I was again about to speak, but with a smile he beckoned4 me into silence.
“There are two or three points you must bear in mind. One of the happiest privileges of your fortune is that you may, without imprudence, marry simply for love. There are few men in England who could offer you an estate comparable with that you already possess; or, in fact, appreciably5 increase the splendour of your fortune. If, therefore, he were in all other respects eligible6, I can’t see that his poverty would be an objection to weigh for one moment. He is quite a rough diamond. He has been, like many young men of the highest rank, too much given up to athletic7 sports — to that society which constitutes the aristocracy of the ring and the turf, and all that kind of thing. You see, I am putting all the worst points first. But I have known so many young men in my day, after a madcap career of a few years among prizefighters, wrestlers, and jockeys — learning their slang and affecting their manners — take up and cultivate the graces and the decencies. There was poor dear Newgate, many degrees lower in that kind of a frolic, who, when he grew tired of it, became one of the most elegant and accomplished8 men in the House of Peers. Poor Newgate, he’s gone, too! I could reckon up fifty of my early friends who all began like Dudley, and all turned out, more or less, like Newgate.”
At this moment came a knock at the door, and Dudley put in his head most inopportunely for the vision of his future graces and accomplishments9.
“My good fellow,” said his father, with a sharp sort of playfulness, “I happen to be talking about my son, and should rather not be overheard; you will, therefore, choose another time for your visit.”
Dudley hesitated gruffly at the door, but another look from his father dismissed him.
“And now, my dear, you are to remember that Dudley has fine qualities — the most affectionate son in his rough way that ever father was blessed with; most admirable qualities — indomitable courage, and a high sense of honour; and lastly, that he has the Ruthyn blood — the purest blood, I maintain it, in England.”
My uncle, as he said this, drew himself up a little, unconsciously, his thin hand laid lightly over his heart with a little patting motion, and his countenance10 looked so strangely dignified11 and melancholy12, that in admiring contemplation of it I lost some sentences which followed next.
“Therefore, dear, naturally anxious that my boy should not be dismissed from home — as he must be, should you persevere13 in rejecting his suit — I beg that you will reserve your decision to this day fortnight, when I will with much pleasure hear what you may have to say on the subject. But till then, observe me, not a word.”
That evening he and Dudley were closeted for a long time. I suspect that he lectured him on the psychology14 of ladies; for a bouquet15 was laid beside my plate every morning at breakfast, which it must have been troublesome to get, for the conservatory16 at Bartram was a desert. In a few days more an anonymous17 green parrot arrived, in a gilt18 cage, with a little note in a clerk’s hand, addressed to “Miss Ruthyn (of Knowl), Bartram–Haugh,” &c. It contained only ‘Directions for caring green parrot,” at the close of which, underlined, the words appeared —“The bird’s name is Maud.”
The bouquets19 I invariably left on the table-cloth, where I found them — the bird I insisted on Milly’s keeping as her property. During the intervening fortnight Dudley never appeared, as he used sometimes to do before, at luncheon20, nor looked in at the window as we were at breakfast. He contented21 himself with one day placing himself in my way in the hall in his shooting accoutrements, and, with a clumsy, shuffling22 kind of respect, and hat in hand, he said —
“I think, Miss, I must a spoke23 uncivil t’other day. I was so awful put about, and didn’t know no more nor a child what I was saying; and I wanted to tell ye I’m sorry for it, and I beg your pardon — very humble24, I do.”
I did not know what to say. I therefore said nothing, but made a grave inclination25, and passed on.
Two or three times Milly and I saw him at a little distance in our walks. He never attempted to join us. Once only he passed so near that some recognition was inevitable27, and he stopped and in silence lifted his hat with an awkward respect. But although he did not approach us, he was ostentatious with a kind of telegraphic civility in the distance. He opened gates, he whistled his dogs to “heel,” he drove away cattle, and then himself withdrew. I really think he watched us occasionally to render these services, for in this distant way we encountered him decidedly oftener than we used to do before his flattering proposal of marriage.
You may be sure that we discussed, Milly and I, that occurrence pretty constantly in all sorts of moods. Limited as had been her experience of human society, she very clearly saw now how far below its presentable level was her hopeful brother.
The fortnight sped swiftly, as time always does when something we dislike and shrink from awaits us at its close. I never saw Uncle Silas during that period. It may seem odd to those who merely read the report of our last interview, in which his manner had been more playful and his talk more trifling28 than in any other, that from it I had carried away a profounder sense of fear and insecurity than from any other. It was with a foreboding of evil and an awful dejection that on a very dark day, in Milly’s room, I awaited the summons which I was sure would reach me from my punctual guardian29.
As I looked from the window upon the slanting30 rain and leaden sky, and thought of the hated interview that awaited me, I pressed my hand to my troubled heart, and murmured, “O that I had wings like a dove; then would I flee away, and be at rest.”
Just then the prattle31 of the parrot struck my hear. I looked round on the wire cage, and remembered the words, “The bird’s name is Maud.”
“Poor bird!” I said. “I dare say, Milly, it longs to get out. If it were a native of this country, would not you like to open the window, and then the door of that cruel cage, and let the poor thing fly away?”
“Master wants Miss Maud,” said Wyat’s disagreeable tones, at the half-open door.
I followed in silence, with the pressure of a near alarm at my heart, like a person going to an operation.
When I entered the room, my heart beat so fast that I could hardly speak. The tall form of Uncle Silas rose before me, and I made him a faltering32 reverence33.
He darted34 from under his brows a wild, fierce glance at old Wyat, and pointed35 to the door imperiously with his skeleton finger. The door shut, and we were alone.
“A chair?” he said, pointing to a seat.
“Thank you, uncle, I prefer standing,” I faltered36.
He also stood — his white head bowed forward, the phosphoric glaze37 of his strange eyes shone upon me from under his brows — his finger-nails just rested on the table.
“You saw the luggage corded and addressed, as it stands ready for removal in the hall?” he asked.
I had. Milly and I had read the cards which dangled38 from the trunk-handles and gun-case. The address was —“Mr. Dudley R. Ruthyn, Paris, vid Dover.”
“I am old — agitated39 — on the eve of a decision on which much depends. Pray relieve my suspense40. Is my son to leave Bartram to-day in sorrow, or to remain in joy? Pray answer quickly.”
I stammered41 I know not what. I was incoherent — wild, perhaps; but somehow I expressed my meaning — my unalterable decision. I thought his lips grew whiter and his eyes shone brighter as I spoke.
When I had quite made an end, he heaved a great sigh, and turning his eyes slowly to the right and the left, like a man in a helpless distrations, he whispered —
“God’s will be done.”
I thought he was upon the point of fainting — a clay tint42 darkened the white of his face; and, seeming to forget my presence, he sat down, looking with a despairing scowl43 on his ashy old hand, as it lay upon the table.
I stood gazing at him, feeling almost as if I had murdered the old man — he still gazing askance, with an imbecile scowl, upon his hand.
“Shall I go, sir?” I at length found courage to whisper.
“Go?” he said, looking up suddenly; and it seemed to me as if a stream of cold sheet-lightning had crossed and enveloped44 me for a moment.
“Go? — oh! — a — yes — yes, Maud — go. I must see poor Dudley before his departure,” he added, as it were, in soliloquy.
Trembling lest he should revoke45 his permission to depart, I glided46 quickly and noiselessly from the room.
Old Wyat was prowling outside, with a cloth in her hand, pretending to dust the carved doorcase. She frowned a stare of enquiry over her shrunken arm on me, as I passed. Milly, who had been on the watch, ran and met me. We heard my uncle’s voice, as I shut the door, calling Dudley. He had been waiting, probably, in the adjoining room. I hurried into my chamber47, with Milly at my side, and there my agitation48 found relief in tears, as that of girlhood naturally does.
A little while after we saw from the window Dudley, looking, I thought, very pale, get into a vehicle, on the top of which his luggage lay, and drive away from Bartram.
I began to take comfort. His departure was an inexpressible relief. His final departure! a distant journey!
We had tea in Milly’s room that night. Firelight and candles are inspiring. In that red glow I always felt and feel more safe, as well as more comfortable, than in the daylight — quite irrationally49, for we know the night is the appointed day of such as love the darkness better than light, and evil walks thereby50. But so it is. Perhaps the very consciousness of external danger enhances the enjoyment51 of the well-lighted interior, just as the storm does that roars and hurtles over the roof.
While Milly and I were talking, very cosily52, a knock came to the room-door, and, without waiting for an invitation to enter, old Wyat came in, and glowering53 at us, with her brown claw upon the door-handle, she said to Milly —
“Ye must leave your funnin’, Miss Milly, and take your turn in your father’s room.”
“Is he ill?” I asked.
She answered, addressing not me, but Milly —
“A wrought54 two hours in a fit arter Master Dudley went. ’Twill be the death o’ him, I’m thinkin’, poor old fellah. I wor sorry myself when I saw Master Dudley a going off in the moist to-day, poor fellah. There’s trouble enough in the family without a’ that; but ‘twon’t be a family long, I’m thinkin’. Nout but trouble, nout but trouble, since late changes came.”
Judging by the sour glance she threw on me as she said this, I concluded that I represented those “late changes” to which all the sorrows of the house were referred.
I felt unhappy under the ill-will even of this odious55 old woman, being one of those unhappily constructed mortals who cannot be indifferent when they reasonably ought, and always yearn56 after kindness, even that of the worthless.
“I must go. I wish you’d come wi’ me, Maud, I’m so afraid all alone,” said Milly, imploringly57.
“Certainly, Milly,” I answered, not liking58 it, you may be sure; “you shan’t sit there alone.”
So together we went, old Wyat cautioning us for our lives to make no noise.
We passed through the old man’s sitting-room59, where that day had occurred his brief but momentous60 interview with me, and his parting with his only son, and entered the bed-room at the farther end.
A low fire burned in the grate. The room was in a sort of twilight61. A dim lamp near the foot of the bed at the farther side was the only light burning there. Old Wyat whispered an injunction not to speak above our breaths, nor to leave the fireside unless the sick man called or showed signs of weariness. These were the directions of the doctor, who had been there.
So Milly and I sat ourselves down near the hearth62, and old Wyat left us to our resources. We could hear the patient breathe; but he was quite still. In whispers we talked; but out conversation flagged. I was, after my wont63, upbraiding64 myself for the suffering I had inflicted65. After about half an hour’s desultory66 whispering, and intervals67, growing longer and longer, of silence, it was plain that Milly was falling asleep.
She strove against it, and I tried hard to keep her talking; but it would not do — sleep overcame her; and I was the only person in that ghastly room in a state of perfect consciousness.
There were associations connected with my last vigil there to make my situation very nervous and disagreeable. Had I not had so much to occupy my mind of a distinctly practical kind — Dudley’s audacious suit, my uncle’s questionable68 toleration of it, and my own conduct throughout that most disagreeable period of my existence — I should have felt my present situation a great deal more.
As it was, I thought of my real troubles, and something of Cousin Knollys, and, I confess, a good deal of Lord Ilbury. When looking towards the door, I though I saw a human face, about the most terrible my fancy could have called up, looking fixedly69 into the room. It was only a “three-quarter,” and not the whole figure — the door hid that in a great measure, and I fancied I saw, too, a portion of the fingers. The face gazed toward the bed, and in the imperfect light looked like a livid mask, with chalky eyes.
I had so often been startled by similar apparitions70 formed by accidental lights and shadows disguising homely72 objects, that I stooped forward, expecting, though tremulously, to see this tremendous one in like manner dissolve itself into its harmless elements; and now, to my unspeakable terror, I became perfectly73 certain that I saw the countenance of Madame de la Rougierre.
With a cry, I started back, and shook Milly furiously from her trance.
“Look! look!” I cried. But the apparition71 or illusion was gone.
I clung so fast to Milly’s arm, cowering74 behind her, that she could not rise.
“Milly! Milly! Milly! Milly!” I went on crying, like one struck with idiotcy, and unable to say anything else.
In a panic, Milly, who had seen nothing, and could conjecture75 nothing of the cause of my terror, jumped up, and clinging to one another, we huddled76 together into the corner of the room, I still crying wildly, “Milly! Milly! Milly!” and nothing else.
“What is it — where is it — what do you see?” cried Milly, clinging to me as I did to her.
“It will come again; it will come; oh, heaven!”
“What — what is it, Maud?”
“The face! the face!” I cried. “Oh, Milly! Milly! Milly!”
We heard a step softly approaching the open door, and, in a horrible sauve qui peut, we rushed and stumbled together toward the light by Uncle Silas’s bed. But old Wyat’s voice and figure reassured77 us.
“Milly,” I said, so soon as, pale and very faint, I reached my apartment, “no power on earth shall ever tempt26 me to enter that room again after dark.”
“Why, Maud dear, what, in Heaven’s name, did you see?” said Milly, scarcely less terrified.
“Oh, I can’t; I can’t; I can’t, Milly. Never ask me. It is haunted. The room is haunted horribly.”
“Was it Clarke?” whispered Milly, looking over her shoulder, all aghast.
“No, no — don’t ask me; a fiend in a worse shape.” I was relieved at last by a long fit of weeping; and all night good Mary Quince sat by me, and Milly slept by my side. Starting and screaming, and drugged with sal-volatile, I got through that night of supernatural terror, and saw the blessed light of heaven again.
Doctor Jolks, when he came to see my uncle in the morning, visited me also. He pronounced me very hysterical78, made minute enquiries respecting my hours and diet, asked what I had had for dinner yesterday. There was something a little comforting in his cool and confident pooh-poohing of the ghost theory. The result was, a regimen which excluded tea, and imposed chocolate and porter, earlier hours, and I forget all beside; and he undertook to promise that, if I would but observe his directions, I should never see a ghost again.
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收听单词发音
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1
folly
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| n.愚笨，愚蠢，蠢事，蠢行，傻话 | |
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delightful
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| adj.令人高兴的，使人快乐的 | |
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ogle
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| v.看；送秋波；n.秋波，媚眼 | |
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beckoned
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| v.（用头或手的动作）示意，召唤( beckon的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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appreciably
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| adv.相当大地 | |
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eligible
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| adj.有条件被选中的；(尤指婚姻等)合适(意)的 | |
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athletic
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| adj.擅长运动的，强健的；活跃的，体格健壮的 | |
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8
accomplished
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| adj.有才艺的；有造诣的；达到了的 | |
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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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countenance
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| n.脸色，面容；面部表情；vt.支持，赞同 | |
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dignified
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| a.可敬的，高贵的 | |
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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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persevere
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| v.坚持，坚忍，不屈不挠 | |
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psychology
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| n.心理，心理学，心理状态 | |
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bouquet
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| n.花束，酒香 | |
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conservatory
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| n.温室，音乐学院；adj.保存性的，有保存力的 | |
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anonymous
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| adj.无名的；匿名的；无特色的 | |
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gilt
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| adj.镀金的；n.金边证券 | |
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bouquets
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| n.花束( bouquet的名词复数 )；（酒的）芳香 | |
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luncheon
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| n.午宴，午餐，便宴 | |
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contented
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| adj.满意的，安心的，知足的 | |
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shuffling
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| adj. 慢慢移动的, 滑移的 动词shuffle的现在分词形式 | |
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23
spoke
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| n.（车轮的）辐条；轮辐；破坏某人的计划；阻挠某人的行动 v.讲，谈（speak的过去式）；说；演说；从某种观点来说 | |
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humble
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| adj.谦卑的，恭顺的；地位低下的；v.降低，贬低 | |
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inclination
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| n.倾斜；点头；弯腰；斜坡；倾度；倾向；爱好 | |
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tempt
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| vt.引诱，勾引，吸引，引起…的兴趣 | |
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inevitable
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| adj.不可避免的，必然发生的 | |
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trifling
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| adj.微不足道的；没什么价值的 | |
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guardian
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| n.监护人；守卫者，保护者 | |
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slanting
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| 倾斜的，歪斜的 | |
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prattle
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| n.闲谈；v.（小孩般）天真无邪地说话；发出连续而无意义的声音 | |
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faltering
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| 犹豫的，支吾的，蹒跚的 | |
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reverence
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| n.敬畏，尊敬，尊严；Reverence:对某些基督教神职人员的尊称；v.尊敬，敬畏，崇敬 | |
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darted
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| v.投掷，投射( dart的过去式和过去分词 )；向前冲，飞奔 | |
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pointed
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| adj.尖的，直截了当的 | |
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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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glaze
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| v.因疲倦、疲劳等指眼睛变得呆滞，毫无表情 | |
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dangled
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| 悬吊着( dangle的过去式和过去分词 )； 摆动不定； 用某事物诱惑…； 吊胃口 | |
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agitated
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| adj.被鼓动的，不安的 | |
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suspense
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| n.（对可能发生的事）紧张感，担心，挂虑 | |
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stammered
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| v.结巴地说出( stammer的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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42
tint
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| n.淡色，浅色；染发剂；vt.着以淡淡的颜色 | |
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43
scowl
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| vi.(at)生气地皱眉，沉下脸，怒视；n.怒容 | |
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44
enveloped
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| v.包围，笼罩，包住( envelop的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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revoke
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| v.废除，取消，撤回 | |
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46
glided
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| v.滑动( glide的过去式和过去分词 )；掠过；（鸟或飞机 ） 滑翔 | |
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chamber
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| n.房间，寝室；会议厅；议院；会所 | |
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agitation
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| n.搅动；搅拌；鼓动，煽动 | |
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49
irrationally
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| ad.不理性地 | |
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50
thereby
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| adv.因此，从而 | |
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51
enjoyment
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| n.乐趣；享有；享用 | |
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cosily
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| adv.舒适地，惬意地 | |
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53
glowering
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| v.怒视( glower的现在分词 ) | |
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54
wrought
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| v.引起；以…原料制作；运转；adj.制造的 | |
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odious
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| adj.可憎的，讨厌的 | |
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56
yearn
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| v.想念；怀念；渴望 | |
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imploringly
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| adv. 恳求地, 哀求地 | |
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liking
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| n.爱好；嗜好；喜欢 | |
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sitting-room
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| n.（BrE）客厅，起居室 | |
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momentous
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| adj.重要的，重大的 | |
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twilight
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| n.暮光，黄昏；暮年，晚期，衰落时期 | |
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hearth
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| n.壁炉炉床，壁炉地面 | |
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wont
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| adj.习惯于；v.习惯；n.习惯 | |
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upbraiding
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| adj.& n.谴责（的）v.责备，申斥，谴责( upbraid的现在分词 ) | |
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inflicted
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| 把…强加给，使承受，遭受( inflict的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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desultory
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| adj.散漫的，无方法的 | |
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intervals
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| n.[军事]间隔( interval的名词复数 )；间隔时间；[数学]区间；（戏剧、电影或音乐会的）幕间休息 | |
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questionable
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| adj.可疑的，有问题的 | |
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fixedly
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| adv.固定地；不屈地，坚定不移地 | |
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apparitions
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| n.特异景象( apparition的名词复数 )；幽灵；鬼；（特异景象等的）出现 | |
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apparition
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| n.幽灵，神奇的现象 | |
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72
homely
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| adj.家常的，简朴的；不漂亮的 | |
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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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cowering
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| v.畏缩，抖缩( cower的现在分词 ) | |
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conjecture
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| n./v.推测，猜测 | |
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huddled
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| 挤在一起（huddle的过去式与过去分词形式） | |
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reassured
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| adj.使消除疑虑的；使放心的v.再保证，恢复信心( reassure的过去式和过去分词) | |
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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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