I had received, about a month after my arrival, a copy of verses in the same hand, in a plaintive4 ballad5 style, of the soldierly sort, in which the writer said, that as living his sole object was to please me, so dying I should be his latest thought; and some more poetic6 impieties7, asking only in return that when the storm of battle had swept over, I should “shed a tear” on seeing “the oak lie, where it fell.” Of course, about this lugubrious8 pun, there could be no misconception. The Captain was unmistakably indicated; and I was so moved that I could no longer retain my secret; but walking with Milly that day, confided9 the little romance to that unsophisticated listener, under the chestnut10 trees. The lines were so amorously11 dejected, and yet so heroically redolent of blood and gunpowder12, that Milly and I agreed that the writer must be on the verge13 of a sanguinary campaign.
It was not easy to get at Uncle Silas’s “Times” or “Morning Post,” which we fancied would explain these horrible allusions14; but Milly bethought her of a sergeant15 in the militia16, resident in Feltram, who knew the destination and quarters of every regiment17 in the service; and circuitously18, from this authority, we learned, to my infinite relief, that Captain Oakley’s regiment had still two years to sojourn19 in England.
I was summoned one evening by old L’Amour, to my uncle’s room. I remember his appearance that evening so well, as he lay back in his chair; the pillow; the white glare of his strange eye; his feeble, painful smile.
“You’ll excuse my not rising, dear Maud, I am so miserably20 ill this evening.”
I expressed my respectful condolence.
“Yes; I am to be pitied; but pity is of no use, dear,” he murmured, peevishly21. “I sent for you to make you acquainted with your cousin, my son. Where are you Dudley?”
A figure seated in a low lounging chair, at the other side of the fire, and which till then I had not observed, at these words rose up a little slowly, like a man stiff after a day’s hunting; and I beheld22 with a shock that held my breath, and fixed23 y eyes upon him in a stare, the young man whom I had encountered at Church Scarsdale, on the day of my unpleasant excursion there with Madame, and who, to the best of my belief, was also one of that ruffianly party who had so unspeakably terrified me in the warren at Knowl.
I suppose I looked very much affrighted. If I had been looking at a ghost I could not have felt much more scared and incredulous.
When I was able to turn my eyes upon my uncle he was not looking at me; but with a glimmer24 of that smile with which a father looks on a son whose youth and comeliness25 he admires, his white face was turned towards the young man, in whom I beheld nothing but the image of odious26 and dreadful associations.
“Come, sir,” said my uncle, “we must not be too modest. Here’s your cousin Maud — what do you say?”
“How are ye, Miss?” he said, with a sheepish grin.
“Miss! Come, come. Miss us, no Misses,” said my uncle; “she is Maud, and you Dudley, or I mistake; or we shall have you calling Milly, madame. She’ll not refuse you her hand, I venture to think. Come, young gentleman, speak for yourself.”
“How are ye, Maud?” he said, doing his best, and drawing near, he extended his hand. “You’re welcome to Bartram–Haugh, Miss.”
“Kiss your cousin, sir. Where’s your gallantry? On my honour, I disown you,” exclaimed my uncle, with more energy than he had shown before.
With a clumsy effort, and a grin that was both sheepish and impudent27, he grasped my hand and advanced his face. The imminent28 salute29 gave me strength to spring back a step or two, and he hesitated.
My uncle laughed peevishly.
“Well, well, that will do, I suppose. In my time first-cousins did not meet like strangers; but perhaps we were wrong; we are learning modesty30 from the Americans, and old English ways are too gross for us.”
“I have — I’ve seen him before — that is;” and at this point I stopped.
My uncle turned his strange glare, in a sort of scowl31 of enquiry, upon me.
“Oh! — hey! why is this news. You never told me. Where have you met — eh, Dudley?”
“Never saw her in my days, so far as I’m aweer on,” said the young man.
“No! Well, then, Maud, will you enlighten us?” said Uncle Silas, coldly.
“I did see that young gentleman before,” I faltered32.
“Meaning me, ma’am?” he asked, coolly.
“Yes — certainly you. I did, uncle,” answered I.
“And where was it, my dear? Not at Knowl, I fancy. Poor dear Austin did not trouble me or mine much with his hospitalities.”
This was not a pleasant tone to take in speaking of his dead brother and benefactor33; but at the moment I was too much engaged upon one point to observe it.
“I met”— I could not say my cousin —“I met him, uncle — your son — that young gentleman — I saw him, I should say, at Church Scarsdale, and afterwards with some other persons in the warren at Knowl. It was the night our gamekeeper was beaten.”
“Well, Dudley, what do you say to that?” asked Uncle Silas.
“I never was at them places, so help me. I don’t know where they be; and I never set eyes on the young lady before, as I hope to be saved, in all my days,” said he, with a countenance34 so unchanged and an air so confident that I began to think I must be the dupe of one of those strange resemblances which have been known to lead to positive identification in the witness box, afterwards proved to be utterly35 mistaken.
“You look so — so uncomfortable, Maud, at the idea of having seen him before, that I hardly wonder at the vehemence36 of his denial. There was plainly something disagreeable; but you see as respects him it is a total mistake. My boy was always a truth-telling fellow — you may rely implicitly37 on what he says. You were not at those places?”
“I wish I may — — ” began the ingenuous38 youth, with increased vehemence.
“There, there — that will do; your honour and word as a gentleman — and that you are, though a poor one — will quite satisfy your cousin Maud. Am I right, my dear? I do assure you, as a gentleman, I never knew him to say the thing that was not.”
So Mr. Dudley Ruthyn began, not to curse, but to swear, in the prescribed form, that he had never seen me before, or the places I had named, “since I was weaned, by ——”
“That’s enough — now shake hands, if you won’t kiss, like cousins,” interrupted my uncle.
And very uncomfortably I did lend him my hand to shake.
“You’ll want some supper, Dudley, so Maud and I will excuse your going. Good-night, my dear boy,” and he smiled and waved him from the room.
“That’s as fine a young fellow, I think, as any English father can boast for his son — true, brave, and kind, and quite an Apollo. Did you observe how finely proportioned he is, and what exquisite39 features the fellow has? He’s rustic40 and rough, as you see; but a year or two in the militia — I’ve a promise of a commission for him — he’s too old for the line — will form and polish him. He wants nothing but manner; and I protest when he has had a little drilling of that kind, I do believe he’ll be as pretty a fellow as you’d find in England.”
I listened with amazement41. I could discover nothing but what was disagreeable in the horrid42 bumpkin, and thought such an instance of the blindness of parental43 partiality was hardly credible44.
I looked down, dreading45 another direct appeal to my judgment46; and Uncle Silas, I suppose, referred those downcast looks to maiden47 modesty, for he forbore to task mine by any new interrogatory.
Dudley Ruthyn’s cool and resolute48 denial of every having seen me or the places I had named, and the inflexible49 serenity50 of his countenance while doing so, did very much shake my confidence in my own identification of him. I could not be quite certain that the person I had seen at Church Scarsdale was the very same whom I afterwards saw at Knowl. And now, in this particular instance, after the lapse51 of a still longer period, could I be perfectly52 certain that my memory, deceived by some accidental points of resemblance, had not duped me, and wronged my cousin, Dudley Ruthyn?
I suppose my uncle had expected from me some signs of acquiescence53 in his splendid estimate of his cub54, and was nettled55 at my silence. After a short interval56 he said —
“I’ve seen something of the world in my day, and I can say without a misgiving57 of partiality, that Dudley is the material of a perfect English gentleman. I am not blind, of course — the training must be supplied; a year or two of good models, active self-criticism, and good society. I simply say that the material is there.”
Here was another interval of silence.
“And now tell me, child, what these recollections of Church — Church — what?”
“Church Scarsdale,” I replied.
“Yes, thank you — Church Scarsdale and Knowl — are?”
So I related my stories as well as I could.
“Well, dear Maud, the adventure of Church Scarsdale is hardly so terrific as I expected,” said Uncle Silas with a cold little laugh; “and I don’t see, if he had really been the hero of it, why he should shrink from avowing58 it. I know I should not. And I really can’t say that your pic-nic party in the grounds of Knowl has frightened me much more. A lady waiting in the carriage, and two or three tipsy young men. Her presence seems to me a guarantee that no mischief59 was meant; but champagne60 is the soul of frolic, and a row with the gamekeepers a natural consequence. I happened to me once — forty years ago, when I was a wild young buck61 — one of the worst rows I ever was in.”
And Uncle Silas poured some eau-de-cologne over the corner of his handkerchief and touched his temples with it.
“If my boy had been there, I do assure you — and I know him — he would say so at once. I fancy he would rather boast of it. I never knew him utter an untruth. When you know him a little you’ll say so.”
With these words Uncle Silas leaned back exhausted62, and languidly poured some of his favourite eau-de-cologne over the palms of his hands, nodded a farewell, and, in a whisper, wished me good-night.
“Dudley’s come,” whispered Milly, taking me under the arm as I entered the lobby. “But I don’t care: he never gives me nout; and he gets money from Governor, as much as he likes, and I never a sixpence. It’s a shame!”
So there was not great love between the only son and only daughter of the younger line of the Ruthyns.
I was curious to learn all that Milly could tell me of this new inmate63 of Bartram–Haugh; and Milly was communicative without having a great deal to relate, and what I heard form her tended to confirm my own disagreeable impressions about him. She was afraid of him. He was a “woundy ugly customer in a wax, she could tell me.” He was the only one “she ever knowed as had pluck to jaw64 the Governor.” But he was “afeard on the Governor, too.”
His visits to Bartram–Haugh, I heard, were desultory65; and this, to my relief, would probably not outlast66 a week or a fortnight. “He was such a fashionable cove:” he was always “a gadding67 about, mostly to Liverpool and Birmingham, and sometimes to Lunnun, itself.” He was “keeping company one time with Beauty, Governor thought, and he was awfully68 afraid he’d a married her; but that was all bosh and nonsense; and Beauty would have none of his chaff69 and wheedling70, for she liked Tom Brice;” and Milly thought that Dudley never “cared a crack of a whip for her.” He used to go to the Windmill to have “a smoke with Pegtop;” and he was a member of the Feltram Club, that met at the “Plume o’ Feathers.” He was “a rare good shot,” she heard; and “he was before the justices for poaching, but they could make nothing of it.” And the Governor said “it was all through spite of him — for they hate us for being better blood than they.” And “all but the squires71 and those upstart folk loves Dudley, he is so handsome and gay — though he be a bit cross at home.” And, “Governor says, he’ll be a Parliament man yet, spite o’ them all.”
Next morning, when our breakfast was nearly ended, Dudley tapped at the window with the end of his clay pipe — a “church-warden” Milly called it — just such a long curved pipe as Joe Willet is made to hold between his lips in those charming illustrations of “Barnaby Rudge”— which we all know so well — and lifting his “wide-awake” with a burlesque72 salutation, which, I suppose would have charmed the “Plume o’ Feathers,” he dropped, kicked and caught his “wide-awake,” with an agility73 and gravity, as he replaced it, so inexpressibly humorous, that Milly went of in a loud fit to laughter, with the ejaculation —
“Did you ever?”
It was odd how repulsively74 my confidence in my original identification always revived on unexpectedly seeing Dudley after an interval.
I could perceive that this piece of comic by-play was meant to make a suitable impression on me. I received it, however, with a killing75 gravity; and after a word or two to Milly, he lounged away, having first broken his pipe, bit by bit, into pieces, which he balanced in turn on his nose and on his chin, from which features he jerked them into his mouth, with a precision which, along with his excellent pantomime of eating them, highly excited Milly’s mirth and admiration76.
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收听单词发音
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1
ponies
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| 矮种马，小型马( pony的名词复数 )； ￡25 25 英镑 | |
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complimentary
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| adj.赠送的，免费的，赞美的，恭维的 | |
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vapid
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| adj.无味的；无生气的 | |
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plaintive
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| adj.可怜的，伤心的 | |
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ballad
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| n.歌谣，民谣，流行爱情歌曲 | |
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poetic
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| adj.富有诗意的，有诗人气质的，善于抒情的 | |
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7
impieties
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| n.不敬( impiety的名词复数 )；不孝；不敬的行为；不孝的行为 | |
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8
lugubrious
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| adj.悲哀的，忧郁的 | |
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confided
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| v.吐露（秘密，心事等）( confide的过去式和过去分词 )；（向某人）吐露（隐私、秘密等） | |
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chestnut
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| n.栗树，栗子 | |
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amorously
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| adv.好色地，妖艳地；脉；脉脉；眽眽 | |
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gunpowder
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| n.火药 | |
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verge
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| n.边，边缘；v.接近，濒临 | |
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allusions
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| 暗指，间接提到( allusion的名词复数 ) | |
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sergeant
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| n.警官，中士 | |
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militia
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| n.民兵，民兵组织 | |
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regiment
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| n.团，多数，管理；v.组织，编成团，统制 | |
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circuitously
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| 曲折地 | |
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19
sojourn
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| v./n.旅居，寄居；逗留 | |
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20
miserably
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| adv.痛苦地；悲惨地；糟糕地；极度地 | |
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21
peevishly
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| adv．暴躁地 | |
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22
beheld
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| v.看，注视( behold的过去式和过去分词 )；瞧；看呀；（叙述中用于引出某人意外的出现）哎哟 | |
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23
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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24
glimmer
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| v.发出闪烁的微光；n.微光，微弱的闪光 | |
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25
comeliness
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| n. 清秀, 美丽, 合宜 | |
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26
odious
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| adj.可憎的，讨厌的 | |
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impudent
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| adj.鲁莽的，卑鄙的，厚颜无耻的 | |
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28
imminent
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| adj.即将发生的，临近的，逼近的 | |
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29
salute
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| vi.行礼，致意，问候，放礼炮；vt.向…致意，迎接，赞扬；n.招呼，敬礼，礼炮 | |
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30
modesty
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| n.谦逊，虚心，端庄，稳重，羞怯，朴素 | |
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31
scowl
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| vi.(at)生气地皱眉，沉下脸，怒视；n.怒容 | |
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32
faltered
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| （嗓音）颤抖( falter的过去式和过去分词 )； 支吾其词； 蹒跚； 摇晃 | |
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33
benefactor
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| n. 恩人，行善的人，捐助人 | |
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34
countenance
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| n.脸色，面容；面部表情；vt.支持，赞同 | |
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35
utterly
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| adv.完全地，绝对地 | |
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36
vehemence
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| n.热切；激烈；愤怒 | |
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37
implicitly
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| adv. 含蓄地, 暗中地, 毫不保留地 | |
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38
ingenuous
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| adj.纯朴的，单纯的；天真的；坦率的 | |
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39
exquisite
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| adj.精美的；敏锐的；剧烈的，感觉强烈的 | |
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40
rustic
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| adj.乡村的，有乡村特色的；n.乡下人，乡巴佬 | |
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41
amazement
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| n.惊奇，惊讶 | |
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42
horrid
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| adj.可怕的；令人惊恐的；恐怖的；极讨厌的 | |
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43
parental
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| adj.父母的；父的；母的 | |
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44
credible
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| adj.可信任的，可靠的 | |
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45
dreading
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| v.害怕，恐惧，担心( dread的现在分词 ) | |
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46
judgment
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| n.审判；判断力，识别力，看法，意见 | |
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47
maiden
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| n.少女，处女；adj.未婚的，纯洁的，无经验的 | |
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48
resolute
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| adj.坚决的，果敢的 | |
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49
inflexible
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| adj.不可改变的，不受影响的，不屈服的 | |
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50
serenity
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| n.宁静，沉着，晴朗 | |
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51
lapse
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| n.过失，流逝，失效，抛弃信仰，间隔；vi.堕落，停止，失效，流逝；vt.使失效 | |
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52
perfectly
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| adv.完美地，无可非议地，彻底地 | |
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53
acquiescence
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| n.默许；顺从 | |
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54
cub
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| n.幼兽，年轻无经验的人 | |
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55
nettled
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| v.拿荨麻打，拿荨麻刺（nettle的过去式与过去分词形式） | |
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56
interval
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| n.间隔，间距；幕间休息，中场休息 | |
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57
misgiving
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| n.疑虑，担忧，害怕 | |
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58
avowing
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| v.公开声明，承认( avow的现在分词 ) | |
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59
mischief
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| n.损害，伤害，危害；恶作剧，捣蛋，胡闹 | |
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60
champagne
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| n.香槟酒；微黄色 | |
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61
buck
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| n.雄鹿，雄兔；v.马离地跳跃 | |
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62
exhausted
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| adj.极其疲惫的，精疲力尽的 | |
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63
inmate
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| n.被收容者；(房屋等的)居住人；住院人 | |
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64
jaw
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| n.颚，颌，说教，流言蜚语；v.喋喋不休，教训 | |
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65
desultory
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| adj.散漫的，无方法的 | |
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66
outlast
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| v.较…耐久 | |
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67
gadding
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| n.叮搔症adj.蔓生的v.闲逛( gad的现在分词 )；游荡；找乐子；用铁棒刺 | |
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68
awfully
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| adv.可怕地，非常地，极端地 | |
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69
chaff
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| v.取笑，嘲笑；n.谷壳 | |
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70
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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71
squires
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| n.地主，乡绅( squire的名词复数 ) | |
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72
burlesque
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| v.嘲弄，戏仿；n.嘲弄，取笑，滑稽模仿 | |
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73
agility
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| n.敏捷，活泼 | |
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74
repulsively
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| adv.冷淡地 | |
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75
killing
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| n.巨额利润；突然赚大钱，发大财 | |
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admiration
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| n.钦佩，赞美，羡慕 | |
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