It was late in the autumn, and I was skimming along, through a rich English county, in a postchaise, among tall hedgerows gilded1, like all the landscape, with the slanting2 beams of sunset. The road makes a long and easy descent into the little town of Gylingden, and down this we were going at an exhilarating pace, and the jingle3 of the vehicle sounded like sledge-bells in my ears, and its swaying and jerking were pleasant and life-like. I fancy I was in one of those moods which, under similar circumstances, I sometimes experience still — a semi-narcotic excitement, silent but delightful4.
An undulating landscape, with a homely5 farmstead here and there, and plenty of old English timber scattered6 grandly over it, extended mistily7 to my right; on the left the road is overtopped by masses of noble forest. The old park of Brandon lies there, more than four miles from end to end. These masses of solemn and discoloured verdure, the faint but splendid lights, and long filmy shadows, the slopes and hollows — my eyes wandered over them all with that strange sense of unreality, and that mingling9 of sweet and bitter fancy, with which we revisit a scene familiar in very remote and early childhood, and which has haunted a long interval10 of maturity11 and absence, like a romantic reverie.
As I looked through the chaise-windows, every moment presented some group, or outline, or homely object, for years forgotten; and now, with a strange surprise how vividly12 remembered and how affectionately greeted! We drove by the small old house at the left, with its double gable and pretty grass garden, and trim yews13 and modern lilacs and laburnums, backed by the grand timber of the park. It was the parsonage, and old bachelor Doctor Crewe, the rector, in my nonage, still stood, in memory, at the door, in his black shorts and gaiters, with his hands in his pockets, and a puckered14 smile on his hard ruddy countenance15, as I approached. He smiled little on others I believe, but always kindly16 upon me. This general liking17 for children and instinct of smiling on them is one source of the delightful illusions which make the remembrance of early days so like a dream of Paradise, and give us, at starting, such false notions of our value.
There was a little fair-haired child playing on the ground before the steps as I whirled by. The old rector had long passed away; the shorts, gaiters, and smile — a phantom18; and nature, who had gathered in the past, was providing for the future.
The pretty mill-road, running up through Redman’s Dell, dank and dark with tall romantic trees, was left behind in another moment; and we were now traversing the homely and antique street of the little town, with its queer shops and solid steep-roofed residences. Up Church-street I contrived19 a peep at the old gray tower where the chimes hung; and as we turned the corner a glance at the ‘Brandon Arms.’ How very small and low that palatial20 hostelry of my earlier recollections had grown! There were new faces at the door. It was only two-and-twenty years ago, and I was then but eleven years old. A retrospect21 of a score of years or so, at three-and-thirty, is a much vaster affair than a much longer one at fifty.
The whole thing seemed like yesterday; and as I write, I open my eyes and start and cry, ‘can it be twenty, five-and-twenty, aye, by Jove! five-and-thirty, years since then?’ How my days have flown! And I think when another such yesterday shall have arrived, where shall I be?
The first ten years of my life were longer than all the rest put together, and I think would continue to be so were my future extended to an ante-Noachian span. It is the first ten that emerge from nothing, and commencing in a point, it is during them that consciousness, memory — all the faculties22 grow, and the experience of sense is so novel, crowded, and astounding23. It is this beginning at a point, and expanding to the immense disk of our present range of sensuous24 experience, that gives to them so prodigious25 an illusory perspective, and makes us in childhood, measuring futurity by them, form so wild and exaggerated an estimate of the duration of human life. But, I beg your pardon.
My journey was from London. When I had reached my lodgings26, after my little excursion up the Rhine, upon my table there lay, among the rest, one letter — there generally is in an overdue27 bundle — which I viewed with suspicion. I could not in the least tell why. It was a broad-faced letter, of bluish complexion28, and had made inquisition after me in the country — had asked for me at Queen’s Folkstone; and, vised by my cousin, had presented itself at the Friars, in Shropshire, and thence proceeded by Sir Harry’s direction (there was the autograph) to Nolton Hall; thence again to Ilchester, whence my fiery29 and decisive old aunt sent it straight back to my cousin, with a whisk of her pen which seemed to say, ‘How the plague can I tell where the puppy is? —’tis your business, Sir, not mine, to find him out!’ And so my cousin despatched it to my head-quarters in town, where from the table it looked up in my face, with a broad red seal, and a countenance scarred and marred30 all over with various post-marks, erasures, and transverse directions, the scars and furrows31 of disappointment and adventure.
It had not a good countenance, somehow. The original lines were not prepossessing. The handwriting I knew as one sometimes knows a face, without being able to remember who the plague it belongs to; but, still, with an unpleasant association about it. I examined it carefully, and laid it down unopened. I went through half-a-dozen others, and recurred32 to it, and puzzled over its exterior33 again, and again postponed34 what I fancied would prove a disagreeable discovery; and this happened every now and again, until I had quite exhausted35 my budget, and then I did open it, and looked straight to the signature.
‘Pooh! Mark Wylder,’ I exclaimed, a good deal relieved.
Mark Wylder! Yes, Master Mark could not hurt me. There was nothing about him to excite the least uneasiness; on the contrary, I believe he liked me as well as he was capable of liking anybody, and it was now seven years since we had met.
I have often since thought upon the odd sensation with which I hesitated over his unopened letter; and now, remembering how the breaking of that seal resembled, in my life, the breaking open of a portal through which I entered a labyrinth36, or rather a catacomb, where for many days I groped and stumbled, looking for light, and was, in a manner, lost, hearing strange sounds, witnessing imperfectly strange sights, and, at last, arriving at a dreadful chamber37 — a sad sort of superstition38 steals over me.
I had then been his working junior in the cause of Wylder v. Trustees of Brandon, minor39 — Dorcas Brandon, his own cousin. There was a complicated cousinship among these Brandons, Wylders, and Lakes — inextricable intermarriages, which, five years ago, before I renounced40 the bar, I had at my fingers’ ends, but which had now relapsed into haze41. There must have been some damnable taint42 in the blood of the common ancestor — a spice of the insane and the diabolical43. They were an ill-conditioned race — that is to say, every now and then there emerged a miscreant44, with a pretty evident vein45 of madness. There was Sir Jonathan Brandon, for instance, who ran his own nephew through the lungs in a duel46 fought in a paroxysm of Cencian jealousy47; and afterwards shot his coachman dead upon the box through his coach-window, and finally died in Vienna, whither he had absconded48, of a pike-thrust received from a sentry49 in a brawl50.
The Wylders had not much to boast of, even in contrast with that wicked line. They had produced their madmen and villains51, too; and there had been frequent intermarriages — not very often happy. There had been many lawsuits53, frequent disinheritings, and even worse doings. The Wylders of Brandon appear very early in history; and the Wylder arms, with their legend, ‘resurgam,’ stands in bold relief over the great door of Brandon Hall. So there were Wylders of Brandon, and Brandons of Brandon. In one generation, a Wylder ill-using his wife and hating his children, would cut them all off, and send the estate bounding back again to the Brandons. The next generation or two would amuse themselves with a lawsuit52, until the old Brandon type reappeared in some bachelor brother or uncle, with a Jezebel on his left hand, and an attorney on his right, and, presto54! the estates were back again with the Wylders.
A ‘statement of title’ is usually a dry affair. But that of the dynasty of Brandon Hall was a truculent55 romance. Their very ‘wills’ were spiced with the devilment of the ‘testators,’ and abounded56 in insinuations and even language which were scandalous.
Here is Mark Wylder’s letter:—
‘DEAR CHARLES— Of course you have heard of my good luck, and how kind poor Dickie — from whom I never expected anything — proved at last. It was a great windfall for a poor devil like me; but, after all, it was only right, for it ought never to have been his at all. I went down and took possession on the 4th, the tenants57 very glad, and so they might well be; for, between ourselves, Dickie, poor fellow, was not always pleasant to deal with. He let the roof all out of repair, and committed waste beside in timber he had no right to in life, as I am told; but that don’t signify much, only the house will cost me a pretty penny to get it into order and furnish. The rental58 is five thousand a-year and some hundreds, and the rents can be got up a bit — so Larkin tells me. Do you know anything of him? He says he did business for your uncle once. He seems a clever fellow — a bit too clever, perhaps — and was too much master here, I suspect, in poor Dickie’s reign59. Tell me all you can make out about him. It is a long time since I saw you, Charles; I’m grown brown, and great whiskers. I met poor Dominick — what an ass8 that chap is — but he did not know me till I introduced myself, so I must be a good deal changed. Our ship was at Malta when I got the letter. I was sick of the service, and no wonder: a lieutenant60 — and there likely to stick all my days. Six months, last year, on the African coast, watching slavers — think of that! I had a long yarn61 from the viscount — advice, and that sort of thing. I do not think he is a year older than I, but takes airs because he’s a trustee. But I only laugh at trifles that would have riled me once. So I wrote him a yarn in return, and drew it uncommon62 mild. And he has been useful to me; and I think matters are pretty well arranged to disappoint the kind intention of good Uncle Wylder — the brute63; he hated my father, but that was no reason to persecute64 me, and I but an infant, almost, when he died, d — him. Well, you know he left Brandon with some charges to my Cousin Dorcas. She is a superbly fine girl. Our ship was at Naples when she was there two years ago; and I saw a good deal of her. Of course it was not to be thought of then; but matters are quite different, you know, now, and the viscount, who is a very sensible fellow in the main, saw it at once. You see, the old brute meant to leave her a life estate; but it does not amount to that, though it won’t benefit me, for he settled that when I die it shall go to his right heirs — that will be to my son, if I ever have one. So Miss Dorcas must pack, and turn out whenever I die, that is, if I slip my cable first. Larkin told me this — and I took an opinion — and found it is so; and the viscount seeing it, agreed the best thing for her as well as me would be, we should marry. She is a wide-awake young lady, and nothing the worse for that: I’m a bit that way myself. And so very little courtship has sufficed. She is a splendid beauty, and when you see her you’ll say any fellow might be proud of such a bride; and so I am. And now, dear Charlie, you have it all. It will take place somewhere about the twenty-fourth of next month; and you must come down by the first, if you can. Don’t disappoint. I want you for best man, maybe; and besides, I would like to talk to you about some things they want me to do in the settlements, and you were always a long-headed fellow: so pray don’t refuse.
‘Dear Charlie, ever most sincerely,
‘Your old Friend,
‘MARK WYLDER.
‘P.S. — I stay at the Brandon Arms in the town, until after the marriage; and then you can have a room at the Hall, and capital shooting when we return, which will be in a fortnight after.’
I can’t say that Wylder was an old friend. But he was certainly one of the oldest and most intimate acquaintances I had. We had been for nearly three years at school together; and when his ship came to England, met frequently; and twice, when he was on leave, we had been for months together under the same roof; and had for some years kept up a regular correspondence, which first grew desultory65, and finally, as manhood supervened, died out. The plain truth is, I did not very much like him.
Then there was that beautiful apathetic66 Dorcas Brandon. Where is the laggard67 so dull as to experience no pleasing flutter at his heart in anticipation68 of meeting a perfect beauty in a country house. I was romantic, like every other youngish fellow who is not a premature69 curmudgeon70; and there was something indefinitely pleasant in the consciousness that, although a betrothed71 bride, the young lady still was fancy free: not a bit in love. It was but a marriage of convenience, with mitigations. And so there hovered72 in my curiosity some little flicker73 of egotistic romance, which helped to rouse my spirits, and spur me on to action.
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1
gilded
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| a.镀金的，富有的 | |
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slanting
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| 倾斜的，歪斜的 | |
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jingle
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| n.叮当声，韵律简单的诗句；v.使叮当作响，叮当响，押韵 | |
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delightful
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| adj.令人高兴的，使人快乐的 | |
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homely
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| adj.家常的，简朴的；不漂亮的 | |
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6
scattered
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| adj.分散的，稀疏的；散步的；疏疏落落的 | |
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mistily
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| adv.有雾地，朦胧地，不清楚地 | |
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ass
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| n.驴；傻瓜，蠢笨的人 | |
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mingling
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| adj.混合的 | |
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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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maturity
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| n.成熟；完成；(支票、债券等)到期 | |
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vividly
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| adv.清楚地，鲜明地，生动地 | |
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yews
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| n.紫杉( yew的名词复数 ) | |
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puckered
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| v.（使某物）起褶子或皱纹( pucker的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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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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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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liking
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| n.爱好；嗜好；喜欢 | |
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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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contrived
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| adj.不自然的，做作的；虚构的 | |
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palatial
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| adj.宫殿般的，宏伟的 | |
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retrospect
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| n.回顾，追溯；v.回顾，回想，追溯 | |
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faculties
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| n.能力( faculty的名词复数 )；全体教职员；技巧；院 | |
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23
astounding
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| adj.使人震惊的vt.使震惊，使大吃一惊astound的现在分词) | |
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sensuous
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| adj.激发美感的；感官的，感觉上的 | |
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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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lodgings
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| n. 出租的房舍, 寄宿舍 | |
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overdue
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| adj.过期的，到期未付的；早该有的，迟到的 | |
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complexion
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| n.肤色；情况，局面；气质，性格 | |
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fiery
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| adj.燃烧着的，火红的；暴躁的；激烈的 | |
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marred
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| adj. 被损毁, 污损的 | |
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furrows
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| n.犁沟( furrow的名词复数 )；（脸上的）皱纹v.犁田，开沟( furrow的第三人称单数 ) | |
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recurred
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| 再发生，复发( recur的过去式和过去分词 )； 治愈 | |
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exterior
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| adj.外部的，外在的；表面的 | |
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postponed
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| vt.& vi.延期，缓办，（使）延迟vt.把…放在次要地位；[语]把…放在后面（或句尾）vi.（疟疾等）延缓发作（或复发） | |
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exhausted
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| adj.极其疲惫的，精疲力尽的 | |
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labyrinth
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| n.迷宫；难解的事物；迷路 | |
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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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superstition
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| n.迷信，迷信行为 | |
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minor
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| adj.较小(少)的，较次要的；n.辅修学科；vi.辅修 | |
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renounced
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| v.声明放弃( renounce的过去式和过去分词 )；宣布放弃；宣布与…决裂；宣布摒弃 | |
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haze
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| n.霾，烟雾；懵懂，迷糊；vi.(over)变模糊 | |
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taint
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| n.污点；感染；腐坏；v.使感染；污染 | |
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diabolical
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| adj.恶魔似的，凶暴的 | |
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miscreant
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| n.恶棍 | |
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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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duel
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| n./v.决斗；(双方的)斗争 | |
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jealousy
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| n.妒忌，嫉妒，猜忌 | |
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48
absconded
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| v.（尤指逃避逮捕）潜逃，逃跑( abscond的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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49
sentry
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| n.哨兵，警卫 | |
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brawl
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| n.大声争吵，喧嚷；v.吵架，对骂 | |
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51
villains
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| n.恶棍( villain的名词复数 )；罪犯；（小说、戏剧等中的）反面人物；淘气鬼 | |
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52
lawsuit
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| n.诉讼，控诉 | |
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lawsuits
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| n.诉讼( lawsuit的名词复数 ) | |
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54
presto
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| adv.急速地；n.急板乐段；adj.急板的 | |
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55
truculent
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| adj.野蛮的，粗野的 | |
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56
abounded
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| v.大量存在，充满，富于( abound的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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tenants
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| n.房客( tenant的名词复数 )；佃户；占用者；占有者 | |
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58
rental
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| n.租赁，出租，出租业 | |
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reign
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| n.统治时期，统治，支配，盛行；v.占优势 | |
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lieutenant
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| n.陆军中尉，海军上尉；代理官员，副职官员 | |
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yarn
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| n.纱，纱线，纺线；奇闻漫谈，旅行轶事 | |
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62
uncommon
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| adj.罕见的，非凡的，不平常的 | |
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brute
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| n.野兽，兽性 | |
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64
persecute
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| vt.迫害，虐待；纠缠，骚扰 | |
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65
desultory
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| adj.散漫的，无方法的 | |
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66
apathetic
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| adj.冷漠的，无动于衷的 | |
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67
laggard
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| n.落后者；adj.缓慢的，落后的 | |
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68
anticipation
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| n.预期，预料，期望 | |
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69
premature
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| adj.比预期时间早的；不成熟的，仓促的 | |
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70
curmudgeon
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| n. 脾气暴躁之人，守财奴，吝啬鬼 | |
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71
betrothed
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| n. 已订婚者 动词betroth的过去式和过去分词 | |
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72
hovered
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| 鸟( hover的过去式和过去分词 )； 靠近（某事物）； （人）徘徊； 犹豫 | |
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flicker
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| vi./n.闪烁，摇曳，闪现 | |
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