke stayed at Bartram–Haugh all this time and for some days after. It was thought that poor Austin would pay all Silas’s gambling53 debts, and so this wretched Mr. Clarke made heavy wagers54 with him on the races, and they played very deep, besides, at Bartram. He and Silas used to sit out afterwards, for there was an inquest, you know, and then Silas published what he called his “statement,” and there was a great deal of most distressing55 correspondence in the newspapers.”
“And why did Mr. Clarke kill himself?” I asked.
“Well, I will tell you first what all are agreed about. The second night after the races, your uncle and Mr. Clarke sat up till between two and three o’clock in the morning, quite by themselves, in the parlour, Mr. Clarke’s servant was at the Stag’s Head Inn at Feltram, and therefore could throw no light upon what occurred at night at Bartram–Haugh; but he was there at six o’clock in the morning, and very early at his master’s door by his direction. He had locked it, as was his habit, upon the inside, and the key was in the lock, which turned out afterwards a very important point. On knocking he found that he could not awaken56 his master, because, as it appeared when the door was forced open, his master was lying dead at his bedside, not in a pool, but a perfect pond of blood, as they described it, with his throat cut.”
“How horrible!” cried I.
“So it was. Your uncle Silas was called up, and greatly shocked of course, and he did what I believe was best. He had everything left as nearly as possible in the exact state in which it had been found, and he sent his own servant forthwith for the coroner, and, being himself a justice of the peace, he took the depositions57 of Mr. Clarke’s servant while all the incidents were still fresh in his memory.”
“Could anything be more straightforward58, more right and wise?” I said.
“Oh, nothing of course,” answered Lady Knollys, I thought a little drily.
点击
收听单词发音
收听单词发音 |
1
phantom
|
|
| n.幻影，虚位，幽灵；adj.错觉的，幻影的，幽灵的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
2
martyr
|
|
| n.烈士，殉难者；vt.杀害，折磨，牺牲 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
3
demon
|
|
| n.魔鬼，恶魔 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
4
shutters
|
|
| 百叶窗( shutter的名词复数 )； （照相机的）快门 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
5
vault
|
|
| n.拱形圆顶，地窖，地下室 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
6
solitary
|
|
| adj.孤独的，独立的，荒凉的；n.隐士 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
7
remains
|
|
| n.剩余物，残留物；遗体，遗迹 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
8
mere
|
|
| adj.纯粹的；仅仅，只不过 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
9
Forsaken
|
|
| adj. 被遗忘的, 被抛弃的 动词forsake的过去分词 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
10
din
|
|
| n.喧闹声，嘈杂声 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
11
swelling
|
|
| n.肿胀 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
12
pealing
|
|
| v.（使）（钟等）鸣响，（雷等）发出隆隆声( peal的现在分词 ) | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
13
solitude
|
|
| n. 孤独; 独居,荒僻之地,幽静的地方 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
14
habitually
|
|
| ad.习惯地，通常地 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
15
vessel
|
|
| n.船舶；容器，器皿；管，导管，血管 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
16
speculations
|
|
| n.投机买卖( speculation的名词复数 )；思考；投机活动；推断 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
17
astounding
|
|
| adj.使人震惊的vt.使震惊，使大吃一惊astound的现在分词) | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
18
harry
|
|
| vt.掠夺，蹂躏，使苦恼 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
19
helping
|
|
| n.食物的一份&adj.帮助人的，辅助的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
20
extravagant
|
|
| adj.奢侈的；过分的；(言行等)放肆的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
21
utterly
|
|
| adv.完全地，绝对地 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
22
uncommon
|
|
| adj.罕见的，非凡的，不平常的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
23
refinement
|
|
| n.文雅；高尚；精美；精制；精炼 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
24
curiously
|
|
| adv.有求知欲地；好问地；奇特地 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
25
perfectly
|
|
| adv.完美地，无可非议地，彻底地 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
26
penchant
|
|
| n.爱好，嗜好；（强烈的）倾向 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
27
psychology
|
|
| n.心理，心理学，心理状态 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
28
honeymoon
|
|
| n.蜜月（假期）；vi.度蜜月 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
29
noose
|
|
| n.绳套，绞索（刑）；v.用套索捉；使落入圈套；处以绞刑 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
30
jealousy
|
|
| n.妒忌，嫉妒，猜忌 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
31
brutal
|
|
| adj.残忍的，野蛮的，不讲理的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
32
horrid
|
|
| adj.可怕的；令人惊恐的；恐怖的；极讨厌的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
33
odious
|
|
| adj.可憎的，讨厌的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
34
acquiesced
|
|
| v.默认，默许( acquiesce的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
35
bellowed
|
|
| v.发出吼叫声，咆哮（尤指因痛苦）( bellow的过去式和过去分词 )；（愤怒地）说出（某事），大叫 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
36
hooted
|
|
| （使）作汽笛声响，作汽车喇叭声( hoot的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
37
insinuated
|
|
| v.暗示( insinuate的过去式和过去分词 )；巧妙或迂回地潜入；（使）缓慢进入；慢慢伸入 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
38
haughty
|
|
| adj.傲慢的，高傲的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
39
momentary
|
|
| adj.片刻的，瞬息的；短暂的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
40
vexed
|
|
| adj.争论不休的；（指问题等）棘手的；争论不休的问题；烦恼的v.使烦恼( vex的过去式和过去分词 )；使苦恼；使生气；详细讨论 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
41
slander
|
|
| n./v.诽谤，污蔑 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
42
misery
|
|
| n.痛苦，苦恼，苦难；悲惨的境遇，贫苦 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
43
miserable
|
|
| adj.悲惨的，痛苦的；可怜的，糟糕的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
44
injustice
|
|
| n.非正义，不公正，不公平，侵犯（别人的）权利 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
45
consigned
|
|
| v.把…置于（令人不快的境地）( consign的过去式和过去分词 )；把…托付给；把…托人代售；丟弃 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
46
perishable
|
|
| adj.（尤指食物）易腐的，易坏的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
47
recollect
|
|
| v.回忆，想起，记起，忆起，记得 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
48
vices
|
|
| 缺陷( vice的名词复数 )； 恶习； 不道德行为； 台钳 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
49
tavern
|
|
| n.小旅馆，客栈；小酒店 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
50
thoroughly
|
|
| adv.完全地，彻底地，十足地 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
51
hawk
|
|
| n.鹰，骗子；鹰派成员 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
52
pounced
|
|
| v.突然袭击( pounce的过去式和过去分词 )；猛扑；一眼看出；抓住机会（进行抨击） | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
53
gambling
|
|
| n.赌博；投机 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
54
wagers
|
|
| n.赌注，用钱打赌( wager的名词复数 )v.在（某物）上赌钱，打赌( wager的第三人称单数 )；保证，担保 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
55
distressing
|
|
| a.使人痛苦的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
56
awaken
|
|
| vi.醒，觉醒；vt.唤醒，使觉醒，唤起，激起 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
57
depositions
|
|
| 沉积（物）( deposition的名词复数 )； （在法庭上的）宣誓作证； 处置； 罢免 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
58
straightforward
|
|
| adj.正直的，坦率的；易懂的，简单的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
| 欢迎访问英文小说网 |