I felt on the point of fainting, but I rallied.
“Not much, Meg. Go on, for Heaven’s sake. Does Uncle Silas know he is here?”
“Well, Miss, they were with him, Brice told me, from eleven o’clock to nigh one o’ Tuesday ngiht, an’ went in and come out like thieves, ‘feard ye’d see ’em.”
“And how does Brice know anything bad?” I asked, with a strange freezing sensation creeping from my heels to my head and down again — I am sure deadly pale, but speaking very collectedly.
“Brice said, Miss, he saw Dudley a-cryin’ and lookin’ awful black, and says he to fayther, ‘Tisn’t in my line nohow, an’ I can’t;’ and says fayther to he, ‘No one likes they soart o’ things, but how can ye help it? The old boy’s behind ye wi’ his pitchfork, and ye canna stop.’ An’ wi’ tha the bethought him o’ Brice, and says he, ‘What be ye a-doin’ there? Get ye down wi’ the nags1 to blacksmith, do ye.’ An’ oop gits Dudley, pullin’ his had ower his brows, an’ says he, ‘I wish I was in the Seamew. I’m good for nout wi’ this thing a-hangin’ ower me.’ An’ that’s all as Brice heard. An’ he’s afeard o’ fayther and Dudley awful. Dudley could like him to pot if he crossed him, and he and fayther ‘ud think nout o’ havin’ him afore the justices for poachin’, and swearin’ him into gaol2.”
“But why does he think it’s about me?”
“Hish!” said Meg, who fancied she heard a sound, but all was quiet. “I can’t say — we’re in danger, lass. I don’t know why — but he does, an’ so do I, an’, for that matter, so do ye.”
“Meg, I’ll leave Bartram.”
“Ye can’t.”
“Can’t. What do you mean, girl?”
“They won’t let ye oot. The gates is all locked. They’ve dogs — they’ve bloodhounds, Brice says. Ye can’t git oot, mind; put that oot o’ your head.
“I tell ye what ye’ll do. Write a bit o’ a note to the lady yonder at Elverston; an’ though Brice be a wild fellah, and ‘appen not ower good sometimes, he likes me, an’ I’ll make him take it. Fayther will be grindin’ at mill to-morrow. Coom ye here about one o’clock — that’s if ye see the mill-sails a-turnin’— and me and Brice will meet ye here. Bring that old lass wi’ ye. There’s an old French un, though, that talks wi’ Dudley. Mind ye, that un knows nout o’ the matter. Brice be a kind lad to me, whatsoe’er he be wi’ others, and I think he won’t split. Now, lass, I must go. God help ye; God bless ye; an’, for the world’s wealth, don’t ye let one o’ them see ye’ve got ought in your head, not even that un.”
Before I could say another word, the girl had glided3 from me, with a wild gesture of silence, and a shake of her head.
I can’t at all account for the state in which I was. There are resources both of energy and endurance in human nature which we never suspect until the tremendous voice of necessity summons them into play. Petrified4 with a totally new horror, but with something of the coldness and impassiveness of the transformation5, I stood, spoke6, and acted — a wonder, almost a terror, to myself.
I met Madame on my return as if nothing had happened. I heard her ugly gabble, and looked at the fruits of her hour’s shopping, as I might hear, and see, and talk, and smile, in a dream.
But the night was dreadful. When Mary Quince and I were alone, I locked the door. I continued walking up and down the room, with my hands clasped, looking at the inexorable floor, the walls, the ceiling, with a sort of imploring7 despair. I was afraid to tell my dear old Mary. The least indiscretion would be failure, and failure destruction.
I answered her perplexed8 solicitudes9 by telling her that I was not very well — that I was uneasy; but I did not fail to extract from her a promise that she would not hint to mortal, either my suspicions about Dudley, or our rencontre with Meg Hawkes.
I remember how, when, after we had got, late at night, into bed, I sat up, shivering with horror, in mine, while honest Mary’s tranquil10 breathing told how soundly she slept. I got up, and looked from the window, expecting to see some of those wolfish dogs which they had brought to the place prowling about the court-yard. Sometimes I prayed, and felt tranquillised, and fancied that I was perhaps to have a short interval11 of sleep. But the serenity12 was delusive13, and all the time my nerves were strung hysterically14. Sometimes I felt quite wild, and on the point of screaming. AT length that dreadful night passed away. Morning came, and a less morbid15, though hardly a less terrible state of mind. Madame paid me an early visit. A thought struck me. I knew that she loved shopping, and I said, quite carelessly —
“Your yesterday’s shopping tempts16 me, Madame, and I must get a few things before we leave for France. Suppose we go into Feltram to-day, and make my purchases, you and I?”
She looked from the corner of her cunning eye in my face without answering. I did not blench17, and she said —
“Vary good. I would be vary ‘appy,” and again she looked oddly at me.
“Wat hour, my dear Maud? One o’clock? I think that weel do very well, eh?”
I assented18, and she grew silent.
I wonder whether I did look as careless as I tried. I do not know. Through the whole of this awful period I was, I think, supernatural; and I even now look back with wonder upon my strange self-command.
Madame, I hoped, had heard nothing of the order which prohibited my exit from the place. She would herself conduct me to Feltram, and secure, by accompanying me, my free egress19.
Once in Feltram, I would assert my freedom, and manage to reach my dear cousin Knollys. Back to Bartram no power should convey me. My heart swelled20 and fluttered in the awful suspense21 of that hour.
Oh, Bartram–Haugh! how came you by those lofty walls? Which of my ancestors had begirt me with an impassable barrier in this horrible strait?
Suddenly I remembered my letter to Lady Knollys. If I were disappointed in effecting my escape through Feltram, all would depend upon it.
Having locked my door, I wrote as follows:—
“Oh, my beloved cousin, as you hope for comfort in your hour of fear, aid me now. Dudley has returned, and is secreted22 somewhere about the grounds. It is a fraud. They all pretend to me that he is gone away in the Seamew; and he or they had his name published as one of the passengers. Madame de la Rougierre has appeared! She is here, and my uncle insists on making her my close companion. I am at my wits’ ends. I cannot escape — the walls are a prison; and I believe the eyes of my gaolers are always upon me. Dogs are kept for pursuit — yes, dogs! and the gates are locked against my escape. God help me; I don’t know where to look, or whom to trust. I fear my uncle more than all. I think I could bear this better if I knew what their plans are, even the worst. If ever you loved or pitied me, dear cousin, I conjure23 you, help me in this extremity24. Take me away from this. Oh, darling, for God’s sake, take me away!
“Your distracted and terrified cousin,
MAUD”
“Bartram–Haugh”
I sealed this letter jealously, as if the inanimate missive would burst its cerements, and proclaim my desperate appeal through all the chambers25 and passages of silent Bartram.
Old Quince, greatly to cousin Monica’s amusement, persisted in furnishing me with those capacious pockets which belonged to a former generation. I was glad of this old-world eccentricity26 now, and placed my guilty letter, that, amidst all my hypocrisies27, spoke out with terrible frankness, deep in this receptacle, and having hid away the pen and ink, my accomplices28, I opened the door, and resumed by careless looks, awaiting Madame’s return.
“I was to demand to Mr. Ruthyn the permission to go to Feltram, and I think he will allow. He want to speak to you.”
With Madame I entered my uncle’s room. He was reclining on a sofa, his back towards us, and his long white hair, as fine as spun29 glass, hung over the back of the couch.
“I was going to ask you, dear Maud, to execute two or three little commissions for me in Feltram.”
My dreadful letter felt lighter30 in my pocket, and my heart beat violently
“But I have just recollected31 that this is a market-day, and Feltram will be full of doubtful characters and tipsy persons, so we must wait till to-morrow; and Madame says, very kindly32, that she will, as she does not so much mind, make any little purchases to-day which cannot conveniently wait.”
Madame assented with a courtesy to Uncle Silas, and a great hollow smile to me.
By this time Uncle Silas had raised himself form his reclining posture33, and was sitting, gaunt and white, upon the sofa.
“News of my prodigal34 to-day,” he said, with a peevish35 smile, drawing the newspaper towards him. “The vessel36 has been spoken again. How many miles away, do you suppose?”
He spoke in a plaintive37 key, looking at me, with hungry eyes, and a horribly smiling countenance38.
“How far do you suppose Dudley is to-day?” and he laid the palm of his hand on the paragraph as he spoke. “Guess!”
For a moment I fancied this was a theatric preparation to give point to the disclosure of Dudley’s real whereabouts.
“It was a very long way. Guess!” he repeated.
So, stammering39 a little and pale, I performed the required hypocrisy40, after which my uncle read aloud for my benefit the line or two in which were recorded the event, and the latitude41 and longitude42 of the vessel at the time, of which Madame made a note in her memory, for the purpose of making her usual tracing in poor Milly’s Atlas43.
I cannot say how it really was, but I fancied that Uncle Silas was all the time reading my countenance, with a grim and practised scrutiny44; but nothing came of it, and we were dismissed.
Madame loved shopping, even for its own sake, but shopping with opportunities of peculation45 still more. She had had her luncheon46, and was dressed for the excursion, she did precisely47 what I now most desired — she proposed to take charge of my commissions and my money; and thus entrusted48, left me at liberty to keep tryst49 at the Chestnut50 Hollow.
So soon as I had seen Madame fairly off, I hurried Mary Quince, and got my things on quickly. We left the house by the side entrance, which I knew my uncle’s windows did not command. Glad was I to feel a slight breeze, enough to make the mill-sails revolve51; and as we got further into the grounds, and obtained a distant view of the picturesque52 old windmill, I felt inexpressibly relieved on seeing that it was actually working.
We were now in the Chestnut Hollow, and I sent Mary Quince to her old point of observation, which commanded a view of the path in the direction of the Windmill Wood, with her former order to call “I’ve found it,” as loudly as she could, in case she should see anyone approaching.
I stopped at the point of our yesterday’s meeting. I peered under the branches, and my heart beat fast as I saw Meg Hawkes awaiting me.
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1
nags
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| n.不断地挑剔或批评（某人）( nag的名词复数 )；不断地烦扰或伤害（某人）；无休止地抱怨；不断指责v.不断地挑剔或批评（某人）( nag的第三人称单数 )；不断地烦扰或伤害（某人）；无休止地抱怨；不断指责 | |
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2
gaol
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| n.(jail)监狱；(不加冠词)监禁；vt.使…坐牢 | |
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3
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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4
petrified
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| adj.惊呆的；目瞪口呆的v.使吓呆，使惊呆；变僵硬；使石化(petrify的过去式和过去分词) | |
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5
transformation
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| n.变化；改造；转变 | |
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6
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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7
imploring
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| 恳求的，哀求的 | |
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8
perplexed
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| adj.不知所措的 | |
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9
solicitudes
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| n.关心，挂念，渴望( solicitude的名词复数 ) | |
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10
tranquil
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| adj. 安静的, 宁静的, 稳定的, 不变的 | |
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11
interval
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| n.间隔，间距；幕间休息，中场休息 | |
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12
serenity
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| n.宁静，沉着，晴朗 | |
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13
delusive
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| adj.欺骗的，妄想的 | |
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14
hysterically
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| ad. 歇斯底里地 | |
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15
morbid
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| adj.病的；致病的；病态的；可怕的 | |
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16
tempts
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| v.引诱或怂恿（某人）干不正当的事( tempt的第三人称单数 )；使想要 | |
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17
blench
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| v.退缩，畏缩 | |
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18
assented
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| 同意，赞成( assent的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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egress
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| n.出去；出口 | |
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20
swelled
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| 增强( swell的过去式和过去分词 )； 肿胀； （使）凸出； 充满（激情） | |
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21
suspense
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| n.（对可能发生的事）紧张感，担心，挂虑 | |
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22
secreted
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| v.（尤指动物或植物器官）分泌( secrete的过去式和过去分词 )；隐匿，隐藏 | |
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23
conjure
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| v.恳求，祈求；变魔术，变戏法 | |
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24
extremity
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| n.末端，尽头；尽力；终极；极度 | |
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25
chambers
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| n.房间( chamber的名词复数 )；（议会的）议院；卧室；会议厅 | |
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26
eccentricity
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| n.古怪，反常，怪癖 | |
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27
hypocrisies
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| n.伪善，虚伪( hypocrisy的名词复数 ) | |
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28
accomplices
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| 从犯，帮凶，同谋( accomplice的名词复数 ) | |
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29
spun
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| v.纺，杜撰，急转身 | |
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30
lighter
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| n.打火机，点火器；驳船；v.用驳船运送；light的比较级 | |
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31
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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32
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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33
posture
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| n.姿势，姿态，心态，态度；v.作出某种姿势 | |
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34
prodigal
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| adj.浪费的，挥霍的，放荡的 | |
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35
peevish
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| adj.易怒的，坏脾气的 | |
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36
vessel
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| n.船舶；容器，器皿；管，导管，血管 | |
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37
plaintive
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| adj.可怜的，伤心的 | |
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38
countenance
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| n.脸色，面容；面部表情；vt.支持，赞同 | |
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39
stammering
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| v.结巴地说出( stammer的现在分词 ) | |
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40
hypocrisy
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| n.伪善，虚伪 | |
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41
latitude
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| n.纬度，行动或言论的自由(范围)，(pl.)地区 | |
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42
longitude
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| n.经线，经度 | |
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43
atlas
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| n.地图册，图表集 | |
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44
scrutiny
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| n.详细检查，仔细观察 | |
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45
peculation
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| n.侵吞公款[公物] | |
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46
luncheon
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| n.午宴，午餐，便宴 | |
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47
precisely
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| adv.恰好，正好，精确地，细致地 | |
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48
entrusted
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| v.委托，托付( entrust的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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49
tryst
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| n.约会；v.与…幽会 | |
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50
chestnut
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| n.栗树，栗子 | |
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51
revolve
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| vi.(使)旋转；循环出现 | |
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52
picturesque
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| adj.美丽如画的，（语言）生动的，绘声绘色的 | |
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