Still there remained my dear Cousin Monica, and my pleasant and trusted friend, Lord Ilbury; and in less than a week arrived an invitation from Lady Mary to the Grange, for me and Milly, to meet Lady Knollys. It was accompanied, she told me, by a note from Lord Ilbury to my uncle, supporting her request; and in the afternoon I received a message to attend my uncle in his room.
“An invitation from Lady Mary Carysbroke for you and Milly to meet Monica Knollys; have you received it?” asked my uncle, so soon as I was seated. Answered in the affirmative, he continued —
“Now, Maud Ruthyn, I expect the truth from you; I have been frank, so shall you. Have you ever heard me spoken ill of by Lady Knollys?”
I was quite taken aback.
I felt my cheeks flushing. I was returning his fierce cold gaze with a stupid stare, and remained dumb.
“Yes, Maud, you have.”
I looked down in silence.
“I know it; but it is right you should answer; have you or have you not?”
I had to clear my voice twice or thrice. There was a kind of spasm6 in my throat.
“I am trying to recollect,” I said at last.
“Do recollect,” he replied imperiously.
There was a little interval7 of silence. I would have given the world to be, on any conditions, anywhere else in the world.
“Surely, Maud, you don’t wish to deceive your guardian:? Come, the question is a plain one, and I know the truth already. I ask you again — have you ever heard me spoken ill of by Lady Knollys?”
“Lady Knollys,” I said, half articulately, “speaks very freely, and often half in jest; but,” I continued, observing something menacing in his face, “I have heard her express disapprobation of some things you have done.”
“Come, Maud,” he continued, in a stern, though still a low key, “did she not insinuate8 that charge — then, I suppose, in a state of incubation, the other day presented here full-fledged, with beak9 and claws, by that scheming apothecary10 — the statement that I was defrauding11 you by cutting down timber upon the grounds?”
“She certainly did mention the circumstance; but she also argued that it might have been through ignorance of the extent of your rights.”
“Come, come, Maud, you must not prevaricate12, girl. I will have it. Does she not habitually13 speak disparagingly14 of me, in your presence, and to you? Answer.”
I hung my head.
“Yes or no?”
“Well, perhaps so — yes,” I faltered15, and burst into tears.
“There, don’t cry; it may well shock you. Did she not, to your knowledge, say the same things in presence of my child Millicent? I know it, I repeat — there is no use in hesitating; and I command you to answer.”
Sobbing16, I told the truth.
“Now sit still, while I write my reply.”
He wrote, with the scowl18 and smile so painful to witness, as he looked down upon the paper, and then he placed the note before me.
“Read that, my dear.”
It began —
“MY DEAR LADY KNOLLYS— You have favoured me with a note, adding your request to that of Lord Ilbury, that I should permit my ward19 and my daughter to avail themselves of Lady Mary’s invitation. Being perfectly20 cognisant of the ill-feeling you have always and unaccountably cherished toward me, and also of the terms in which you have had the delicacy21 and the conscience to speak of me before and to my child and my ward, I can only express my amazement22 at the modesty23 of your request, while peremptorily24 refusing it. And I shall conscientiously25 adopt effectual measures to prevent your ever again having an opportunity of endeavouring to destroy my influence and authority over my ward and my child, by direct or insinuated26 slander27.
“Your defamed and injured kinsman28,
SILAS RUTHYN.”
I was stunned29; yet what could I plead against the blow that was to isolate30 me? I wept aloud, with my hands clasped, looking on the marble face of the old man.
Without seeming to hear, he folded and sealed his note, and then proceeded to answer Lord Ilbury.
When that note was written, he placed it likewise before me, and I read it also through. It simply referred him to Lady Knollys “for an explanation of the unhappy circumstances which compelled him to decline an invitation which it would have made his niece and his daughter so happy to accept.”
“You see, my dear Maud, how frank I am with you,” he said, waving the open note, which I had just read, slightly before he folded it. “I think I may ask you to reciprocate31 my candour.”
Dismissed from this interview, I ran to Milly, who burst into tears from sheer disappointment, so we wept and wailed32 together. But in my grief I think there was more reason.
I sat down to the dismal33 task of writing to my dear Lady Knollys. I implored34 her to make her peace with my uncle. I told her how frank he had been with me, and how he had shown me his sad reply to her letter. I told her of the interview to which he had himself invited me with Dr. Bryerly; how little disturbed he was by the accusation35 — no sign of guilt36; quite the contrary, perfect confidence. I implored her to think the best, and remembering my isolation37, to accomplish a reconciliation38 with Uncle Silas. “Only think,” I wrote, “I only nineteen, and two years of solitude39 before me. What a separation!” No broken merchant ever signed the schedule of his bankruptcy40 with a heavier heart than did I this letter.
The griefs of youth are like the wounds of the gods — there is an ichor which heals the scars from which it flows: and thus Milly and I consoled ourselves, and next day enjoyed our ramble41, our talk and readings, with a wonderful resignation to the inevitable42.
Milly and I stood in the relation of Lord Duberly to Doctor Pengloss. I was to mend her “cackleology,” and the occupation amused us both. I think at the bottom of our submission43 to destiny lurked44 a hope that Uncle Silas, the inexorable, would relent, or that Cousin Monica, that siren, would win and melt him to her purpose.
Whatever comfort, however, I derived45 from the absence of Dudley was not to be of very long duration; for one morning as I was amusing myself alone, with a piece of worsted work, thinking, and just at that moment not unpleasantly, of many things, my cousin Dudley entered the room.
“Back again, like a bad halfpenny, ye see. And how a’ ye bin17 ever since, lass? Purely46, I warrant, be your looks. I’m jolly glad to see ye, I am; no cattle going like ye, Maud.”
“I think I must ask you to let go of my hand, as I can’t continue my work,” I said, very stiffly, hoping to chill his enthusiasm a little.
“Anything to pleasure ye, Maud, ‘tain’t in my heart to refuse ye nout. I a’bin to Wolverhampton, lass — jolly row there — and run over to Leamington; a’most broke my neck, faith, wi’ a borrowed horse arter the dogs; ye would no care, Maud, if I broke my neck, would ye? Well, ‘appen, jest a llittle,” he good-naturedly supplied, as I was silent.
“Little over a week since I left here, by George; and to me it’s half the almanac like; can ye guess the reason, Maud?”
“Have you seen your sister, Milly, or your father, since your return?” I asked coldly.
“They’ll keep, Maud, never mind ’em; it be you I want to see — it be you I wor thinkin’ on a’ the time. I tell ye, lass, I’m all’ays a thinkin’ on ye.”
“I think you ought to go and see your father; you have been away, you say, some time. I don’t think it is respectful,” I said, a little sharply.
“If ye bid me go I’d a’most go, but I could na quite; thee’s nout on earth I would na do for you, Maud, excep’ leaving you.”
“And that,” I said, with a petulant47 finish, “is the only thing on earth I would ask you to do.”
“Blessed if you baint a blushin’, Maud,” he drawled, with an odious48 grin.
His stupidity was proof against anything.
“It is too bad!” I muttered, with an indignant little pat of my foot and mimic49 stamp.
“Well, you lasses be queer cattle; ye’re angry wi’ me now, cos ye think I got into mischief50 — ye do, Maud; ye know’t, ye buxsom little fool, down there at Wolverhampton; and jest for that ye’re ready to turn me off again the minute I come back; ‘tisn’t fair.”
“I don’t understand you, sir; and I beg that you’ll leave me.”
“Now, didn’t I tell ye about leavin’ ye, Maud? ’tis the only think I can’t compass for yer sake. I’m jest a child in yere hands, I am, ye know. I can lick a big fellah to pot as limp as a rag, by George!”—(his oaths were not really so mild)—“ye see summat o’ that t’other day. Well, don’t be vexed51, Maud; ’twas all along o’ you; ye know, I wor a big jealous, ‘appen; but anyhow I can do it; and look at me here, jest a child, I say, in yer hands.”
“I wish you’d go away. Have you nothing to do, and no one to see? Why can’t you leave me alone, sir?”
“‘Cos I can’t, Maud, that’s jest why; and I wonder, Maud, how can you be so ill-natured, when you see me like this; how can ye?”
“I wish Milly would come,” said I peevishly53, looking toward the door.
“Well, I’ll tell you how it is, Maud, I may as well have it out. I like you better than any lass that ever I saw, a deal; you’re nicer by chalks; there’s none like ye — there isn’t; and I wish you’d have me. I ha’n’t much tin — father’s run through a deal, he’s pretty well up a tree, ye know; but though I baint so rich as some folk, I’m a better man, ‘appen; and if ye’d take a tidy lad, that likes ye awful, and ‘id die for your sake, why here he is.”
“What can you mean, sir?” I exclaimed, rising in indignant bewilderment.
“I mean, Maud, if ye’ll marry me, you’ll never ha’ cause to complain; I’ll never let ye want for nout, nor gi’e ye a wry54 word.”
“Actually a proposal!” I ejaculated, like a person speaking in a dream.
I stood with my hand on the back of a chair, staring at Dudley; and looking, I dare say, as stupefied as I felt.
“There’s a good lass, ye would na deny me,” said the odious creature, with one knee on the seat of the chair behind which I was standing3, and attempting to place his arm lovingly round my neck.
This effectually roused me, and starting back, I stamped upon the ground with actual fury.
“What has there ever been, sir, in my conduct, words, or looks, to warrant this unparalleled audacity55? But that you are as stupid as you are impertinent, brutal56, and ugly, you must,, long ago, sir, have seen how I dislike you. How dare you, sir? Don’t presume to obstruct57 me; I’m going to my uncle.”
I had never spoken so violently to mortal before.
He in turn looked a little confounded; and I passed his extended but motionless arm with a quick and angry step.
He followed me a pace or two, however, before I reached the door, looking horridly58 angry, but stopped, and only swore after me some of those “wry words” which I was never to have heard. I was myself, however, too much incensed59, and moving at too rapid a pace, to catch their import; and I had knocked at my uncle’s door before I began to collect my thoughts.
“Come in,” replied my uncle’s voice, clear, thin, and peevish52.
I entered and confronted him.
“Your son, sir, has insulted me.”
He looked at me with a cold curiosity steadily60 for a few seconds, as I stood panting before him with flaming cheeks.
“Insulted you?” repeated he. “Egad, you surprise me!”
The ejaculation savoured of “the old man,” to borrow his scriptural phrase, more than anything I had heard form him before.
“How?” he continued; “how has Dudley insulted you, my dear child? Come, you’re excited; sit down; take time, and tell me all about it. I did not know that Dudley was here.”
“I— he — it is an insult. He knew very well — he must know I dislike him; and he presumed to make a proposal of marriage to me.”
“O— o — oh!” exclaimed my uncle, with a prolonged intonation61 which plainly said, Is that the mighty62 matter?
He looked at me as he leaned back with the same steady curiosity, this time smiling, which somehow frightened me, and his countenance63 looked to me wicked, like the face of a witch, with a guilt I could not understand.
“And that is the amount of your complaint. He made you a formal proposal of marriage!”
“Yes; he proposed for me.”
As I cooled, I began to feel just a very little disconcerted, and a suspicion was troubling me that possibly an indifferent person might think that, having no more to complain of, my language was perhaps a little exaggerated, and my demeanour a little too tempestuous64.
My uncle, I dare say, saw some symptoms of this misgiving65, for, smiling still, he said —
“My dear Maud, however just, you appear to me a little cruel; you don’t seem to remember how much you are yourself to blame; you have one faithful friend at least, whom I advise your consulting — I mean your looking-glass. The foolish fellow is young, quite ignorant of the world’s ways. He is in love — desperately66 enamoured.
Aimer c’est craindre, et craindre c’est souffrir.
And suffering prompts to desperate remedies. We must not be too hard on a rough but romantic young fool, who talks according to his folly67 and his pain.”
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1
malady
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| n.病，疾病(通常做比喻) | |
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laconic
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| adj.简洁的；精练的 | |
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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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sarcastic
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| adj.讥讽的，讽刺的，嘲弄的 | |
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disappearance
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| n.消失，消散，失踪 | |
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spasm
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| n.痉挛，抽搐；一阵发作 | |
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interval
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| n.间隔，间距；幕间休息，中场休息 | |
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insinuate
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| vt.含沙射影地说，暗示 | |
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beak
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| n.鸟嘴，茶壶嘴，钩形鼻 | |
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apothecary
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| n.药剂师 | |
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defrauding
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| v.诈取，骗取( defraud的现在分词 ) | |
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prevaricate
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| v.支吾其词；说谎；n.推诿的人；撒谎的人 | |
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habitually
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| ad.习惯地，通常地 | |
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disparagingly
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| adv.以贬抑的口吻，以轻视的态度 | |
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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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sobbing
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| <主方>Ⅰ adj.湿透的 | |
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17
bin
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| n.箱柜；vt.放入箱内；[计算机] DOS文件名:二进制目标文件 | |
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18
scowl
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| vi.(at)生气地皱眉，沉下脸，怒视；n.怒容 | |
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ward
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| n.守卫，监护，病房，行政区，由监护人或法院保护的人（尤指儿童）；vt.守护，躲开 | |
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perfectly
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| adv.完美地，无可非议地，彻底地 | |
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delicacy
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| n.精致，细微，微妙，精良；美味，佳肴 | |
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amazement
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| n.惊奇，惊讶 | |
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modesty
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| n.谦逊，虚心，端庄，稳重，羞怯，朴素 | |
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peremptorily
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| adv.紧急地，不容分说地，专横地 | |
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conscientiously
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| adv.凭良心地；认真地，负责尽职地；老老实实 | |
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insinuated
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| 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 | |
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slander
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| n./v.诽谤，污蔑 | |
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kinsman
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| n.男亲属 | |
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stunned
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| adj. 震惊的，惊讶的 动词stun的过去式和过去分词 | |
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isolate
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| vt.使孤立，隔离 | |
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reciprocate
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| v.往复运动；互换；回报，酬答 | |
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wailed
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| v.哭叫，哀号( wail的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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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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implored
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| 恳求或乞求（某人）( implore的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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accusation
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| n.控告，指责，谴责 | |
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guilt
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| n.犯罪；内疚；过失，罪责 | |
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isolation
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| n.隔离，孤立，分解，分离 | |
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reconciliation
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| n.和解，和谐，一致 | |
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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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bankruptcy
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| n.破产；无偿付能力 | |
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ramble
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| v.漫步，漫谈，漫游；n.漫步，闲谈，蔓延 | |
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inevitable
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| adj.不可避免的，必然发生的 | |
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submission
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| n.服从，投降；温顺，谦虚；提出 | |
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lurked
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| vi.潜伏，埋伏（lurk的过去式与过去分词形式） | |
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45
derived
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| vi.起源；由来；衍生；导出v.得到( derive的过去式和过去分词 )；（从…中）得到获得；源于；（从…中）提取 | |
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purely
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| adv.纯粹地，完全地 | |
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petulant
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| adj.性急的，暴躁的 | |
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48
odious
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| adj.可憎的，讨厌的 | |
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49
mimic
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| v.模仿，戏弄；n.模仿他人言行的人 | |
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mischief
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| n.损害，伤害，危害；恶作剧，捣蛋，胡闹 | |
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51
vexed
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| 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 | |
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52
peevish
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| adj.易怒的，坏脾气的 | |
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peevishly
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| adv．暴躁地 | |
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54
wry
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| adj.讽刺的；扭曲的 | |
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55
audacity
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| n.大胆，卤莽，无礼 | |
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56
brutal
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| adj.残忍的，野蛮的，不讲理的 | |
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57
obstruct
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| v.阻隔，阻塞(道路、通道等)；n.阻碍物，障碍物 | |
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horridly
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| 可怕地，讨厌地 | |
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incensed
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| 盛怒的 | |
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steadily
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| adv.稳定地；不变地；持续地 | |
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61
intonation
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| n.语调，声调；发声 | |
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62
mighty
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| adj.强有力的；巨大的 | |
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countenance
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| n.脸色，面容；面部表情；vt.支持，赞同 | |
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tempestuous
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| adj.狂暴的 | |
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misgiving
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| n.疑虑，担忧，害怕 | |
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66
desperately
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| adv.极度渴望地，绝望地，孤注一掷地 | |
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folly
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| n.愚笨，愚蠢，蠢事，蠢行，傻话 | |
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