“Is he worse, Milly?” I enquired4, anxiously.
“No, nothing’s wrong wi’ him; he’s right well,” said Milly, fiercely.
“What’s the matter then, Milly dear?”
“The poisonous old witch! ’Twas just to tell the Gov’nor how I’d said ’twas Cormoran that came by the po’shay last night.”
“And who is Cormoran?” I enquired.
“Ay, thee it is; I’d like to tell, and you want to hear — and I just daren’t, for he’ll send me off right to a French school — hang it — hang them all! — if I do.”
“And why should Uncle Silas care?” said I, a good deal surprised.
“They’re a-tellin’ lies.”
“Who?” said I.
“L’Amour — that’s who. So soon as she made her complaint of me, the Gov’nor asked her, sharp enough, did anyone come last night, or a po’shay; and she was ready to swear there was no one. Are ye quite sure, Maud, you really did see aught, or ‘appen ’twas all a dream?”
“It was not dream, Milly; so sure as you are there, I saw exactly what I told you,” I replied.
“Gov’nor won’t believe it anyhow; and he’s right mad wi’ me; and the threatens me he’ll have me off to France; I wish ’twas under the sea. I hate France — I do — like the devil. Don’t you? They’re always a-threatening me wi’ France, if I dare say a word more about the po’shay, or — or anyone.”
I really was curious about Cormoran; but Cormoran was not to be defined to me by Milly; nor did she, in reality, know more than I respecting the arrival of the night before.
One day I was surprised to see Doctor Bryerly on the stairs. I was standing5 in a dark gallery as he walked across the floor of the lobby to my uncle’s door, his hat on, and some papers in his hand.
He did not see me; and when he had entered Uncle Silas’s door, I went down and found Milly awaiting me in the hall.
“So Doctor Bryerly is here,” I said.
“That’s the thin fellow, wi’ the sharp look, and the shiny black coat, that went up just now?” asked Milly.
“Yes, he’s gone into your papa’s room,” said I.
“‘Appen ’twas he come t’other night. He may be staying here, though we see him seldom, for it’s a barrack of a house — it is.”
The same thought had struck me for a moment, but was dismissed immediately. It certainly was not Doctor Bryerly’s figure which I had seen.
So, without any new light gathered from this apparition6, we went on our way, and made our little sketch7 of the ruined bridge. We found the gate locked as before; and, as Milly could not persuade me to climb it, we got round the paling by the river’s bank.
While at our drawing, we saw the swarthy face, sooty locks, and old weather-stained red coat of Zamiel, who was glowering8 malignly9 at us from among the trunks of the forest trees, and standing motionless as a monumental figure in the side aisle10 of a cathedral. When we looked again he was gone.
Although it was a fine mild day for the wintry season, we yet, cloaked as we were, could not pursue so still an occupation as sketching11 for more than ten or fifteen minutes. As we returned, in passing a clump12 of trees, we heard a sudden outbreak of voices, angry and expostulatory; and saw, under the trees, the savage13 old Zamiel strike his daughter with his stick two great blows, one of which was across the head. “Beauty” ran only a short distance away while the swart old wood-demon stumped14 hastily after her, cursing and brandishing15 his cudgel.
My blood boiled. I was so shocked that for a moment I could not speak; but in a moment more I screamed —
“You brute16! How dare you strike the poor girl?”
She had only run a few steps, and turned about confronting him and us, her eyes gleaming fire, her features pale and quivering to suppress a burst of weeping. Two little rivulets17 of blood were trickling18 over her temple.
“I say, fayther, look at that,” she said, with a strange tremulous smile, lifting her hand, which was smeared19 with blood.
Perhaps he was ashamed, and the more enraged20 on that account, for he growled22 another curse, and started afresh to reach her, whirling his stick in the air. Our voices, however, arrested him.
“My uncle shall hear of your brutality23. The poor girl!”
“Strike him, Meg, if he does it again; and pitch his leg into the river to-night, when he’s asleep.”
“I’d serve you the same;” and out came an oath. “You’d have her lick her fayther, would ye? Look out!”
And he wagged his head with a scowl24 at Milly, and a flourish of his cudgel.
“Be quiet, Milly,” I whispered, for Milly was preparing for battle; and I again addressed him with the assurance that, on reaching home, I would tell my uncle how he had treated the poor girl.
“’Tis you she may thank for’t, a wheedling25 o’ her to open that gate,” he snarled26.
“That’s a lie; we went round by the brook,” cried Milly.
I did not think proper to discuss the matter with him; and looking very angry, and, I thought, a little put out, he jerked and swayed himself out of sight. I merely repeated my promise of informing my uncle as he went, to which, over his shoulder, he bawled27 —
“Silas won’t mind ye that;” snapping his horny finger and thumb.
The girl remained where she had stood, wiping the blood off roughly with the palm of her hand, and looking at it before she rubbed it on her apron28.
“My poor girl,” I said, “you must not cry. I’ll speak to my uncle about you.”
But she was not crying. She raised her head, and looked at us a little askance, with a sullen29 contempt, I thought.
“And you must have these apples — won’t you?” We had brought in our basket two or three of those splendid apples for which Bartram was famous.
I hesitated to go near her, these Hawkeses, Beauty and Pegtop, were such savages30. So I rolled the apples gently along the ground to her feet.
She continued to look doggedly31 at us with the same expression, and kicked away the apples sullenly32 that approached her feet. Then, wiping her temple and forehead in her apron, without a word, she turned and walked slowly away.
“Poor thing! I’m afraid she leads a hard life. What strange, repulsive33 people they are!”
When we reached home, at the head of the great staircase old L’Amour was awaiting me; and with a courtesy, and very respectfully, she informed me that the Master would be happy to see me.
Could it be about my evidence as to the arrival of the mysterious chaise that he summoned me to this interview? Gentle as were his ways, there was something undefinable about Uncle Silas which inspired fear; and I should have liked few things less than meeting his gaze in the character of a culprit.
There was an uncertainty34, too, as to the state in which I might find him, and a positive horror of beholding35 him again in the condition in which I had last seen him.
I entered the room, then, in some trepidation36, but was instantly relieved. Uncle Silas was in the same health apparently37, and, as nearly as I could recollect38 it, in precisely39 the same rather handsome though negligent40 garb41 in which I had first seen him.
Doctor Bryerly — what a marked and vulgar contrast, and yet, somehow, how reassuring42! — sat at the table near him, and was tying up papers. His eyes watched me, I thought, with an anxious scrutiny43 as I approached; and I think it was not until I had saluted44 him that he recollected45 suddenly that he had not seen me before at Bartram, and stood up and greeted me in his usual abrupt46 and somewhat familiar way. It was vulgar and not cordial, and yet it was honest and indefinably kind.
Up rose my uncle, that strangely venerable, pale portrait, in his loose Rembrandt black velvet47. How gentle, how benignant, how unearthly, and inscrutable!
“I need not say how she is. Those lilies and roses, Doctor Bryerly, speak their own beautiful praises of the air of Bartram. I almost regret that her carriage will be home so soon. I only hope it may not abridge48 her rambles49. It positively50 does me good to look at her. It is the glow of flowers in winter, and the fragrance51 of a field which the Lord hath blessed.”
“Country air, Miss Ruthyn, is a right good kitchen to country fare. I like to see young women eat heartily52. You have had some pounds of beef and mutton since I saw you last,” said Dr. Bryerly.
And this sly speech made, he scrutinised my countenance53 in silence rather embarrassingly.
“My system, Doctor Bryerly, as a disciple54 of ?sculapius you will approve — health first, accomplishment55 afterwards. The Continent is the best field for elegant instruction, and we must see the world a little, by-and-by, Maud; and to me, if my health be spared, there would be an unspeakable though a melancholy57 charm in the scenes where so many happy, though so many wayward and foolish, young days were passed; and I think I should return to these picturesque58 solitudes59 with, perhaps, an increased relish61. You remember old Chaulieu’s sweet lines —
Désert, aimable solitude60,
Séjour du calme et de la paix,
Asile où n’entrèrent jamais
Le tumulte et l’inquiétude.
I can’t say that care and sorrow have not sometimes penetrated62 these sylvan63 fastnesses; but the tumults64 of the world, thank Heaven! — never.”
There was a sly scepticism, I thought, in Doctor Bryerly’s sharp face; and hardly waiting for the impressive “never,” he said —
“I forgot to ask, who is your banker?”
“Oh! Bartlet and Hall, Lombard Street,” answered Uncle Silas, dryly and shortly.
Dr. Bryerly made a note of it, with an expression of face which seemed, with a sly resolution, to say, “You shan’t come the anchorite over me.”
I saw Uncle Silas’s wild and piercing eye rest suspiciously on me for a moment, as if to ascertain65 whether I felt the spirit of Doctor Bryerly’s almost interruption; and, nearly at the same moment, stuffing his papers into his capacious coat pockets, Doctor Bryerly rose and took his leave.
When he was gone, I bethought be that now was a good opportunity of making my complaint of Dickon Hawkes. Uncle Silas having risen, I hesitated, and began,
“Uncle, may I mention an occurrence — which I witnessed?”
“Certainly, child,” he answered, fixing his eye sharply on me. I really think he fancied that the conversation was about to turn upon the phantom66 chaise.
So I described the scene which had shocked Milly and me, an hour or so ago, in the Windmill Wood.
“You see, my dear child, they are rough persons; their ideas are not ours; their young people must be chastised67, and in a way and to a degree that we would look upon in a serious light. I’ve found it a bad plan interfering68 in strictly69 domestic misunderstandings, and should rather not.”
“But he struck her violently on the head, uncle, with a heavy cudgel, and she was bleeding very fast.”
“Ah?” said my uncle, dryly.
“And only that Milly and I deterred70 him by saying that we would certainly tell you, he would have struck her again; and I really think if he goes on treating her with so much violence and cruelty he may injure her seriously, or perhaps kill her.”
“Why, you romantic little child, people in that rank of life think absolutely nothing of a broken head,” answered Uncle Silas, in the same way.
“But is it not horrible brutality, uncle?”
“To be sure it is brutality; but then you must remember they are brutes71, and it suits them,” said he.
I was disappointed. I had fancied that Uncle Silas’s gentle nature would have recoiled72 from such an outrage73 with horror and indignation; and instead, here he was, the apologist of that savage ruffian, Dickon Hawkes.
“And he is always so rude and impertinent to Milly and to me,” I continued.
“Oh! impertinent to you — that’s another matter. I must see to that. Nothing more, my child?”
“Well, there was nothing more.”
“He’s a useful servant, Hawkes; and though his looks are not prepossessing, and his ways and language rough, yet he is a very kind father, and a most honest man — a thoroughly74 moral man, though severe — a very rough diamond though, and has no idea of the refinements75 of polite society. I venture to say he honestly believes that he has been always unexceptionably polite to you, so we must make allowances.”
And Uncle Silas smoothed my hair with his thin aged21 hand, and kissed my forehead.
“Yes, we must make allowances; we must be kind. What says the Book? —‘Judge not, that ye be not judged.’ Your dear father aced76 upon that maxim77 — so noble and so awful — and I strive to do so. Alas78! dear Austin, longo intervallo, far behind! and you are removed — my example and my help; you are gone to your rest, and I remain beneath my burden, still marching on by bleak79 and alpine80 paths, under the awful night.
O nuit nuit douloureuse! O toi, tardive aurore!
Viens-tu? vas-tu venir? es-tu bien loin encore?
And repeating these lines of Chenier, with upturned eyes, and one hand lifted, and an indescribable expression of grief and fatigue81, he sank stiffly into his chair, and remained mute, with eyes closed for some time. Then applying his scented82 handkerchief to them hastily, and looking very kindly83 at me, he said —
“Anything more, dear child?”
“Nothing, uncle, thank you, very much, only about that man, Hawkes; I dare say that he does not mean to be so uncivil as he is, but I am really afraid of him, and he makes our walks in that direction quite unpleasant.”
“I understand quite, my dear, I will see to it; and you must remember that nothing is to be allowed to vex84 my beloved niece and ward56 during her stay at Bartram — nothing that her old kinsman85, Silas Ruthyn, can remedy.
So with a tender smile, and a charge to shut the door “perfectly, but without clapping it,” he dismissed me.
Doctor Bryerly had not slept at Bartram, but at the little inn in Feltram, and he was going direct to London, as I afterwards learned.
“Your ugly doctor’s gone away in a fly,” said Milly, as we met on the stairs, she running up, I down.
On reaching the little apartment which was our sitting-room86, however, I found that she was mistaken; for Doctor Bryerly, with his hat and a great pair of woollen gloves on, and an old Oxford87 grey surtout that showed his lank88 length to advantage, buttoned all the way up to his chin, had set down his black leather bag on the table, and was reading at the window a little volume which I had borrowed from my uncle’s library.
It was Swedenborg’s account of the other worlds, Heaven and Hell.
He closed it on his finger as I entered, and without recollecting89 to remove his hat, he made a step or two towards me with his splay, creaking boots. With a quick glance at the door, he said —
“Glad to see you alone for a minute — very glad.”
But his countenance, on the contrary, looked very anxious.
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收听单词发音
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1
swollen
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| adj.肿大的，水涨的；v.使变大，肿胀 | |
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sniffing
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| n.探查法v.以鼻吸气，嗅，闻( sniff的现在分词 )；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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sobbing
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| <主方>Ⅰ adj.湿透的 | |
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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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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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apparition
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| n.幽灵，神奇的现象 | |
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sketch
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| n.草图；梗概；素描；v.素描；概述 | |
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glowering
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| v.怒视( glower的现在分词 ) | |
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malignly
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| 污蔑，诽谤； 中伤，说坏话 | |
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aisle
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| n.（教堂、教室、戏院等里的）过道，通道 | |
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sketching
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| n.草图 | |
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clump
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| n.树丛，草丛；vi.用沉重的脚步行走 | |
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savage
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| adj.野蛮的；凶恶的，残暴的；n.未开化的人 | |
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14
stumped
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| 僵直地行走，跺步行走( stump的过去式和过去分词 )； 把（某人）难住； 使为难； （选举前）在某一地区作政治性巡回演说 | |
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brandishing
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| v.挥舞( brandish的现在分词 )；炫耀 | |
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brute
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| n.野兽，兽性 | |
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rivulets
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| n.小河，小溪( rivulet的名词复数 ) | |
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trickling
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| n.油画底色含油太多而成泡沫状突起v.滴( trickle的现在分词 )；淌；使)慢慢走；缓慢移动 | |
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smeared
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| 弄脏； 玷污； 涂抹； 擦上 | |
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enraged
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| 使暴怒( enrage的过去式和过去分词 )； 歜； 激愤 | |
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aged
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| adj.年老的，陈年的 | |
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growled
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| v.（动物）发狺狺声， （雷）作隆隆声( growl的过去式和过去分词 )；低声咆哮着说 | |
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brutality
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| n.野蛮的行为，残忍，野蛮 | |
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scowl
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| vi.(at)生气地皱眉，沉下脸，怒视；n.怒容 | |
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wheedling
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| v.骗取（某物），哄骗（某人干某事）( wheedle的现在分词 ) | |
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snarled
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| v.（指狗）吠，嗥叫， （人）咆哮( snarl的过去式和过去分词 )；咆哮着说，厉声地说 | |
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27
bawled
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| v.大叫，大喊( bawl的过去式和过去分词 )；放声大哭；大声叫出；叫卖（货物） | |
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apron
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| n.围裙；工作裙 | |
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sullen
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| adj.愠怒的，闷闷不乐的，(天气等)阴沉的 | |
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savages
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| 未开化的人，野蛮人( savage的名词复数 ) | |
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doggedly
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| adv.顽强地，固执地 | |
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sullenly
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| 不高兴地，绷着脸，忧郁地 | |
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repulsive
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| adj.排斥的，使人反感的 | |
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uncertainty
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| n.易变，靠不住，不确知，不确定的事物 | |
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beholding
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| v.看，注视( behold的现在分词 )；瞧；看呀；（叙述中用于引出某人意外的出现）哎哟 | |
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trepidation
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| n.惊恐，惶恐 | |
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apparently
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| adv.显然地；表面上，似乎 | |
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recollect
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| v.回忆，想起，记起，忆起，记得 | |
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precisely
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| adv.恰好，正好，精确地，细致地 | |
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negligent
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| adj.疏忽的；玩忽的；粗心大意的 | |
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garb
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| n.服装，装束 | |
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reassuring
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| a.使人消除恐惧和疑虑的，使人放心的 | |
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scrutiny
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| n.详细检查，仔细观察 | |
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saluted
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| v.欢迎，致敬( salute的过去式和过去分词 )；赞扬，赞颂 | |
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45
recollected
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| adj.冷静的；镇定的；被回忆起的；沉思默想的v.记起，想起( recollect的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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46
abrupt
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| adj.突然的，意外的；唐突的，鲁莽的 | |
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47
velvet
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| n.丝绒，天鹅绒；adj.丝绒制的，柔软的 | |
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abridge
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| v.删减，删节，节略，缩短 | |
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rambles
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| （无目的地）漫游( ramble的第三人称单数 )； （喻）漫谈； 扯淡； 长篇大论 | |
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50
positively
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| adv.明确地，断然，坚决地；实在，确实 | |
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51
fragrance
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| n.芬芳，香味，香气 | |
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52
heartily
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| adv.衷心地，诚恳地，十分，很 | |
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53
countenance
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| n.脸色，面容；面部表情；vt.支持，赞同 | |
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54
disciple
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| n.信徒，门徒，追随者 | |
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accomplishment
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| n.完成，成就，（pl.）造诣，技能 | |
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56
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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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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picturesque
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| adj.美丽如画的，（语言）生动的，绘声绘色的 | |
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59
solitudes
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| n.独居( solitude的名词复数 )；孤独；荒僻的地方；人迹罕至的地方 | |
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60
solitude
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| n. 孤独; 独居,荒僻之地,幽静的地方 | |
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61
relish
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| n.滋味，享受，爱好，调味品；vt.加调味料，享受，品味；vi.有滋味 | |
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62
penetrated
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| adj. 击穿的，鞭辟入里的 动词penetrate的过去式和过去分词形式 | |
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sylvan
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| adj.森林的 | |
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tumults
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| 吵闹( tumult的名词复数 )； 喧哗； 激动的吵闹声； 心烦意乱 | |
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ascertain
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| vt.发现，确定，查明，弄清 | |
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phantom
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| n.幻影，虚位，幽灵；adj.错觉的，幻影的，幽灵的 | |
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chastised
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| v.严惩（某人）（尤指责打）( chastise的过去式 ) | |
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interfering
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| adj. 妨碍的 动词interfere的现在分词 | |
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69
strictly
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| adv.严厉地，严格地；严密地 | |
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deterred
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| v.阻止，制止( deter的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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71
brutes
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| 兽( brute的名词复数 )； 畜生； 残酷无情的人； 兽性 | |
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72
recoiled
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| v.畏缩( recoil的过去式和过去分词 )；退缩；报应；返回 | |
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outrage
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| n.暴行，侮辱，愤怒；vt.凌辱，激怒 | |
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thoroughly
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| adv.完全地，彻底地，十足地 | |
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75
refinements
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| n.（生活）风雅；精炼( refinement的名词复数 )；改良品；细微的改良；优雅或高贵的动作 | |
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aced
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| vt.发球得分（ace的过去式与过去分词形式） | |
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maxim
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| n.格言，箴言 | |
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alas
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| int.唉(表示悲伤、忧愁、恐惧等) | |
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bleak
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| adj.(天气)阴冷的；凄凉的；暗淡的 | |
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alpine
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| adj.高山的；n.高山植物 | |
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81
fatigue
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| n.疲劳，劳累 | |
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82
scented
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| adj.有香味的；洒香水的；有气味的v.嗅到(scent的过去分词) | |
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83
kindly
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| adj.和蔼的，温和的，爽快的；adv.温和地，亲切地 | |
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vex
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| vt.使烦恼，使苦恼 | |
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85
kinsman
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| n.男亲属 | |
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sitting-room
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| n.（BrE）客厅，起居室 | |
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Oxford
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| n.牛津（英国城市） | |
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lank
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| adj.瘦削的；稀疏的 | |
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recollecting
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| v.记起，想起( recollect的现在分词 ) | |
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