“I’m a bit that way, myself; and I think,” said poor Milly, making an effort, and growing very red; she quite lost her head at that point, and was incompetent5 to finish the sentiment she had prefaced.
“You think? Now, take my advice, and never wait to think my dear; talk first, and think afterwards, that is my way; though, indeed, I can’t say I ever think at all. It is a very cowardly habit. Our cold-blooded cousin Maud, there, thinks sometimes; but it is always such a failure that I forgive her. I wonder when your little pre-Adamite butler will return. He speaks the language of the Picts and Ancient Britons, I dare say, and your father requires a little time to translate him. And, Milly dear, I am very hungry, so I won’t wait for your butler, who would give me, I suppose, one of the cakes baked by King Alfred, and some Danish beer in a skull6; but I’ll ask you for a little of that nice bread and butter.”
With which accordingly Lady Knollys was quickly supplied; but it did not at all impede7 her utterance8.
“Do you think, girls, you could be ready to come away with me, if Silas takes leave, in an hour or two? I should so like to take you both home with me to Elverston.”
“How delightful9! you darling,” cried I, embracing and kissing her; “for my part, I should be ready in five minutes; what do you say, Milly?”
Poor Milly’s wardrobe, I am afraid, was more portable than handsome; and she looked horribly affrighted, and whispered in my ear —
“My best petticoat is away at the laundress; say in a week, Maud.”
“What does she say?” asked Lady Knollys.
“She fears she can’t be ready,” I answered, dejectedly.
“There’s a deal of my slops in the wash,” blurted10 out poor Milly, staring straight at Lady Knollys.
“In the name of wonder, what does my cousin mean?” asked Lady Knollys.
“Her things have not come home yet from the laundress,” I replied; and at this moment our wondrous11 old butler entered to announce to Lady Knollys that his master was ready to receive her, whenever she was disposed to favour him; and also to make polite apologies for his being compelled, by his state of health, to give her the trouble of ascending12 to his room.
So Cousin Monica was at the door in a moment, over her shoulder calling to us, “Come, girls.”
“Please, not yet, my lady — you alone; and he requests the young ladies will be in the way, as he will send for them presently.”
I began to admire poor “Giblets” as the wreck13 of a tolerably respectable servant.
“Very good; perhaps it is better we should kiss and be friends in private first,” said Cousin Knollys, laughing; and away she went under the guidance of the mummy.
I had an account of this tête-à-tête afterwards from Lady Knollys.
“When I saw him, my dear,” she said, “I could hardly believe my eyes; such white hair — such a white face — such mad eyes — such a death-like smile. When I saw him last, his hair was dark; he dressed himself like a modern Englishman; and he really preserved a likeness14 to the full-length portrait at Knowl, that you fell in love with, you know; but, angels and ministers of grace! such a spectre! I asked myself, is it necromancy15, or is it delirium16 tremens that has reduced him to this? And said he, with that odious17 smile, that made me fancy myself half insane —
“‘You see a change, Monica?’
“What a sweet, gentle, insufferable voice he has! Somebody once told me about the tone of a glass flute18 that made some people hysterical19 to listen to, and I was thinking of it all the time. There was always a peculiar20 quality to his voice.
“‘I do see a change, Silas,’ I said at last; ‘and, no doubt, so do you in me — a great change.’
“‘There has been time enough to work a greater than I observe in you since you last honoured me with a visit,’ said he.
“I think he was at his old sarcasms21, and means that I was the same impertinent minx he remembered long ago, uncorrected by time; and so I am, and he must not expect compliments from old Monica Knollys.
“‘It is a long time, Silas; but that, you know, is not my fault,’ said I.
“‘Not your fault, my dear — your instinct. We are all imitative creatures: the great people ostracised me, and the small ones followed. We are very like turkeys, we have so much good sense and so much generosity22. Fortune, in a freak, wounded my head, and the whole brood were upon me, pecking and gobbling, gobbling and pecking, and you among them, dear Monica. It wasn’t your fault only your instinct, so I quite forgive you; but no wonder the peckers wear better than the pecked. You are robust23; and I, what I am.’
“‘Now, Silas. I have not come here to quarrel. If we quarrel now, mind, we can never make it up — we are too old, so let us forget all we can, and try to forgive something; and if we can do neither, at all events let there be truce24 between us while I am here.’
“‘My personal wrongs I can quite forgive, and I do, Heaven knows, from my heart; but there are things which ought not to be forgiven. My children have been ruined by it. I may, by the mercy of Providence25, be set right in the world, and so soon as that time comes, I will remember, and I will act; but my children — you see that wretched girl, my daughter — education, society, all would come too late — my children have been ruined by it.’
“‘I have not done it; but I know what you mean,’ I said. ‘You menace litigation whenever you have the means; but you forget that Austin placed you under promise, when he gave you the use of this house and place, never to disturb my title to Elverston. So there is my answer, if you mean that.’
“‘I mean what I mean,’ he replied, with his old smile.
“‘You mean then,’ said I, ‘that for the pleasure of vexing27 me with litigation, you are willing to forfeit28 your tenure29 of this house and place.’
“‘Suppose I did mean precisely30 that, why should I forfeit anything? My beloved brother, by his will, has given me a right to the use of Bartram–Haugh for my life, and attached no absurd condition of the kind you fancy to his gift.’
“Silas was in one of his vicious old moods, and liked to menace me. His vindictiveness31 got the better of his craft; but he knows as well as I do that he never could succeed in disturbing the title of my poor dear Harry32 Knollys; and I was not at all alarmed by his threats; and I told him so, as coolly as I speak to you now.
“‘Well, Monica,’ he said, ‘I have weighed you in the balance, and you are not found wanting. For a moment the old man possessed33 me: the thought of my children, of past unkindness, and present affliction and disgrace, exasperated34 me, and I was mad. It was but for a moment — the galvanic spasm35 of a corpse36. Never was breast more dead than mine to the passions and ambitions of the world. They are not for white locks like these, nor for a man who, for a week in every month, lies in the gate of death. Will you shake hands? Here — I do strike a truce; and I do forget and forgive everything.’
“I don’t know what he meant by this scene. I have no idea whether he was acting37, or lost his head, or, in fact, why or how it occurred; but I am glad, darling, that, unlike myself, I was calm, and that a quarrel has not been forced upon me.”
When our turn came and we were summoned to the presence, Uncle Silas was quite as usual; but Cousin Monica’s heightened colour, and the flash of her eyes, showed plainly that something exciting and angry had occurred.
Uncle Silas commented in his own vein38 upon the effect of Bartram air and liberty, all he had to offer; and called on me to say how I liked them. And then he called Milly to him, kissed her tenderly, smiled sadly upon her, and turning to Cousin Monica, said —
“This is my daughter Milly — oh! she has been presented to you down-stairs, has she? You have, no doubt, been interested by her. As I told her cousin Maud, though I am not yet quite a Sir Tunbelly Clumsy, she is a very finished Miss Hoyden39. Are not you, my poor Milly? You owe your distinction, my dear, to that line of circumvallation which has, ever since your birth, intercepted40 all civilisation41 on its way to Bartram. You are much obliged, Milly, to everybody who, whether naturally or un-naturally, turned a sod in that invisible, but impenetrable work. For your accomplishments42 — rather singular that fashionable — you are indebted, in part to your cousin, Lady Knollys. Is not she, Monica? Thank her, Milly.”
“This is your truce, Silas,” said Lady Knollys, with a quiet sharpness. “I think, Silas Ruthyn, you want to provoke me to speak in a way before these young creatures which we should all regret.”
“So my badinage43 excites your temper, Monnie. Think how you would feel, then, if I had found you by the highway side, mangled44 by robbers, and set my foot upon your throat, and spat45 in your face. But — stop this. Why have I said this? simply to emphasize my forgiveness. See, girls, Lady Knollys and I, cousins long estranged46, forget and forgive the past, and join hands over its buried injuries.”
“Well, be it so; only let us have done with ironies47 and covert48 taunts49.”
And with these words their hands were joined; and Uncle Silas, after he had released hers, patted and fondled it with his, laughing icily and very low all the time.
“I wish so much, dear Monica,” he said, when this piece of silent by-play was over, “that I could ask you to stay to-night; but absolutely I have not a bed to offer, and even if I had, I fear my suit would hardly prevail.”
Then came Lady Knollys’ invitation for Milly and me. He was very much obliged; he smiled over it a great deal, meditating50. I thought he was puzzled; and amid his smiles, his wild eyes scanned Cousin Monica’s frank face once or twice suspiciously.
There was a difficulty — an undefined difficulty — about letting us go that day; but on a future one — soon — very soon — he would be most happy.
Well, there was an end of that little project, for to-day at least; and Cousin Monica was too well-bred to urge it beyond a certain point.
“Milly, my dear, will you put on your hat and show me the grounds about the house? May she, Silas? I should like to renew my acquaintance.”
“You’ll see them sadly neglected, Monnie. A poor man’s pleasure grounds must rely on Nature, and trust to her for effects. Where there is fine timber, however, and abundance of slope, and rock, and hollow, we sometimes gain in picturesqueness51 what we lose by neglect in luxury.”
Then, as Cousin Monica said she would cross the grounds by a path, and meet her carriage at a point to which we would accompany her, and so make her way home, she took leave of Uncle Silas; a ceremony whereat — without, I thought much Zeal52 at either side — a kiss took place.
“Now, girls!” said Cousin Knollys, when we were fairly in motion over the grass, “what do you say — will he let you come — yes or no? I can’t say, but I think, dear,”— this to Milly —“he ought to let you see a little more of the world than appears among the glens and bushes of Bartram. Very pretty they are, like yourself; but very wild, and very little seen. Where is your brother, Milly; is he not older than you?”
“I don’t know where; and he is older by six years and a bit.”
By-and-by, when Milly was gesticulating to frighten some herons by the river’s brink53 into the air, Cousin Monica said confidentially54 to me —
“He has run away, I’m told — I wish I could believe it — and enlisted55 in a regiment56 going to India, perhaps the best thing for him. Did you see him here before his judicious57 self-banishment?”
“No.”
“Well, I suppose you have had no loss. Doctor Bryerly says from all he can learn he is a very bad young man. And now tell me, dear, is Silas kind to you?”
“Yes, always gentle, just as you saw him to-day; but we don’t see a great deal of him — very little, in fact.”
“And how do you like your life and the people?” she asked.
“My life, very well; and the people, pretty well. There’s an old woman we don’t like, old Wyat, she is cross and mysterious and tells untruths; but I don’t think she is dishonest — so Mary Quince says — and that, you know, is a point; and there is a family, father and daughter, called Hawkes, who live in the Windmill Wood, who are perfect savages58, though my uncle says they don’t mean it; but they are very disagreeable, rude people; and except them we see very little of the servants or other people. But there has been a mysterious visit; some one came late at night, and remained for some days, though Milly and I never saw them, and Mary Quince saw a chaise at the side-door at two o’clock at night.”
Cousin Monica was so highly interested at this that she arrested her walk and stood facing me, with her hand on my arm, questioning and listening, and lost, as it seemed, in dismal59 conjecture60.
“It is not pleasant, you know,” I said.
“No, it is not pleasant,” said Lady Knollys, very gloomily.
And just then Milly joined us, shouting to us to look at the herons flying; so Cousin Monica did, and smiled and nodded in thanks to Milly, and was again silent and thoughtful as we walked on.
“You are to come to me, mind, both of you girls,” she said, abruptly61; “you shall. I’ll manage it.”
When silence returned, and Milly ran away once more to try whether the old grey trout62 was visible in the still water under the bridge, Cousin Monica said to me in a low tone, looking hard at me —
“You’ve not seen anything to frighten you, Maud? Don’t look so alarmed, dear,” she added with a little laugh, which was not very merry, however. “I don’t mean frighten in any awful sense — in fact, I did not mean frighten at all. I meant — I can’t exactly express it — anything to vex26, or make you uncomfortable; have you?”
“No, I can’t say I have, except that room in which Mr. Clarke was found dead.”
“Oh! you saw that, did you? — I should like to see it so much. Your bedroom is not near it?”
“Oh, no; on the floor beneath, and looking to the front. And Doctor Bryerly talked a little to me, and there seemed to be something on his mind more than he chose to tell me; so that for some time after I saw him I really was, as you say, frightened; but except that, I really have had no cause. And what was in your mind when you asked me?”
“Well, you know, Maud, you are afraid of ghosts, banditti, and everything; and I wished to know whether you were uncomfortable, and what your particular bogle was just now — that, I assure you, was all; and I know,” she continued, suddenly changing her light tone and manner for one of pointed63 entreaty64, “what Doctor Bryerly said; and I implore65 of you, Maud, to think of it seriously; and when you come to me, you shall do so with the intention of remaining at Elverston.”
“Now, Cousin Monica, is this fair? You and Doctor Bryerly both talk in the same awful way to me; and I assure you, you don’t know how nervous I am sometimes, and yet you won’t, either of you, say what you mean. Now, Monica, dear cousin, won’t you tell me?”
“You see, dear, it is so lonely; it’s a strange place, and he so odd. I don’t like the place, and I don’t like him. I’ve tried, but I can’t and I think I never shall. He may be a very — what was it that good little silly curate at Knowl used to call him? — a very advanced Christian66 — that is it, and I hope he is; but if he is only what he used to be, his utter seclusion67 from society removes the only check, except personal fear — and he never had much of that — upon a very bad man. And you must know, my dear Maud, what a prize you are, and what an immense trust it is.”
Suddenly Cousin Monica stopped short, and looked at me as if she had gone too far.
“But, you know, Silas may be very good now, although he was wild and selfish in his young days. Indeed I don’t know what to make of him; but I am sure when you have thought it over, you will agree with me and Doctor Bryerly, that you must not stay here.”
It was vain trying to induce my cousin to be more explicit68.
“I hope to see you at Elverston in a very few days. I will shame Silas in to letting you come. I don’t like his reluctance69.”
“But don’t you think he must know that Milly would require some little outfit70 before her visit?”
“Well, I can’t say. I hope that is all; but be it what it may, I’ll make him let you come, and immediately, too.”
After she had gone, I experienced a repetition of those undefined doubts which had tortured me for some time after my conversation with Dr. Bryerly. I had truly said, however, I was well enough contented71 with my mode of life here, for I had been trained at Knowl to a solitude72 very nearly as profound.
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1
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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saucy
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| adj.无礼的；俊俏的；活泼的 | |
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incorrigibly
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| adv.无法矫正地；屡教不改地；无可救药地；不能矫正地 | |
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4
affronted
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| adj.被侮辱的，被冒犯的v.勇敢地面对( affront的过去式和过去分词 )；相遇 | |
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incompetent
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| adj.无能力的，不能胜任的 | |
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skull
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| n.头骨；颅骨 | |
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impede
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| v.妨碍，阻碍，阻止 | |
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utterance
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| n.用言语表达，话语，言语 | |
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delightful
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| adj.令人高兴的，使人快乐的 | |
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blurted
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| v.突然说出，脱口而出( blurt的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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wondrous
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| adj.令人惊奇的，奇妙的；adv.惊人地；异乎寻常地；令人惊叹地 | |
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ascending
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| adj.上升的，向上的 | |
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wreck
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| n.失事，遇难；沉船；vt.(船等)失事，遇难 | |
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likeness
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| n.相像，相似（之处） | |
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necromancy
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| n.巫术；通灵术 | |
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delirium
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| n. 神智昏迷,说胡话;极度兴奋 | |
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odious
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| adj.可憎的，讨厌的 | |
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flute
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| n.长笛；v.吹笛 | |
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hysterical
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| adj.情绪异常激动的，歇斯底里般的 | |
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peculiar
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| adj.古怪的，异常的；特殊的，特有的 | |
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sarcasms
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| n.讥讽，讽刺，挖苦( sarcasm的名词复数 ) | |
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generosity
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| n.大度，慷慨，慷慨的行为 | |
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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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truce
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| n.休战，(争执，烦恼等的)缓和；v.以停战结束 | |
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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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vex
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| vt.使烦恼，使苦恼 | |
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vexing
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| adj.使人烦恼的，使人恼火的v.使烦恼( vex的现在分词 )；使苦恼；使生气；详细讨论 | |
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28
forfeit
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| vt.丧失；n.罚金，罚款，没收物 | |
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tenure
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| n.终身职位；任期；(土地)保有权，保有期 | |
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precisely
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| adv.恰好，正好，精确地，细致地 | |
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vindictiveness
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| 恶毒；怀恨在心 | |
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harry
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| vt.掠夺，蹂躏，使苦恼 | |
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possessed
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| adj.疯狂的；拥有的，占有的 | |
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exasperated
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| adj.恼怒的 | |
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spasm
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| n.痉挛，抽搐；一阵发作 | |
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corpse
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| n.尸体，死尸 | |
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acting
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| n.演戏，行为，假装；adj.代理的，临时的，演出用的 | |
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vein
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| n.血管，静脉；叶脉，纹理；情绪；vt.使成脉络 | |
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hoyden
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| n.野丫头，淘气姑娘 | |
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intercepted
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| 拦截( intercept的过去式和过去分词 )； 截住； 截击； 拦阻 | |
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civilisation
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| n.文明，文化，开化，教化 | |
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42
accomplishments
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| n.造诣；完成( accomplishment的名词复数 )；技能；成绩；成就 | |
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43
badinage
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| n.开玩笑，打趣 | |
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mangled
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| vt.乱砍（mangle的过去式与过去分词形式） | |
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spat
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| n.口角，掌击；v.发出呼噜呼噜声 | |
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46
estranged
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| adj.疏远的，分离的 | |
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ironies
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| n.反语( irony的名词复数 )；冷嘲；具有讽刺意味的事；嘲弄 | |
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48
covert
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| adj.隐藏的；暗地里的 | |
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49
taunts
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| 嘲弄的言语，嘲笑，奚落( taunt的名词复数 ) | |
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50
meditating
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| a.沉思的，冥想的 | |
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51
picturesqueness
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52
zeal
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| n.热心，热情，热忱 | |
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53
brink
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| n.(悬崖、河流等的)边缘，边沿 | |
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54
confidentially
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| ad.秘密地，悄悄地 | |
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55
enlisted
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| adj.应募入伍的v.（使）入伍， （使）参军( enlist的过去式和过去分词 )；获得（帮助或支持） | |
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56
regiment
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| n.团，多数，管理；v.组织，编成团，统制 | |
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57
judicious
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| adj.明智的，明断的，能作出明智决定的 | |
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58
savages
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| 未开化的人，野蛮人( savage的名词复数 ) | |
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dismal
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| adj.阴沉的，凄凉的，令人忧郁的，差劲的 | |
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60
conjecture
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| n./v.推测，猜测 | |
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61
abruptly
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| adv.突然地，出其不意地 | |
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62
trout
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| n.鳟鱼；鲑鱼(属) | |
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63
pointed
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| adj.尖的，直截了当的 | |
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entreaty
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| n.恳求，哀求 | |
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65
implore
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| vt.乞求，恳求，哀求 | |
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66
Christian
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| adj.基督教徒的；n.基督教徒 | |
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67
seclusion
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| n.隐遁，隔离 | |
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68
explicit
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| adj.详述的，明确的；坦率的；显然的 | |
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69
reluctance
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| n.厌恶，讨厌，勉强，不情愿 | |
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70
outfit
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| n.（为特殊用途的）全套装备，全套服装 | |
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contented
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| adj.满意的，安心的，知足的 | |
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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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