I pretended to have a few words to say to Mary before leaving the hall, in the hope that, as he seemed to wish to escape me, he would take the opportunity of getting quickly off the scene.
But he had changed his mind, it would seem, in the interval2; for when I glanced in that direction again he had moved toward us, and stood in the hall with his hat in his hand. I must do him the justice to say he looked horribly dismal3, sulky, and frightened.
“Ye’ll gi’e me a word, Miss — only a thing I ought to say — for your good; by — — mind, it’s for your good, Miss.”
Dudley stood a little way off, viewing me, with his hat in both hands and a “glooming” countenance4.
I detested5 the idea of either hearing or speaking to him; but I had no resolution to refuse, and only saying “I can’t imagine what you can wish to speak to me about,” I approached him. “Wait there at the banister, Quince.”
There was a fragrance7 of alcohol about the flushed face and gaudy8 muffler of this odious9 cousin, which heightened the effect of his horribly dismal features. He was speaking, besides, a little thickly; but his manner was dejected, and he was treating me with an elaborate and discomfited10 respect which reassured11 me.
“I’m a bit up a tree, Miss,” he said shuffling13 his feet on the oak floor. “I behaved a d ——— fool; but I baint one o’ they sort. I’m a fellah as ‘ill fight his man, an’ stan’ up to ‘m fair, don’t ye see? An I baint one o’ they sort — no, dang it, I baint.”
Dudley delivered his puzzling harangue14 with a good deal of undertoned vehemence15, and was strangely agitated16. He, too, had got an unpleasant way of avoiding my eye, and glancing along the floor from corner to corner as he spoke17, which gave him a very hang-dog air.
He was twisting his fingers in his great sandy whisker, and pulling it roughly enough to drag his cheek about by that savage18 purchase; and with his other hand he was crushing and rubbing his hat against his knee.
“The old boy above there be half crazed, I think; he don’t mean half as he says thof, not he. But I’m in a bad fix anyhow — a regular sell it’s been, and I can’t get a tizzy out of him. So, ye see, I’m up a tree, Miss; and he sich a one, he’ll make it a wuss mull if I let him. He’s as sharp wi’ me as one o’ them lawyer chaps, dang ’em, and he’s a lot of I O’s and rubbitch o’ mine; and Bryerly writes to me he can’t gi’e me my legacy19, ‘cause h’es got a notice from Archer20 and Sleigh a warnin’ him not to gi’e me as much as a bob; for I signed it away to governor, he says — which I believe’s a lie. I may a’ signed some writing —‘appen I did — when I was a bit cut one night. But that’s no way to catch a gentleman, and ‘twon’t stand. There’s justice to be had, and ‘twon’t stand, I say; and I’m not in ‘is hands that way. Thof I may be a bit up the spout21, too, I don’t deny; only I baint a-goin’ the whole hog22 all at once. I’m none o’ they sort. He’ll find I baint.”
Here Mary Quince coughed demurely23 from the foot of the stair, to remind me that the conversation was protracted24.
“I don’t very well understand,” I said gravely; “and I am now going upstairs.”
“Don’t jest a minute, Miss; it’s only a word, ye see. We’ll be goin’ t’ Australia, Sary Mangles25, an’ me, aboard the Seamew, on the 5th. I’m for Liverpool to-night, and she’ll meet me there, an’— an’, please God Almighty26, ye’ll never see me more; an’ I’d rather gi’e ye a lift, Maud, before I go: an’ I tell ye what, if ye’ll just gi’e me your written promise ye’ll gi’e me that twenty thousand ye were offering to gi’e the Governor, I’ll take ye cleverly out o’ Bartram, and put ye wi’ your cousin Knollys, or anywhere ye like best.”
“Take me from Bartram — for twenty thousand pounds! Take me away from my guardian27! You seem to forget, sir,” my indignation rising as I spoke, “that I can visit my cousin, Lady Knollys, whenever I please.”
“Well, that is as it may be,” he said, with a sulky deliberation, scraping about a little bit of paper that lay on the floor with the toe of his boot.
“It is as it may be, and that is as I say, sir; and considering how you have treated me — your mean, treacherous28, and infamous29 suit, and your cruel treason to your poor wife, I am amazed at your effrontery30.”
I turned to leave him, being, in truth, in one of my passions.
“Don’t ye be a flyin’ out,” he said peremptorily31, and catching32 me roughly by the wrist. “I baint a-going to vex33 ye. What a mouth you be, as can’t see your way! Can’t ye speak wi’ common sense, like a woman — dang it — for once, and not keep brawling34 like a brat35 — can’t ye see what I’m saying? I’ll take you out o’ all this, and put ye wi’ your cousin, or wheresoever you list, if y’ell gi’e me what I say.”
He was, for the first time, looking me in the face, but with contracted eyes, and a countenance very much agitated.
“Money?” said I, with a prompt disdain36.
“Ay, money — twenty thousand pounds — there. On or off?” he replied, with an unpleasant sort of effort.
“You ask my promise for twenty thousand pounds, and you shan’t have it.”
My cheeks were flaming, and I stamped on the ground as I spoke.
If he had known how to appeal to my better feelings, I am sure I should have done, perhaps not quite that, all at once at least, but something handsome, to assist him. But this application was so shabby and insolent37! What could he take me for? That I should suppose his placing me with Cousin Monica constituted her my guardian? Why, he must fancy me the merest baby. There was a kind of stupid cunning in this that disgusted my good-nature and outraged39 my self-importance.
“You won’t gi’e me that, then?” he said, looking down again, with a frown, and working his mouth and cheeks about as I could fancy a man rolling a piece of tobacco in his jaw40.
“Certainly not, sir,” I replied.
“Take it, then,” he replied, still looking down, very black and discontented.
I joined Mary Quince, extremely angry. As I passed under the carved oak arch of the vestibule, I saw his figure in the deepening twilight41. The picture remains42 in its murky43 halo fixed44 in memory. Standing45 where he last spoke in the centre of the hall, not looking after me, but downward, and, as well as I could see, with the countenance of man who has lost a game, and a ruinous wager46 too — that is black and desperate. I did not utter a syllable47 on the way up. When I reached my room, I began to reconsider the interview more at my leisure. I was, such were my ruminations, to have agreed at once to his preposterous48 offer, and to have been driven, while he smirked49 and grimaced50 behind my back at his acquaintances, through Feltram in his dog-cart to Elverston; and then, to the just indignation of my uncle, to have been delivered up to Lady Knollys’ guardianship51, and to have handed my driver, as I alighted, the handsome fare of 20,000l. It required the impudence52 of Tony Lumpkin, without either his fun or his shrewdness, to have conceived such a prodigious53 practical joke.
“Maybe you’d like a little tea, Miss?” insinuated54 Mary Quince.
“What impertinence!” I exclaimed, with one of my angry stamps on the floor. “Not you, dear old Quince,” I added. “No — no tea just now.”
And I resumed my ruminations, which soon led me to this train of thought —“Stupid and insulting as Dudley’s proposition was, it yet involved a great treason against my uncle. Should I be weak enough to be silent, may he not, wishing to forestal me. misrepresent all that has passed, so as to throw the blame altogether upon me?”
This idea seized upon me with a force which I could not withstand; and on the impulse of the moment I obtained admission to my uncle, and related exactly what had passed. When I had finished my narrative55, which he listened to without once raising his eyes, my uncle cleared his throat once or twice, as if to speak. He was smiling — I thought with an effort, and with elevated brows. When I concluded, he hummed one of those sliding notes, which a less refined man might have expressed by a whistle of surprise and contempt, and again he essayed to speak, but continued silent. The fact is, he seemed to me very much disconcerted. He rose from his seat, and shuffled56 about the room in his slippers57, I believe affecting only to be in search of something, opening and shutting two or three drawers, and turning over some books and papers; and at length, taking up some loose sheets of manuscript, he appeared to have found what he was looking for, and began to read them carelessly, with his back towards me, and with another effort to clear his voice, he said at last —
“And pray, what could the fool mean by all that?”
“I think he must have taken me for an idiot, sir,” I answered.
“Not unlikely. He has lived in a stable, among horses and ostlers; he has always seemed to me something like a centaur58 — that is a centaur composed not of man and horse, but of an ape and an ass12.”
And upon this jibe59 he laughed, not coldly and sarcastically60, as was his wont61, but, I thought, flurriedly. And, continuing to look into his papers, he said, his back still toward me as he read —
“And he did not favour you with an exposition of his meaning, which, except in so far as it estimated his deserts at the modest sum you have named, appears to me too oracular to be interpreted without a kindred inspiration?”
And again he laughed. He was growing more like himself.
“As to your visiting your cousin, Lady Knollys, the stupid rogue62 had only five minutes before heard me express my wish that you should do so before leaving this. I am quite resolved you shall — that is, unless, dear Maud, you should yourself object; but, of course, we must wait for an invitation, which, I conjecture63, will not be long in coming. In fact, your letter will naturally bring it about, and, I trust, open the way to a permanent residence with her. The more I think it over, the more am I convinced, dear niece, that as things are likely to turn out, my roof would be no desirable shelter for you; and that, under all circumstances, hers would. Such were my motives64, Maud, in opening, through your letter, a door of reconciliation65 between us.”
I felt that I ought to have kissed his hand — that he had indicated precisely66 the future that I most desired; and yet there was within me a vague feeling, akin6 to suspicion — akin to dismay which chilled and overcast67 my soul.
“But, Maud,” he said, “I am disquieted68 to think of that stupid jackanapes presuming to make you such an offer! A creditable situation truly — arriving in the dark at Elverston, under the solitary69 escort of that wild young man, with whom you would have fled from my guardianship; and, Maud, I tremble as I ask myself the question, would he have conducted you to Elverston at all? When you have lived as long in the world as I, you will appreciate its wickedness more justly.” Here there was a little pause.
“I know, my dear, that were he convinced of his legal marriage with that young woman,” he resumed, perceiving how startled I looked, “such an idea, of course, would not have entered his head; but he does not believe any such thing. Contrary to fact and logic70, he does honestly think that his hand is still at his disposal; and I certainly do suspect that he would have employed that excursion in endeavouring to persuade you to think as he does. Be that how it may, however, it is satisfactory to me to know that you shall never more be troubled by one word from that ill-regulated young man. I made him my adieux, such as they were, this evening; and never more shall he enter the walls of Bartram–Haugh while we two live.”
Uncle Silas replaced the papers which had ostensibly interested him so much, and returned. There was a vein71 which was visible near the angle of his lofty temple, and in moments of agitation72 stood out against the surrounding pallor in a knotted blue cord; and as he came back smiling askance, I saw this sign of inward tumult73.
“We can, however, afford to despise the follies74 and knaveries75 of the world, Maud, as long as we act, as we have hitherto done, with perfect confidence in each other. Heaven bless you, dear Maud! Your report troubled me, I believe, more than it need — troubled me a good deal; but reflection assures me it is nothing. He is gone. In a few days’ time he will be on the sea. I will issue my orders to-morrow morning, and he will never more, during his brief stay in England, gain admission to Bartram–Haugh. Good-night, my good niece; I thank you.”
And so I returned to Mary Quince, on the whole happier than I had left her, but still with the confused and jarring vision I could not interpret perpetually rising before me; and as, from time to time, shapeless anxieties agitated me, relieving them by appeals to Him who alone is wise and strong.
Next day brought me a goodnatured gossiping letter from dear Milly, written in compulsory76 French, which was, in some places, very difficult to interpret. She gave me a very pleasant account of the place, and her opinion of the girls who were inmates77, and mentioned some of the nuns78 with high commendation. The language plainly cramped79 poor Milly’s genius; but although there was by no means so much fun as an honest English letter would have brought me, there could be no mistake about her liking80 the place, and she expressed her honest longing81 to see me in the most affectionate terms.
This letter came enclosed in one to my uncle, from the proper authority in the convent; and as there was neither address within, nor post-mark without, I was as much in the dark as ever as to poor Milly’s whereabouts.
Pencilled across the envelope of this letter, in my uncle’s hand, were the words, “Let me have your answer when sealed, and I will transmit it. — S. R.
When, accordingly, some days later, I did place my letter to Milly in my uncle’s hands, he told me the reason of his reserves on the subject.
“I thought it best, dear Maud, not to plague you with a secret, and Milly’s present address is one. It will in a few weeks become the rallying-point of our diverse routes, when you shall meet her, and I join you both. Nobody, until the storm shall have blown over, must know where I am to be found, except my lawyer; and I think you would prefer ignorance to the trouble of keeping a secret on which so much may depend.”
This being reasonable, and even considerate, I acquiesced82.
In that interval there reached me such a charming, gay, and affectionate letter — a very long letter, too — though the writer was scarcely seven miles away, from dear Cousin Monica, full of pleasant gossip, and rose-coloured and golden castles in the air, and the kindest interest in poor Milly, and the warmest affection for me.
One other incident varied83 that interval, if possible more pleasantly than those. It was the announcement, in a Liverpool paper, of the departure of the Seamew, bound for Melbourne; and among the passengers were reported, “Dudley Ruthyn, Equire, of Bartram-H., and Mrs. D. Ruthyn.”
And now I began to breathe freely, I plainly saw the end of my probation84 approaching: a short excursion to France, a happy meeting with Milly, and then a delightful85 residence with Cousin Monica for the remainder of by nonage.
You will say then that my spirits and my serenity86 were quite restored. Not quite. How marvellously lie our anxieties, in filmy layers, one over the other! Take away that which has lain on the upper surface for so long — take care of cares — the only one, as it seemed to you, between your soul and the radiance of Heaven — and straight you find a new stratum87 there. As physical science tells us no fluid is without its skin, so does it seem with this fine medium of the soul, and these successive films of care that form upon its surface on mere38 contact with the upper air and light.
What was my new trouble? A very fantastic one, you will say — the illusion of a self-tormentor. It was the face of Uncle Silas which haunted me. Notwithstanding the old pale smile, there was a shrinking grimness, and the always-averted look.
Sometimes I fancied his mind was disordered. I could not account for the eerie88 lights and shadows that flickered89 on his face, except so. There was a look of shame and fear of me, amazing as that seems, in the sheen of his peaked smile.
I thought, “Perhaps he blames himself for having tolerated Dudley’s suit — for having urged it on grounds of personal distress90 — for having altogether lowered, though under sore temptation, both himself and his office; and he thinks that he has forfeited91 my respect.”
Such was my analysis; but in the coup-d’oeil of that white face that dazzled me in darkness, and haunted my daily reveries with a faded light, there was an intangible character of the insidious92 and the terrible.
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1
descended
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| a.为...后裔的，出身于...的 | |
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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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dismal
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| adj.阴沉的，凄凉的，令人忧郁的，差劲的 | |
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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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detested
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| v.憎恶，嫌恶，痛恨( detest的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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akin
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| adj.同族的，类似的 | |
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fragrance
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| n.芬芳，香味，香气 | |
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gaudy
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| adj.华而不实的；俗丽的 | |
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odious
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| adj.可憎的，讨厌的 | |
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discomfited
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| v.使为难( discomfit的过去式和过去分词)；使狼狈；使挫折；挫败 | |
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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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ass
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| n.驴；傻瓜，蠢笨的人 | |
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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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harangue
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| n.慷慨冗长的训话，言辞激烈的讲话 | |
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vehemence
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agitated
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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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savage
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| adj.野蛮的；凶恶的，残暴的；n.未开化的人 | |
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legacy
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archer
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spout
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hog
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demurely
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protracted
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mangles
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almighty
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| adj.全能的，万能的；很大的，很强的 | |
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guardian
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| n.监护人；守卫者，保护者 | |
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treacherous
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infamous
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effrontery
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peremptorily
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catching
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vex
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brawling
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brat
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disdain
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insolent
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mere
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outraged
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| a.震惊的，义愤填膺的 | |
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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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twilight
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| n.暮光，黄昏；暮年，晚期，衰落时期 | |
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remains
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| n.剩余物，残留物；遗体，遗迹 | |
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murky
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| adj.黑暗的，朦胧的；adv.阴暗地，混浊地；n.阴暗；昏暗 | |
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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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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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wager
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| n.赌注；vt.押注，打赌 | |
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syllable
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| n.音节；vt.分音节 | |
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preposterous
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| adj.荒谬的，可笑的 | |
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smirked
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grimaced
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| v.扮鬼相，做鬼脸( grimace的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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guardianship
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| n. 监护, 保护, 守护 | |
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impudence
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| n.厚颜无耻；冒失；无礼 | |
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prodigious
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| adj.惊人的，奇妙的；异常的；巨大的；庞大的 | |
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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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narrative
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| n.叙述，故事；adj.叙事的，故事体的 | |
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shuffled
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| v.洗（纸牌）( shuffle的过去式和过去分词 )；拖着脚步走；粗心地做；摆脱尘世的烦恼 | |
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slippers
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| n. 拖鞋 | |
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58
centaur
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| n.人首马身的怪物 | |
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59
jibe
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| v.嘲笑，与...一致，使转向；n.嘲笑，嘲弄 | |
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sarcastically
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| adv.挖苦地，讽刺地 | |
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wont
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| adj.习惯于；v.习惯；n.习惯 | |
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rogue
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| n.流氓；v.游手好闲 | |
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conjecture
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| n./v.推测，猜测 | |
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motives
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| n.动机，目的( motive的名词复数 ) | |
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reconciliation
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| n.和解，和谐，一致 | |
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precisely
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| adv.恰好，正好，精确地，细致地 | |
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overcast
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| adj.阴天的，阴暗的，愁闷的；v.遮盖，（使）变暗，包边缝；n.覆盖，阴天 | |
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disquieted
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| v.使不安，使忧虑，使烦恼( disquiet的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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solitary
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| adj.孤独的，独立的，荒凉的；n.隐士 | |
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logic
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| n.逻辑(学)；逻辑性 | |
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vein
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| n.血管，静脉；叶脉，纹理；情绪；vt.使成脉络 | |
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agitation
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| n.搅动；搅拌；鼓动，煽动 | |
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tumult
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| n.喧哗；激动，混乱；吵闹 | |
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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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75
knaveries
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| n.流氓行为( knavery的名词复数 ) | |
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compulsory
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| n.强制的，必修的；规定的，义务的 | |
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inmates
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| n.囚犯( inmate的名词复数 ) | |
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nuns
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| n.（通常指基督教的）修女， （佛教的）尼姑( nun的名词复数 ) | |
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cramped
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| a.狭窄的 | |
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liking
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| n.爱好；嗜好；喜欢 | |
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longing
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| n.（for）渴望 | |
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acquiesced
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| v.默认，默许( acquiesce的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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varied
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| adj.多样的，多变化的 | |
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probation
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| n.缓刑(期)，(以观后效的)察看；试用(期) | |
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delightful
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| adj.令人高兴的，使人快乐的 | |
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serenity
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| n.宁静，沉着，晴朗 | |
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stratum
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| n.地层，社会阶层 | |
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eerie
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| adj.怪诞的；奇异的；可怕的；胆怯的 | |
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flickered
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| （通常指灯光）闪烁，摇曳( flicker的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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distress
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| n.苦恼，痛苦，不舒适；不幸；vt.使悲痛 | |
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forfeited
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| （因违反协议、犯规、受罚等）丧失，失去( forfeit的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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insidious
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| adj.阴险的，隐匿的，暗中为害的，（疾病）不知不觉之间加剧 | |
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