And she led the way, shoving aside the leafless underwood, and we reached Tom. The slender youth, groom1 or poacher — he might answer for either — with his short coat and gaitered legs, was sitting on a low horizontal bough2, with his shoulder against the trunk.
“Don’t ye mind; sit ye still, lad,” said Meg, observing that he was preparing to rise, and had entangled3 his hat in the boughs4. “Sit ye still, and hark to the lady. He’ll take it, Miss Maud, if he can; wi’ na ye, lad?”
“E’es, I’ll take it,” he replied, holding out his hand.
“Tom Brice, you won’t deceive me?”
“Noa, sure,” said Tom and Meg nearly in the same breath.
“You are an honest English lad, Tom — you would not betray me?” I was speaking imploringly5.
“Noa, sure,” repeated Tom.
There was something a little unsatisfactory in the countenance6 of this light-haired youth, with the sharpish up-turned nose. Throughout our interview he said next to nothing, and smiled lazily to himself, like a man listening to a child’s solemn nonsense, and leading it on, with an amused irony7, from one wise sally to another.
Thus it seemed to me that this young clown, without in the least intending to be offensive, was listening to me with a profound and lazy mockery.
I could not choose, however; and, such as he was, I must employ him or none.
“Now, Tom Brice, a great deal depends on this.”
“That’s true for her, Tom Brice,” said Meg, who now and then confirmed my asseverations.
“I’ll give you a pound now, Tom,” and I placed the coin and the letter together in his hand. “And you are to give this letter to Lady Knollys, at Elverston; you know Elverston, don’t you?”
“He does, Miss. Don’t ye, lad?”
“E’es.”
“Well, do so, Tom, and I’ll be good to you so long as I live.”
“D’ye hear, lad?”
“E’es,” said Tom; “it’s very good.”
“You’ll take the letter, Tom?” I said, in much greater trepidation8 as to his answer than I showed.
“E’es, I’ll take the letter,” said he, rising, and turning it about in his fingers uknder his eye, like a curiosity.
“Tom Brice,” I said, “If you can’t be true to me, say so; but don’t take the letter except to give it to Lady Knollys, at Elverston. If you won’t promise that, let me have the note back. Keep the pound; but tell me that you won’t mention y having asked you to carry a letter to Elverston to anyone.”
For the first time Tom looked perfectly9 serious. He twiddled the corner of my letter between his finger and thumb, and wore very much the countenance of a poacher about to be committed.
“I don’t want to chouce ye, Miss; but I must take care o’ myself, ye see. The letters goes all through Silas’s fingers to the post, and he’d know damn well this worn’t among ’em. They do say he opens ’em, and reads ’em before they go; an’ that’s his diversion. I don’t know; but I do believe that’s how it be; an’ if this one turned up, they’d all know it went by hand, and I’d be spotted10 for’t.”
“But you know who I am, Tom, and I’d save you,” said I, eagerly.
“Ye’d want savin’ yerself, I’m thinkin’, if that feel oot,” said Tom, cynically11. “I don’t say, though, I’ll not take it — only this — I won’t run my head again a wall for no one.”
“Tom,” I said, with a sudden inspiration, “give me back the letter, and take me out of Bartram; take me to Elverston; it will be the best thing — for you, Tom, I mean — it will indeed — that ever befell you.”
With this clown I was pleading, as for my life; my hand was on his sleeve. I was gazing imploringly in his face.
But it would not do; Tom Brice looked amused again, swung his head a little on one side, grinning sheepishly over his shoulder on the roots of the trees beside him, as if he were striving to keep himself from an uncivil fit of laughter.
“I’ll do what a wise lad may, Miss; but ye don’t know they lads; they bain’t that easy come over; and I won’t get knocked on the head, nor sent to gaol13 ‘appen, for no good to thee nor me. There’s Meg there, she knows well enough I could na’ manage that; so I won’t try it, Miss, by no chance; no offence, Miss; but I’d rayther not, an’ I’ll just try what I can make o’this; that’s all I can do for ye.”
Tom Brice, with these words, stood up, and looked uneasily in the direction of the Windmill Wood.
“Mind ye, Miss, coom what will, ye’ll not tell o’ me?”
“Whar ‘ill ye go now, Tom?” inquired Meg, uneasily.
“Never ye mind, lass,” answered he, breaking his way through the thicket14, and soon disappearing.
“E’es that ‘ill be it — he’ll git into the sheepwalk behind the mound15. They’re all down yonder; git ye back, Miss, to the hoose — be the side-door; mind ye, don’t go round the corner;’ and I’ll jets sit awhile among the bushes, and wait a good time for a start. And good-bye, Miss; and don’t ye show like as if there was aught out o’ common on your mind. Hish!”
There was a distant hallooing.
“That be fayther!” she whispered, with a very blank countenance, and listened with her sunburnt hand to her ear.
“‘Tisn’t me, only Davy he’ll be callin’,” she said, with a great sigh, and a joyless smile. “Now git ye away I’ God’s name.”
So running lightly along the path, under cover of this thick wood, I recalled Mary Quince, and together we hastened back again to the house, and entered, as directed, by the side-door, which did not expose us to be seen from the Windmill Wood, and, like two criminals, we stole up by the backstairs, and so through the side-gallery to my room; and there sat down to collect my wits, and try to estimate the exact effect of what had just occurred.
Madame had not returned. That was well; she always visited my room first, and everything was precisely16 as I had left it — a certain sign that her prying17 eyes and busy fingers had not been at work during my absence.
When she did appear, strange to say, it was to bring me unexpected comfort. She had in her hand a letter from my dear Lady Knollys — a gleam of sunlight from the free and happy outer world entered with it. The moment Madame left me to myself, I opened it and read as follows:—
“I am so happy, my dearest Maud, in the immediate18 prospect19 of seeing you. I have had a really kind letter from poor Silas — poor, I say, for I really compassionate20 his situation, about which he has been, I do believe, quite frank — at least Ilbury says so, and somehow he happens to know. I have had quite an affecting, changed letter. I will tell you all when I see you. He wants me ultimately to undertake that which would afford me the most unmixed happiness — I mean the care of you, my dear girl. I only fear lest my too eager acceptance of the trust should excite that vein21 of opposition22 which is in most human beings, and induce him to think over his offer less favourably23 again. He says I must come to Bartram, and stay a night, and promises to lodge24 me comfortably; about which last I honestly do not care a pin, when the chance of a comfortable evening’s gossip with you is in view. Silas explains his sad situation, and must hold himself in readiness for early flight, if he would avoid the risk of losing his personal liberty. It is a sad thing that he should have so irretrievably ruined himself, that poor Austin’s liberality seems to have positively25 precipitated26 his extremity27. His great anxiety is that I should see you before you leave for your short stay in France. He thinks you must leave before a fortnight. I am thinking of asking you to come over here; I know you would be just as well at Elverston as in France; but perhaps, as he seems disposed to do what we all wish, it may be safer to let his set about it in his own way. The truth is, I have so set my heart upon it that I fear to risk it by crossing him even in a trifle. He says I must fix an early day next week, and talks as if he meant to urge me to make a longer visit than he defined. I shall be only too happy. I begin, my dear Maud, to think that there is no use in trying to control events, and that things often turn out best, and most exactly to our wishes, by being left quite to themselves. I think it was Talleyrand who praised the talent of waiting so much. In high spirits, and with my head brimful of plans, I remain, dearest Maud, ever your affectionate cousin,
MONICA”
Here was an inexplicable28 puzzle! A faint radiance of hope, however, began to overspread a landscape only a few minutes before darkened by total eclipse; but construct what theory I might, all were inconsistent with many well-established and awful incongruities29, and their wrecks30 lay strown over the troubled waters of the gulf31 into which I gazed.
Why was Madame here? Why was Dudley concealed32 about the place? Why was I a prisoner within the walls? What were those dangers which Meg Hawkes seemed to think so great and so imminent33 as to induce her to risk her lover’s safety for my deliverance? All these menacing facts stood grouped together against the dark certainty that never were men more deeply interested in making away with one human being, than were Uncle Silas and Dudley in removing me.
Sometimes to these dreadful evidences I abandoned my soul. Sometimes, reading Cousin Monica’s sunny letter, the sky would clear, and my terrors melt away like nightmares in the morning. I never repented34, however, that I had sent my letter by Tom Brice. Escape from Bartram–Haugh was my hourly longing35.
That evening Madame invited herself to tea with me. I did not object. It was better just then to be on friendly relations with everybody, if possible, even on their own terms. She was in one of her boisterous36 and hilarious37 moods, and there was a perfume of brandy.
She narrated38 some compliments paid her that morning in Feltram by that “good crayature” Mrs. Litheways, the silk-mercer, and what “‘ansom faylow” was her new foreman —(she intended plainly that I should “queez” her)— and how “he follow” her with his eyes wherever she went. I thought, perhaps, he fancied she might pocket some of his lace or gloves. And all the time her great wicked eyes were rolling and glancing according to her ideas of fascination39, and her bony face grinning and flaming with the “strong drink” in which she delighted. She sang twaddling chansons, and being, as was her wont40 under such exhilarating influences, in a vapouring mood, she vowed41 that I should have my carriage and horses immediately.
“I weel try what I can do weeth your Uncle Silas. We are very good old friends, Mr. Ruthyn and I,” she said with a leer which I did not understand, and which yet frightened me.
I never could quite understand why these Jezebels like to insinuate42 the dreadful truth against themselves; but they do. Is it the spirit of feminine triumph overcoming feminine shame, and making them vaunt their fall as an evidence of bygone fascination and existing power? Need we wonder? Have not women preferred hatred43 to indifference44, and the reputation of witchcraft45, with all its penalties, to absolute insignificance46? Thus, as they enjoyed the fear inspired among simple neighbours by their imagined traffic with the father of ill, did Madame, I think, relish47 with a cynical12 vainglory the suspicion of her satanic superiority.
Next morning Uncle Silas sent for me. He was seated at his table, and spoke48 his little French greeting, smiling as usual, pointing to a chair opposite.
“How far, I forget,” he said, carelessly laying his newspaper on the table, “did you yesterday guess Dudley to be?”
“Eleven hundred miles I thought it was.”
“Oh yes, so it was;” and then there was an abstracted pause. “I have been writing to Lord Ilbury, your trustee,” he resumed. “I ventured to say, my dear Maud —(for having thoughts of a different arrangement for you, more suitable under my distressing49 circumstances, I do not wish to vacate without some expression of your estimate of my treatment of you while under my roof)— I ventured to say that you thought me kind, considerate, indulgent — may I say so?”
I assented50. What could I say?
“I said you had enjoyed our poor way of living here — our rough ways and liberty. Was I right?”
Again I assented.
“And, in fact, that you had nothing to object against your poor old uncle, except indeed his poverty, which you forgave. I think I said truth. Did I, dear Maud?”
Again I acquiesced51.
All this time he was fumbling52 among the papers in his coat-pocket.
“That is satisfactory. So I expected you to say,” he murmured. “I expected no less.”
On a sudden a frightful53 change spread across his face. He rose like a spectre with a white scowl54.
“Then how do you account for that?” he shrieked55 in a voice of thunder, and smiting56 my open letter to Lady Knollys, face upward, upon the table.
I stared at my uncle, unable to speak, until I seemed to lose sight of him; but his voice, like a bell, still yelled in my ears.
“There! young hypocrite and liar57! explain that farrago of slander58 which you bribed59 my servants to place in the hands of my kinswoman, Lady Knollys.”
And so on and on it went, I gazing into darkness, until the voice itself became indistinct, grew into a buzz, and hummed away into silence.
I think I must have had a fit.
When I came to myself I was drenched60 with water, my hair, face, neck, and dress. I did not in the least know where I was. I thought my father was ill, and spoke to him. Uncle Silas was standing61 near the window, looking unspeakably grim. Madame was seated beside me, an open bottle of ether, one of Uncle Silas’s restoratives, on the table before me.
“Who’s that — who’s ill — is anyone dead?” I cried.
At last I was relieved by long paroxysms of weeping. When I was sufficiently62 recovered, I was conveyed into my own room.
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收听单词发音
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1
groom
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| vt.给（马、狗等）梳毛，照料，使...整洁 | |
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bough
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| n.大树枝，主枝 | |
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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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boughs
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| 大树枝( bough的名词复数 ) | |
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5
imploringly
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| adv. 恳求地, 哀求地 | |
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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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irony
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| n.反语，冷嘲；具有讽刺意味的事，嘲弄 | |
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trepidation
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| n.惊恐，惶恐 | |
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9
perfectly
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| adv.完美地，无可非议地，彻底地 | |
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10
spotted
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| adj.有斑点的，斑纹的，弄污了的 | |
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cynically
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| adv.爱嘲笑地，冷笑地 | |
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cynical
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| adj.(对人性或动机)怀疑的，不信世道向善的 | |
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gaol
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| n.(jail)监狱；(不加冠词)监禁；vt.使…坐牢 | |
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14
thicket
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| n.灌木丛，树林 | |
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15
mound
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| n.土墩，堤，小山；v.筑堤，用土堆防卫 | |
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precisely
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| adv.恰好，正好，精确地，细致地 | |
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prying
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| adj.爱打听的v.打听，刺探（他人的私事）( pry的现在分词 )；撬开 | |
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18
immediate
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| adj.立即的；直接的，最接近的；紧靠的 | |
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prospect
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| n.前景，前途；景色，视野 | |
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compassionate
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| adj.有同情心的，表示同情的 | |
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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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opposition
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| n.反对，敌对 | |
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favourably
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| adv. 善意地，赞成地 =favorably | |
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24
lodge
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| v.临时住宿，寄宿，寄存，容纳；n.传达室，小旅馆 | |
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25
positively
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| adv.明确地，断然，坚决地；实在，确实 | |
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precipitated
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| v.（突如其来地）使发生( precipitate的过去式和过去分词 )；促成；猛然摔下；使沉淀 | |
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27
extremity
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| n.末端，尽头；尽力；终极；极度 | |
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inexplicable
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| adj.无法解释的，难理解的 | |
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incongruities
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| n.不协调( incongruity的名词复数 )；不一致；不适合；不协调的东西 | |
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30
wrecks
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| n.沉船( wreck的名词复数 )；（事故中）遭严重毁坏的汽车（或飞机等）；（身体或精神上）受到严重损伤的人；状况非常糟糕的车辆（或建筑物等）v.毁坏[毁灭]某物( wreck的第三人称单数 )；使（船舶）失事，使遇难，使下沉 | |
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gulf
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| n.海湾；深渊，鸿沟；分歧，隔阂 | |
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concealed
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| a.隐藏的，隐蔽的 | |
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imminent
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| adj.即将发生的，临近的，逼近的 | |
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34
repented
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| 对（自己的所为）感到懊悔或忏悔( repent的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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35
longing
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| n.（for）渴望 | |
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boisterous
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| adj.喧闹的，欢闹的 | |
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37
hilarious
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| adj.充满笑声的，欢闹的；[反]depressed | |
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38
narrated
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| v.故事( narrate的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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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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40
wont
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| adj.习惯于；v.习惯；n.习惯 | |
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41
vowed
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| 起誓，发誓（vow的过去式与过去分词形式） | |
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42
insinuate
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| vt.含沙射影地说，暗示 | |
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43
hatred
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| n.憎恶，憎恨，仇恨 | |
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44
indifference
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| n.不感兴趣，不关心，冷淡，不在乎 | |
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45
witchcraft
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| n.魔法，巫术 | |
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46
insignificance
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| n.不重要；无价值；无意义 | |
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47
relish
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| n.滋味，享受，爱好，调味品；vt.加调味料，享受，品味；vi.有滋味 | |
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48
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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49
distressing
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| a.使人痛苦的 | |
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50
assented
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| 同意，赞成( assent的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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51
acquiesced
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| v.默认，默许( acquiesce的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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52
fumbling
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| n. 摸索,漏接 v. 摸索,摸弄,笨拙的处理 | |
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53
frightful
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| adj.可怕的；讨厌的 | |
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54
scowl
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| vi.(at)生气地皱眉，沉下脸，怒视；n.怒容 | |
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55
shrieked
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| v.尖叫( shriek的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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56
smiting
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| v.猛打，重击，打击( smite的现在分词 ) | |
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57
liar
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| n.说谎的人 | |
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58
slander
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| n./v.诽谤，污蔑 | |
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59
bribed
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| v.贿赂( bribe的过去式和过去分词 )；向（某人）行贿，贿赂 | |
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60
drenched
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| adj.湿透的；充满的v.使湿透( drench的过去式和过去分词 )；在某人（某物）上大量使用（某液体） | |
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61
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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62
sufficiently
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| adv.足够地，充分地 | |
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