So, though Bartram–Haugh was gloomy as well as beautiful, and some of its associations awful, and the solitude1 that reigned2 there sometimes almost terrible, yet early hours, bracing3 exercise, and the fine air that predominates that region, soon restored my nerves to a healthier tone.
But it seemed to me that Bartram–Haugh was to be to me a vale of tears; or rather, in my sad pilgrimage, that valley of the shadow of death through which poor Christian4 fared alone and in the dark.
One day Milly ran into the parlour, pale, with wet cheeks, and, without saying a word, threw her arms about my neck, and burst into a paroxysm of weeping.
“What is it, Milly — what’s the matter, dear — what is it?” I cried aghast, but returning her close embrace heartily5.
“Oh! Maud — Maud darling, he’s going to send me away.”
“Away, dear! where away? And leave me alone in this dreadful solitude, where he knows I shall die of fear and grief without you? Oh! no — no, it must be a mistake.”
“I’m going to France, Maud — I’m going away. Mrs. Jolks is going to London, day ar’ter to-morrow, and I’m to go wi’ her; and an old French lady, he says, from the school will meet me there, and bring me the rest o’ the way.”
“Oh — ho — ho — ho — ho — o — o — o!” cried poor Milly, hugging me closer still, with her head buried in my shoulder, and swaying me about like a wrestler7, in her agony.
“I never wor away from home afore, except that little bit wi’ you over there at Elverston; and you wor wi’ me then, Maud; an’ I love ye — better than Bartram — better than a’; an’ I think I’ll die, Maud, if they take me away.”
I was just as wild in my woe8 as poor Milly; and it was not until we had wept together for a full hour — sometimes standing9 — sometimes walking up and down the room — sometimes sitting and getting up in turns to fall on one another’s necks — that Milly, plucking her handkerchief from her pocket, drew a note from it at the same time, which, as it fell upon the floor, she at once recollected10 to be one from Uncle Silas to me.
It was to this effect:—
“I wish to apprise12 my dear niece and ward13 of my plans. Milly proceeds to an admirable French school, as a pensionnaire, and leaves this on Thursday next. If after three months’ trial she finds it in any way objectionable, she returns to us. If, on the contrary, she finds it in all respects the charming residence it has been presented to me, you, on the expiration14 of that period, join her there, until the temporary complication of my affairs shall have been so far adjusted as to enable me to receive you once more at Bartram. Hoping for happier days, and wishing to assure you that three months is the extreme limit of your separation from my poor Milly, I have written this, feeling alas15! unequal to seeing you at present.
“Bartram, Tuesday.
“P.S. — I can have no objection to your apprising16 Monica Knollys of these arrangements. You will understand, of course, not a copy of this letter, but its substance.”
Over this document, scanning it as lawyers do a new Act of Parliament, we took comfort. After all, it was limited; a separation not to exceed three months, possibly much shorter. On the whole, too, I pleased myself with thinking Uncle Silas’’ note, though peremptory17, was kind.
Our paroxysms subsided18 into sadness; a close correspondence was arranged. Something of the bustle19 and excitement of change intervened. If it turned out to be, in truth, a “charming residence,” how very delightful20 our meeting in France, with the interest of foreign scenery, ways, and faces, would be!
So Thursday arrived — a new gush21 of sorrow — a new brightening up — and, amid regrets and anticipations22, we parted at the gate at the farther end of the Windmill Wood. Then, of course, were more good-byes, more embraces, and tearful smiles. Good Mrs. Jolks, who met us there, was in a huge fuss; I believe it was her first visit to the metropolis23, and she was in proportion heated and important, and terrified about the train, so we had not many last words.
I watched poor Milly, whose head was stretched from the window, her hand waving many adieux, until the curve of the road, and the clump24 of old ash-trees, thick with ivy25, hid Milly, carriage and all, from view. My eyes filled again with tears. I turned towards Bartram. At my side stood honest Mary Quince.
“Don’t take on so, Miss; ‘twon’t be no time passing; three months is nothing at all,” she said, smiling kindly26.
I smiled through my tears and kissed the good creature, and so side by side we re-entered the gate.
The lithe27 young man in fustian28, whom I had seen talking with Beauty on the morning of our first encounter with that youthful Amazon, was awaiting our re-entrance with the key in his hand. He stood half behind the open wicket. One lean brown cheek, one shy eye, and his sharp upturned nose, I saw as we passed. He was treating me to a stealthy scrutiny29, and seemed to shun30 my glance, for he shut the door quickly, and busied himself locking it, and then began stubbing up some thistles which grew close by, with the toe of this thick shoe, his back to us all the time.
It struck me that I recognized his features, and I asked Mary Quince.
“Have you seen that young man before, Quince?”
“He brings up game for your uncle, sometimes, Miss, and lends a hand in the garden, I believe.”
“Do you know his name, Mary?”
“They call him Tom. I don’t know what more, Miss.”
“Tom,” I called; “please, Tom, come here for a moment.”
Tom turned about, and approached slowly. He was more civil than the Bartram people usually were, for he plucked off his shapeless cap of rabbit-skin with a clownish respect.
“Tom, what is your other name — Tom what, my good man?” I asked.
“Tom Brice, ma’am.”
“Haven’t I seen you before, Tom Brice?” I pursued, for my curiosity was excited, and with it much graver feelings; for there certainly was a resemblance in Tom’s features to those of the postilion who had looked so hard at me as I passed the carriage in the warren at Knowl, on the evening of the outrage32 which had scared that quiet place.
“‘Appen you may have, ma’am,” he answered, quite coolly, looking down the buttons of his gaiters.
“Are you a good whip — do you drive well?”
“I’ll drive a plough wi’ most lads hereabout,” answered Tom.
“Have you ever been to Knowl, Tom?”
Tom gaped33 very innocently.
“Anan,” he said.
“Here, Tom, is half-a-crown.”
He took it readily enough.
“That be very good,” said Tom, with a nod, having glanced sharply at the coin.
I can’t say whether he applied35 that term to the coin, or to his luck, or to my generous self.
“Now, Tom, you’ll tell me, have you ever been to Knowl?”
“Maught a’ bin31, ma’am, but I don’t mind no sich place — no.”
As Tom spoke36 this with great deliberation, like a man who loves truth, putting a strain upon his memory for its sake, he spun37 the silver coin two or three times into the air and caught it, staring at it the while, with all his might.
“Now, Tom, recollect11 yourself, and tell me the truth, and I’ll be a friend to you. Did you ride postilion to a carriage having a lady in it, and, I think, several gentlemen, which came to the grounds of Knowl, when the party had their luncheon38 on the grass, and there was a — a quarrel with the gamekeepers? Try, Tom, to recollect; you shall, upon my honour, have no trouble about it, and I’ll try to serve you.”
Tom was silent, while with a vacant gape34 he watched the spin of his half-crown twice, and then catching39 it with a smack40 in his hand, which he thrust into his pocket, he said, still looking in the same direction —
“I never rid postilion in my days, ma’am. I know nout o’ sich a place, though ‘appen I maught a’ bin there; Knowl, ye ca’t. I was ne’er out o’ Derbyshire but thrice to Warwick fair wi’ horses be rail, an’ twice to York.”
“You’re certain, Tom?”
“Sartin sure, ma’am.”
And Tom made another loutish41 salute42, and cut the conference short by turning off the path and beginning to hollo after some trespassing43 cattle.
I had not felt anything like so nearly sure in this essay at identification as I had in that of Dudley. Even of Dudley’s identity with the Church Scarsdale man, I had daily grown less confident; and, indeed, had it been proposed to bring it to the test of a wager44, I do not think I should, in the language of sporting gentlemen, have cared to “back” by original opinion. There was, however, a sufficient uncertainty45 to make me uncomfortable; and there was another uncertainty to enhance the unpleasant sense of ambiguity46.
On our way back we passed the bleaching47 trunks and limbs of several ranks of barkless oaks lying side by side, some squared by the hatchet48, perhaps sold, for there were large letters and Roman numerals traced upon them in red chalk. I sighed as I passed them by, not because it was wrongfully done, for I really rather leaned to the belief that Uncle Silas was well advised in point of law. But alas! here lay low the grand old family decorations of Bartram–Haugh, not to be replaced for centuries to come, under whose spreading boughs49 the Ruthyns of three hundred years ago had hawked50 and hunted!
On the trunk of one of these I sat down to rest, Mary Quince meanwhile pattering about in unmeaning explorations. While thus listlessly seated, the girl Meg Hawkes, walked by, carrying a basket.
“Hish!” she said quickly, as she passed, without altering a pace or raising her eyes; “don’t ye speak nor look — fayther spies us; I’ll tell ye next turn.”
“Next turn”— when was that? Well, she might be returning; and as she could not then say more than she had said, in merely passing without a pause, I concluded to wait for a short time and see what would come of it.
After a short time I looked about me a little, and I saw Dickon Hawkes — Pegtop, as poor Milly used to call him — with an axe52 in his hand, prowling luridly53 among the timber.
Observing that I saw him, he touched his hat sulkily, and by-and-by passed me, muttering to himself. He plainly could not understand what business I could have in that particular part of the Windmill Wood, and let me see it in his countenance54.
His daughter did pass me again; but this time he was near, and she was silent. Her next transit55 occurred as he was questioning Mary Quince at some little distance; and as she passed precisely56 in the same way, she said —
“Don’t you be alone wi’ Master Dudley nowhere for the world’s worth.”
The injunction was so startling that I was on the point of questioning the girl. But I recollected myself, and waited in the hope that in her future transits57 she might be more explicit58. But one word more she did not utter, and the jealous eye of old Pegtop was so constantly upon us that I refrained.
There was vagueness and suggestion enough in the oracle59 to supply work for many an hour of anxious conjecture60, and many a horrible vigil by night. Was I never to know peace at Bartram–Haugh?
Ten days of poor Milly’s absence, and of my solitude, had already passed, when my uncle sent for me to his room.
When old Wyat stood at the door, mumbling61 and snarling62 her message, my heart died within me.
It was late — just that hour when dejected people feel their anxieties most — when the cold grey of twilight63 has deepened to its darkest shade, and before the cheerful candles are lighted, and the safe quiet of the night sets in.
When I entered my uncle’s sitting-room64 — though his window-shutters were open and the wan65 streaks66 of sunset visible through them, like narrow lakes in the chasms67 of the dark western clouds — a pair of candles were burning; one stood upon the table by his desk, the other on the chimneypiece, before which his tall, thin figure stooped. His hand leaned on the mantel-piece, and the light from the candle just above his bowed head touched his silvery hair. He was looking, as it seemed, into the subsiding68 embers of the fire, and was a very statue of forsaken69 dejection and decay.
“Uncle!” I ventured to say, having stood for some time unperceived near his table.
“Ah, yes, Maud, my dear child — my dear child.”
He turned, and with the candle in his hand, smiling his silvery smile of suffering on me. He walked more feebly and stiffly, I thought, than I had ever seen him move before.
“Sit down, Maud — pray sit there.”
I took the chair he indicated.
“In my misery70 and my solitude, Maud, I have invoked71 you like a spirit, and you appear.”
With his two hands leaning on the table, he looked across at me, in a stooping attitude; he had not seated himself. I continued silent until it should be he pleasure to question or address me.
At last he said, raising himself and looking upward, with a wild adoration72 — his finger-tips elevated and glimmering73 in the faint mixed light —
“No, I thank my Creator, I am not quite forsaken.”
Another silence, during which he looked steadfastly74 at me, and muttered, as if thinking aloud —
“My guardian75 angel! — my guardian angel! Maud, you have a heart.” He addressed me suddenly —“Listen, for a few moments, to the appeal of an old and broken-hearted man — your guardian — your uncle — your suppliant76. I had resolved never to speak to you more on this subject. But I was wrong. It was pride that inspired me — mere51 pride.”
I felt myself growing pale and flushed by turns during the pause that followed.
“I’m very miserable77 — very nearly desperate. What remains78 for me — what remains? Fortune has done her worst — thrown in the dust, her wheels rolled over me; and the servile world, who follow her chariot like a mob, stamp upon the mangled79 wretch80. All this had passed over me, and left me scarred and bloodless in this solitude. It was not my fault, Maud — I say it was no fault of mine; I have no remorse81, though more regrets than I can count, and all scored with fire. As people passed by Bartram, and looked upon its neglected grounds and smokeless chimneys, they though my plight82, I dare say, aboiut the worst a proud man could be reduced to. They could not imagine one half its misery. But his old hectic83 — this old epileptic — this old spectre of wrongs, calamities84, and follies85, had still one hope — my manly86 though untutored son — the last male scion87 of the Ruthyns, Maud, have I lost him? His fate — my fate — I may say Milly’s fate; — we all await your sentence. He loves you, as none but the very young can love, and that once only in a life. He loves you desperately88 — a most affectionate nature — a Ruthyn, the best blood in England — the last man of the race; and I— if I lose him I lose all; and you will see me in my coffin89, Maud, before many months. I stand before you in the attitude of a suppliant — shall I kneel?”
His eyes were fixed90 on me with the light of despair, his knotted hands clasped, his whole figure bowed toward me. I was inexpressibly shocked and pained.
“Oh, uncle! uncle!” I cried, and from very excitement I burst into tears.
I saw that his eyes were fixed on me with a dismal91 scrutiny. I think he divined the nature of my agitation92; but he determined93, notwithstanding, to press me while my helpless agitation continued.
“You see my suspense94 — you see my miserable and frightful95 suspense. You are kind, Maud; you love your father’s memory; you pity your father’s brother; you would not say no, and place a pistol at his head?”
“Oh! I must — I must — I must say no. Oh! spare me, uncle, for Heaven’s sake. Don’t question me — don’t press me. I could not — I could not do what you ask.”
“I yield, Maud — I yield, my dear. I will not press you; you shall have time, your own time, to think. I will accept no answer now — no, none, Maud.”
He said this, raising his thin hand to silence me.
“There, Maud, enough. I have spoken, as I always do to you, frankly96, perhaps too frankly; but agony and despair will speak out, and plead, even with the most obdurate97 and cruel.”
With these words Uncle Silas entered his bed-chamber, and shut the door, not violently, but with a resolute98 hand, and I thought I heard a cry.
I hastened to my own room. I threw myself on my knees, and thanked Heaven for the firmness vouchsafed99 me; I could not believe it to have been my own.
I was more miserable in consequence of this renewed suit on behalf of my odious100 cousin than I can describe. My uncle had taken such a line of importunity101 that it became a sort of agony to resist. I thought of the possibility of my hearing of his having made away with himself, and was every morning relieved when I heard that he was still as usual. I have often wondered since at my own firmness. In that dreadful interview with my uncle I had felt, in the whirl and horror of mind, on the very point of submitting, just as nervous people are said to throw themselves over precipices102 through sheer dread6 of falling.
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1
solitude
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| n. 孤独; 独居,荒僻之地,幽静的地方 | |
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reigned
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| vi.当政，统治（reign的过去式形式） | |
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bracing
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| adj.令人振奋的 | |
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Christian
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| adj.基督教徒的；n.基督教徒 | |
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heartily
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| adv.衷心地，诚恳地，十分，很 | |
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dread
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| vt.担忧，忧虑；惧怕，不敢；n.担忧，畏惧 | |
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wrestler
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| n.摔角选手，扭 | |
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woe
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| n.悲哀，苦痛，不幸，困难；int.用来表达悲伤或惊慌 | |
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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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recollected
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| adj.冷静的；镇定的；被回忆起的；沉思默想的v.记起，想起( recollect的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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recollect
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| v.回忆，想起，记起，忆起，记得 | |
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apprise
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| vt.通知，告知 | |
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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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expiration
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| n.终结，期满，呼气，呼出物 | |
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alas
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| int.唉(表示悲伤、忧愁、恐惧等) | |
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apprising
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| v.告知，通知( apprise的现在分词 )；评价 | |
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peremptory
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| adj.紧急的，专横的，断然的 | |
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subsided
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| v.（土地）下陷（因在地下采矿）( subside的过去式和过去分词 )；减弱；下降至较低或正常水平；一下子坐在椅子等上 | |
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bustle
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| v.喧扰地忙乱，匆忙，奔忙；n.忙碌；喧闹 | |
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delightful
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| adj.令人高兴的，使人快乐的 | |
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gush
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| v.喷，涌；滔滔不绝(说话)；n.喷，涌流；迸发 | |
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anticipations
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| 预期( anticipation的名词复数 )； 预测； （信托财产收益的）预支； 预期的事物 | |
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metropolis
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| n.首府；大城市 | |
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clump
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| n.树丛，草丛；vi.用沉重的脚步行走 | |
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ivy
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| n.常青藤，常春藤 | |
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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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lithe
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| adj.(指人、身体)柔软的，易弯的 | |
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fustian
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| n.浮夸的；厚粗棉布 | |
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scrutiny
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| n.详细检查，仔细观察 | |
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shun
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| vt.避开，回避，避免 | |
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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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outrage
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| n.暴行，侮辱，愤怒；vt.凌辱，激怒 | |
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gaped
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| v.目瞪口呆地凝视( gape的过去式和过去分词 )；张开，张大 | |
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gape
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| v.张口，打呵欠，目瞪口呆地凝视 | |
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applied
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| adj.应用的；v.应用，适用 | |
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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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spun
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| v.纺，杜撰，急转身 | |
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luncheon
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| n.午宴，午餐，便宴 | |
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39
catching
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| adj.易传染的，有魅力的，迷人的，接住 | |
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40
smack
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| vt.拍，打，掴；咂嘴；vi.含有…意味；n.拍 | |
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41
loutish
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| adj.粗鲁的 | |
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42
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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43
trespassing
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| [法]非法入侵 | |
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44
wager
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| n.赌注；vt.押注，打赌 | |
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45
uncertainty
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| n.易变，靠不住，不确知，不确定的事物 | |
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46
ambiguity
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| n.模棱两可；意义不明确 | |
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47
bleaching
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| 漂白法，漂白 | |
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48
hatchet
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| n.短柄小斧；v.扼杀 | |
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49
boughs
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| 大树枝( bough的名词复数 ) | |
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50
hawked
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| 通过叫卖主动兜售（hawk的过去式与过去分词形式） | |
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51
mere
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| adj.纯粹的；仅仅，只不过 | |
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52
axe
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| n.斧子；v.用斧头砍，削减 | |
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53
luridly
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| adv. 青灰色的(苍白的, 深浓色的, 火焰等火红的) | |
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54
countenance
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| n.脸色，面容；面部表情；vt.支持，赞同 | |
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55
transit
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| n.经过，运输；vt.穿越，旋转；vi.越过 | |
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56
precisely
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| adv.恰好，正好，精确地，细致地 | |
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57
transits
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| 通过（transit的复数形式） | |
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58
explicit
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| adj.详述的，明确的；坦率的；显然的 | |
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oracle
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| n.神谕，神谕处，预言 | |
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conjecture
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| n./v.推测，猜测 | |
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mumbling
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| 含糊地说某事，叽咕，咕哝( mumble的现在分词 ) | |
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snarling
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| v.（指狗）吠，嗥叫， （人）咆哮( snarl的现在分词 )；咆哮着说，厉声地说 | |
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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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sitting-room
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| n.（BrE）客厅，起居室 | |
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wan
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| (wide area network)广域网 | |
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streaks
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| n.（与周围有所不同的）条纹( streak的名词复数 )；（通常指不好的）特征（倾向）；（不断经历成功或失败的）一段时期v.快速移动( streak的第三人称单数 )；使布满条纹 | |
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chasms
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| 裂缝( chasm的名词复数 )； 裂口； 分歧； 差别 | |
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subsiding
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| v.（土地）下陷（因在地下采矿）( subside的现在分词 )；减弱；下降至较低或正常水平；一下子坐在椅子等上 | |
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Forsaken
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| adj. 被遗忘的, 被抛弃的 动词forsake的过去分词 | |
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misery
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| n.痛苦，苦恼，苦难；悲惨的境遇，贫苦 | |
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invoked
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| v.援引( invoke的过去式和过去分词 )；行使（权利等）；祈求救助；恳求 | |
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adoration
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| n.爱慕，崇拜 | |
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glimmering
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| n.微光，隐约的一瞥adj.薄弱地发光的v.发闪光，发微光( glimmer的现在分词 ) | |
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steadfastly
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| adv.踏实地，不变地；岿然；坚定不渝 | |
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guardian
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| n.监护人；守卫者，保护者 | |
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suppliant
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| adj.哀恳的；n.恳求者，哀求者 | |
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miserable
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| adj.悲惨的，痛苦的；可怜的，糟糕的 | |
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remains
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| n.剩余物，残留物；遗体，遗迹 | |
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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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wretch
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| n.可怜的人，不幸的人；卑鄙的人 | |
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remorse
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| n.痛恨，悔恨，自责 | |
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plight
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| n.困境，境况，誓约，艰难；vt.宣誓，保证，约定 | |
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hectic
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| adj.肺病的；消耗热的；发热的；闹哄哄的 | |
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calamities
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| n.灾祸，灾难( calamity的名词复数 )；不幸之事 | |
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follies
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| 罪恶，时事讽刺剧； 愚蠢，蠢笨，愚蠢的行为、思想或做法( folly的名词复数 ) | |
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manly
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| adj.有男子气概的；adv.男子般地，果断地 | |
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scion
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| n.嫩芽，子孙 | |
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desperately
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| adv.极度渴望地，绝望地，孤注一掷地 | |
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coffin
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| n.棺材，灵柩 | |
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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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dismal
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| adj.阴沉的，凄凉的，令人忧郁的，差劲的 | |
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agitation
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| n.搅动；搅拌；鼓动，煽动 | |
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determined
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| adj.坚定的；有决心的 | |
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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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frightful
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| adj.可怕的；讨厌的 | |
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frankly
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| adv.坦白地，直率地；坦率地说 | |
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obdurate
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| adj.固执的，顽固的 | |
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resolute
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| adj.坚决的，果敢的 | |
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vouchsafed
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| v.给予，赐予( vouchsafe的过去式和过去分词 )；允诺 | |
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odious
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| adj.可憎的，讨厌的 | |
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101
importunity
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| n.硬要，强求 | |
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102
precipices
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| n.悬崖，峭壁( precipice的名词复数 ) | |
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