The day I now speak of was a dismal2 one of sleety3 snow. My own room seemed to me cheerier than the lonely parlour, where I could not have had good Mary Quince so decorously.
A good fire, that kind and trusty face, the peep I had just indulged in at my favourite paragraph, and the certainty of soon seeing my dear cousin Monica, and afterwards affectionate Milly, raised my spirits.
“So,” said I, “as old Wyat, you say, is laid up with rheumatism6, and can’t turn up to scold me, I think I’ll run up stairs and make an exploration, and find poor Mr. Clarke’s skeleton in a closet.”
“Oh, law, Miss Maud, how can you say such tings!” exclaimed good old Quince, lifting up her honest grey head and round eyes from her knitting.
I had grown so familiar with the frightful7 tradition of Mr. Clarke and his suicide, that I could now afford to frighten old Quince with him.
“I am quite serious. I am going to have a ramble8 up-stairs and down-stairs, like goosey-goosey-gander; and if I do light upon his chamber9, it is all the more interesting. I feel so like Adelaide, in the “Romance of the Forest,” the book I was reading to you last night, when she commenced her delightful10 rambles11 through the interminable ruined abbey in the forest.”
“Shall I go with you, Miss?”
“No, Quince; stay there; keep a good fire, and make some tea. I suspect I shall lose heart and return very soon;” and with a shawl about me, cowl fashion, over my head, I stole up-stairs.
I shall not recount with the particularity of the conscientious12 heroine of Mrs. Anne Radcliffe, all the suites14 of apartments, corridors, and lobbies, which I threaded in my ramble. It will be enough to mention that I lighted upon a door at the end of a long gallery, which, I think, ran parallel with the front of the house; it interested me because it had the air of having been very long undisturbed. There were two rusty5 bolts, which did not evidently belong to its original securities, and had been, though very long ago, somewhat clumsily superadded. Dusty and rusty they were, but I had not difficulty in drawing them back. There was a rusty key, I remember it well, with a crooked15 handle in the lock; I tried to turn it, but could not. My curiosity was piqued16. I was thinking of going back and getting Mary Quince’s assistance. It struck me, however, that possibly it was not locked, so I pulled the door and it opened quite easily. I did not find myself in a strangely-furnished suite13 of apartments, but at the entrance of a gallery, which diverged17 at right angles from that through which I had just passed; it was very imperfectly lighted, and ended in total darkness.
I began to think how far I had already come, and to consider whether I could retrace18 my steps with accuracy in case of a panic, and I had serious thoughts of returning.
The idea of Mr. Clarke was growing unpleasantly sharp and menacing; and as I looked down the long space before me, losing itself among ambiguous shadows, lulled19 in a sinister20 silence, and as it were inviting21 my entrance like a trap, I was very near yielding to the cowardly impulse.
But I took heart of grace and determined22 to see a little more. I opened a side-door, and entered a large room, where were, in a corner, some rusty and cobwebbed bird-cages, but nothing more. It was a wainscoted room, but a white mildew23 stained the panels. I looked from the window: it commanded that dismal, weed-choked quadrangle into which I had once looked from another window. I opened a door at its farther end, and entered another chamber, not quite so large, but equally dismal, with the same prison-like look-out, not very easily discerned through the grimy panes24 and the sleet4 that was falling thickly outside. The door through which I had entered made a little accidental creak, and, with my heart at my lips, I gazed at it, expecting to see Clarke, or the skeleton of which I had talked so lightly, stalk in at the half-open aperture25. But I had an odd sort of courage which was always fighting against my cowardly nerves, and I walked to the door, and looking up and down the dismal passage, was reassured26.
Well, one room more — just that whose deep-set door fronted me, with a melancholy27 frown, at the opposite end of the chamber. So to it I glided28, shoved it open, advancing one step, and the great bony figure of Madame de la Rougierre was before me.
I could see nothing else.
The drowsy29 traveller who opens his sheets to slip into bed, and sees a scorpion30 coiled between them, may have experienced a shock the same in kind, but immeasurably less in degree.
She sat in a clumsy old arm-chair, with an ancient shawl about her, and her bare feet in a delft tub. She looked a thought more withered31. Her wig32 shoved back disclosed her bald wrinkled forehead, and enhanced the ugly effect of her exaggerated features and the gaunt hollows of her face. With a sense of incredulity and terror I gazed, freezing, at this evil phantom33, who returned my stare for a few seconds with a shrinking scowl34, dismal and grim, as of an evil spirit detected.
The meeting, at least then and there, was as complete a surprise for her as for me. She could not tell how I might take it; but she quickly rallied, burst into a loud screeching35 laugh, and, with her old Walpurgis gaiety, danced some fantastic steps in her bare wet feet, tracking the floor with water, and holding out with finger and thumb, in dainty caricature, her slammakin old skirt, while she sang some of her nasal patois36 with an abominable37 hilarity38 and emphasis.
With a gasp39, I too recovered from the fascination40 of the surprise. I could not speak though for some seconds, and Madame was first.
“Ah, dear Maud, what surprise! Are we not overjoy, dearest, and cannot speak? I am full of joy — quite charmed — ravie of seeing you. So are you of me, your face betray. Ah! yes, thou dear little baboon41! here is poor Madame once more! Who could have imagine?”
“I thought you were in France, Madame,” I said, with a dismal effort.
“And so I was, dear Maud; I ‘av just arrive. Your uncle Silas he wrote to the superioress for gouvernante to accompany a young lady — that is you, Maud — on her journey, and she send me; and so, ma chère, here is poor Madame arrive to charge herself of that affair.”
“How soon do we leave for France, Madame?” I asked.
“I do not know, but the old women — wat is her name?”
“Wyat,” I suggested.
“Oh! oui, Waiatt; — she says two, three week. And who conduct you to poor Madame’s apartment, my dear Maud?” she inquired insinuatingly42.
“No one,” I answered promptly43: “I reached it quite accidentally, and I can’t imagine why you should conceal44 yourself.” Something like indignation kindled45 in my mind as I began to wonder at the sly strategy which had been practised upon me.
“I ‘av not conceal myself, Mademoiselle,” retorted the governess. “I ‘av act precisally as I ‘av been ordered. Your uncle, Mr. Silas Ruthyn, he is afraid, Waiatt says, to be interrupted by his creditors46, and everything must be done very quaitly. I have been commanded to avoid me faire voir, you know, and I must obey my employer — voilà tout47!”
“And for how long have you been residing here?” I persisted, in the same resentful vein48.
“‘Bout a week. It is soche triste place! I am so glad to see you, Maud! I’ve been so isolée, you dear leetle fool!”
“You are not glad, Madame; you don’t love me — you never did,” I exclaimed with sudden vehemence49.
“Yes, I am very glad; you know not, chère petite niaise, how I ‘av desire to educate you a leetle more. Let us understand one another. You think I do not love you, Mademoiselle, because you have mentioned to your poor papa that little dérèglement in his library. I have repent50 very often that so great indiscretion of my life. I thoiught to find some letters of Dr. Braierly. I think that man was trying to get your property, my dear Maud, and if I had found something I would tell you all about. But it was very great sottise, and you were very right to denounce me to Monsieur. Je n’ai point de rancune contre vous. No, no, none at all. On the contrary, I shall be your gardienne tutelaire — wat you call? — guardian51 angel — ah, yes, that is it. You think I speak par1 dérision; not at all. No, my dear cheaile, I do not speak par moquerie, unless perhaps the very least degree in the world.”
And with these words Madame laughed unpleasantly, showing the black caverns52 at the side of her mouth, and with a cold, steady malignity53 in her gaze.
“Yes,” I said; “I know what you mean, Madame — you hate me.”
“Oh! wat great ugly word! I am shock! vous me faites honte. Poor Madame, she never hate any one; while I am, as you see, more gay, more joyeuse than ever, they have not been ‘appy — no, they have not been fortunate these others. Wen I return, I find always some of my enemy they ‘av die, and some they have put themselves into embarrassment54, or there has arrived to them some misfortune;” and Madame shrugged55 and laughed a little scornfully.
A kind of horror chilled my rising anger, and I was silent.
“You see, my dear Maud, it is very natural you should think I hate you. When I was with Mr. Austin Ruthyn, at Knowl, you know you did not like a me — never. But in consequence of our intimacy56 I confide57 you that which I ‘av of most dear in the world, my reputation. It is always so. The pupil can calomniate, without been discover, the gouvernante. ‘Av I not been always kind to you Maud? Which ‘av I use of violence or of sweetness the most? I am, like other persons, jalouse de ma réputation; and it was difficult to suffer with patience the banishment58 which was invoked59 by you, because chiefly for your good, and for an indiscretion to which I was excited by motives60 the most pure and laudable. It was you who spied so cleverly — eh! and denounce me to Monsieur Ruthyn? Helas! wat bad world it is!”
“I do not mean to speak at all about that occurrence, Madame; I will not discuss it. I dare say what you tell me of the cause of your engagement here s true, and I suppose we must travel, as you say, in company; but you must know that the less we see of each other while in this house the better.”
“I am not so sure of that, my sweet little béte; your education has been neglected, or rather entirely61 abandoned, since you ‘av arrive at this place, I am told. You must not be a bestiole. We must do, you and I, as we are ordered. Mr. Silas Ruthyn he will tell us.”
All this time Madame was pulling on her stockings, getting her boots on, and otherwise proceeding62 with her dowdy63 toilet. I do not know why I stood there talking to her. We often act very differently from what we would have done upon reflection. I had involved myself in a dialogue, as wiser generals than I have entangled64 themselves in a general action when they meant only an affair of outposts. I had grown a little angry, and would not betray the least symptom of fear, although I felt that sensation profoundly.
“My beloved father thought you so unfit a companion for me that he dismissed you at an hour’s notice, and I am very sure that my uncle will think as he did; you are not a fit companion for me, and had my uncle known what had passed he would never have admitted you to this house — never!”
“Helas! Quelle disgrace! And you really think so, my dear Maud,” exclaimed Madame, adjusting her wig before her glass, in the corner of which I could see half of her sly, grinning face, as she ogled65 herself in it.
“I do, and so do you, Madame,” I replied, growing more frightened.
“It may be — we shall see; but everyone is not so cruel as you, ma chère petite calomniatrice.”
“You shan’t call me those names,” I said, in an angry tremor66.
“What name, dearest cheaile?”
“Calomniatrice — that is an insult.”
“Why, my most foolish little Maud, we may say rogue67, and a thousand other little words in play which we do not say seriously.”
“You are not playing — you never play — you are angry, and you hate me,” I exclaimed, vehemently68.
“Oh, fie! — wat shame! Do you not perceive, dearest cheaile, how much education you still need? You are proud, little demoiselle; you must become, on the contrary, quaite humble69. Je ferai baiser le babouin à vous — ha, ha, ha! I weel make a you to kees the monkey. You are too proud, my dear cheaile.”
“I am not such a fool as I was at Knowl,” I said; “you shall not terrify me here. I will tell my uncle the whole truth,” I said.
“Well, it may be that is the best,” she replied, with provoking coolness.
“You think I don’t mean it?”
“Of course you do,” she replied.
“And we shall see what my uncle thinks of it.”
“We shall see, my dear,” she replied, with an air of mock contrition70.
“Adieu, Madame!”
“You are going to Monsieur Ruthyn? — very good!”
I made her no answer, but more agitated71 than I cared to show her, I left the room. I hurried along the twilight72 passage, and turned into the long gallery that opened from it at right angles. I had not gone half-a-dozen steps on my return when I heard a heavy tread and a rustling73 behind me.
“I am ready, my dear; I weel accompany you,” said the smirking74 phantom, hurrying after me.
“Very well,” was my reply; and threading out way, with a few hesitations75 and mistakes, we reached and descended76 the stairs, and in a minute more stood at my uncle’s door.
My uncle looked hard and strangely at us as we entered. He looked, indeed, as if his temper was violently excited, and glared and muttered to himself for a few seconds; and treating Madame to a stare of disgust, he asked peevishly77 —
“Why am I disturbed, pray?”
“Miss Maud a Ruthyn, she weel explain,” replied Madame, with a great courtesy, like a boat going down in a ground swell78.
“Will you explain, my dear?” he asked, in his coldest and most sarcastic79 tone.
I was agitated, and I am sure my statement was confused. I succeeded, however, in saying what I wanted.
“Why, Madame, this is a grave charge! Do you admit it, pray?”
Madame, with the coolest possible effrontery80, denied it all; with the most solemn assertions, and with streaming eyes and clasped hands, conjured81 me melodramatically to withdraw that intolerable story, and to do her justice. I stared at her for a while astounded82, and turning suddenly to my uncle, as vehemently asserted the truth of every syllable83 I had related.
“You hear, my dear child, you hear her deny everything; what am I to think? You must excuse the bewilderment of my old head. Madame de la — that lady has arrived excellently recommended by the superioress of the place where dear Milly awaits you, and such persons are particular. It strikes me, my dear niece, that you must have made a mistake.”
I protested here. But he went on without seeming to hear the parenthesis84 —
“I know, my dear Maud, that you are quite incapable85 of wilfully86 deceiving anyone; but you are liable to be deceived like other young people. You were, no doubt, very nervous, and but half awake when you fancied you saw the occurrence you describe; and Madame de — de ——”
“De la Rougierre,” I supplied.
“Yes, thank you — Madame de la Rougierre, who has arrived with excellent testimonials, strenuously87 denies the whole thing. Here is a conflict, my dear — in my mind a presumption88 of mistake. I confess I should prefer that theory to a peremptory89 assumption of guilt90.”
I felt incredulous and amazed; it seemed as if a dream were being enacted91 before me. A transaction of the most serious import, which I had witnessed with my own eyes, and described with unexceptionable minuteness and consistency92, is discredited93 by that strange and suspicious old man with an imbecile coolness. It was quite in vain my reiterating94 my statement, backing it with the most earnest assertions. I was beating the air. It did not seem to reach his mind. It was all received with a simper of feeble incredulity.
He patted and smoothed my head — he laughed gently, and shook his while I insisted; and Madame protested her purity in now tranquil95 floods of innocent tears, and murmured mild and melancholy prayers for my enlightenment and reformation. I felt as if I should loose my reason.
“There now, dear Maud, we have heard enough; it is, I do believe, a delusion96. Madame de la Rougierre will be your companion, at the utmost, for three or four weeks. Do exercise a little of your self-command and good sense — you know how I am tortured. Do not, I entreat97, add to my perplexities. You may make yourself very happy with Madame if you will, I have no doubt.”
“I propose to Mademoiselle,” said Madame, drying her eyes with a gentle alacrity98, “to profit of my visit for her education. But she does not seem to weesh wat I think is so useful.”
“She threatened me with some horrid99 French vulgarism — de faire baiser le babouin à moi, whatever that means; and I know she hates me,” I replied, impetuously.
“Doucement — doucement,” said my uncle, with a smile at once amused and compassionate100. “Doucement! ma chère.”
With great hands and cunning eyes uplifted, Madame tearfully — for her tears came on short notice — again protested her absolute innocence101. She had never in all her life so much as heard one so villain102 phrase.
“You see, my dear, you have misheard; young people never attend. You will do well to take advantage of Madame’s short residence to get up your French a little, and the more you are with her the better.”
“I understand then, Mr. Ruthyn, you weesh I should resume my instructions?” asked Madame.
“Certainly; and converse103 all you can in French with Mademoiselle Maud. You will be glad, my dear, that I’ve insisted on it,” he said, turning to me, “when you have reached France, where you will find they speak nothing else. And now, dear Maud — no, not a word more — you must leave me. Farewell, Madame!”
And he waved us out a little impatiently; and I, without one look toward Madame de la Rougierre, stunned104 and incensed105, walked into my room and shut the door.
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1
par
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| n.标准，票面价值，平均数量；adj.票面的，平常的，标准的 | |
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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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sleety
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| 雨夹雪的，下雨雪的 | |
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sleet
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| n.雨雪；v.下雨雪，下冰雹 | |
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rusty
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| adj.生锈的；锈色的；荒废了的 | |
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rheumatism
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| n.风湿病 | |
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frightful
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| adj.可怕的；讨厌的 | |
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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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chamber
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| n.房间，寝室；会议厅；议院；会所 | |
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delightful
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| adj.令人高兴的，使人快乐的 | |
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rambles
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| （无目的地）漫游( ramble的第三人称单数 )； （喻）漫谈； 扯淡； 长篇大论 | |
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conscientious
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| adj.审慎正直的，认真的，本着良心的 | |
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suite
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| n.一套(家具)；套房；随从人员 | |
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suites
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| n.套( suite的名词复数 )；一套房间；一套家具；一套公寓 | |
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crooked
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| adj.弯曲的；不诚实的，狡猾的，不正当的 | |
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piqued
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| v.伤害…的自尊心( pique的过去式和过去分词 )；激起（好奇心） | |
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diverged
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| 分开( diverge的过去式和过去分词 )； 偏离； 分歧； 分道扬镳 | |
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retrace
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| v.折回；追溯，探源 | |
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lulled
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| vt.使镇静，使安静（lull的过去式与过去分词形式） | |
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sinister
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| adj.不吉利的，凶恶的，左边的 | |
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inviting
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| adj.诱人的，引人注目的 | |
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determined
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| adj.坚定的；有决心的 | |
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mildew
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| n.发霉；v.（使）发霉 | |
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panes
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| 窗玻璃( pane的名词复数 ) | |
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aperture
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| n.孔，隙，窄的缺口 | |
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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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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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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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drowsy
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| adj.昏昏欲睡的，令人发困的 | |
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scorpion
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| n.蝎子，心黑的人，蝎子鞭 | |
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withered
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| adj. 枯萎的，干瘪的，（人身体的部分器官）因病萎缩的或未发育良好的 动词wither的过去式和过去分词形式 | |
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wig
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| n.假发 | |
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phantom
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| n.幻影，虚位，幽灵；adj.错觉的，幻影的，幽灵的 | |
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scowl
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| vi.(at)生气地皱眉，沉下脸，怒视；n.怒容 | |
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screeching
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| v.发出尖叫声( screech的现在分词 )；发出粗而刺耳的声音；高叫 | |
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patois
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| n.方言；混合语 | |
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abominable
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| adj.可厌的，令人憎恶的 | |
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hilarity
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| n.欢乐；热闹 | |
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gasp
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| n.喘息，气喘；v.喘息；气吁吁他说 | |
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fascination
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| n.令人着迷的事物，魅力，迷恋 | |
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baboon
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| n.狒狒 | |
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insinuatingly
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promptly
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| adv.及时地，敏捷地 | |
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conceal
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| v.隐藏，隐瞒，隐蔽 | |
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45
kindled
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| （使某物）燃烧，着火( kindle的过去式和过去分词 )； 激起（感情等）； 发亮，放光 | |
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creditors
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| n.债权人，债主( creditor的名词复数 ) | |
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tout
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| v.推销，招徕；兜售；吹捧，劝诱 | |
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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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vehemence
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| n.热切；激烈；愤怒 | |
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repent
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| v.悔悟，悔改，忏悔，后悔 | |
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51
guardian
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| n.监护人；守卫者，保护者 | |
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52
caverns
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| 大山洞，大洞穴( cavern的名词复数 ) | |
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53
malignity
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| n.极度的恶意，恶毒；（病的）恶性 | |
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54
embarrassment
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| n.尴尬；使人为难的人(事物)；障碍；窘迫 | |
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shrugged
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| vt.耸肩（shrug的过去式与过去分词形式） | |
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intimacy
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| n.熟悉，亲密，密切关系，亲昵的言行 | |
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confide
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| v.向某人吐露秘密 | |
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banishment
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| n.放逐，驱逐 | |
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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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motives
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| n.动机，目的( motive的名词复数 ) | |
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entirely
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| ad.全部地，完整地；完全地，彻底地 | |
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proceeding
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| n.行动，进行，(pl.)会议录，学报 | |
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dowdy
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| adj.不整洁的；过旧的 | |
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entangled
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| adj.卷入的；陷入的；被缠住的；缠在一起的v.使某人（某物/自己）缠绕，纠缠于（某物中），使某人（自己）陷入（困难或复杂的环境中）( entangle的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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ogled
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| v.（向…）抛媚眼，送秋波( ogle的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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tremor
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| n.震动，颤动，战栗，兴奋，地震 | |
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rogue
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| n.流氓；v.游手好闲 | |
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vehemently
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| adv. 热烈地 | |
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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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contrition
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| n.悔罪，痛悔 | |
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agitated
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| adj.被鼓动的，不安的 | |
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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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rustling
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| n. 瑟瑟声，沙沙声 adj. 发沙沙声的 | |
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smirking
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| v.傻笑( smirk的现在分词 ) | |
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hesitations
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| n.犹豫( hesitation的名词复数 )；踌躇；犹豫（之事或行为）；口吃 | |
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descended
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| a.为...后裔的，出身于...的 | |
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peevishly
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| adv．暴躁地 | |
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swell
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| vi.膨胀，肿胀；增长，增强 | |
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sarcastic
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| adj.讥讽的，讽刺的，嘲弄的 | |
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effrontery
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| n.厚颜无耻 | |
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conjured
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| 用魔术变出( conjure的过去式和过去分词 )； 祈求，恳求； 变戏法； （变魔术般地） 使…出现 | |
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astounded
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| v.使震惊(astound的过去式和过去分词)；愕然；愕；惊讶 | |
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syllable
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| n.音节；vt.分音节 | |
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parenthesis
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| n.圆括号，插入语，插曲，间歇，停歇 | |
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incapable
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| adj.无能力的，不能做某事的 | |
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wilfully
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| adv.任性固执地；蓄意地 | |
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strenuously
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| adv.奋发地，费力地 | |
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presumption
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| n.推测，可能性，冒昧，放肆，[法律]推定 | |
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peremptory
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| adj.紧急的，专横的，断然的 | |
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guilt
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| n.犯罪；内疚；过失，罪责 | |
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enacted
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| 制定（法律），通过（法案）( enact的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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consistency
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| n.一贯性，前后一致，稳定性；(液体的)浓度 | |
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discredited
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| 不足信的，不名誉的 | |
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reiterating
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| 反复地说，重申( reiterate的现在分词 ) | |
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tranquil
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| adj. 安静的, 宁静的, 稳定的, 不变的 | |
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delusion
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| n.谬见，欺骗，幻觉，迷惑 | |
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entreat
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| v.恳求，恳请 | |
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alacrity
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| n.敏捷，轻快，乐意 | |
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horrid
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| adj.可怕的；令人惊恐的；恐怖的；极讨厌的 | |
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compassionate
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| adj.有同情心的，表示同情的 | |
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101
innocence
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| n.无罪；天真；无害 | |
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102
villain
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| n.反派演员，反面人物；恶棍；问题的起因 | |
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converse
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| vi.谈话，谈天，闲聊；adv.相反的，相反 | |
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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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incensed
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| 盛怒的 | |
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