Quickly recovering himself, however, he again flung wide open the door, and fastened it back. By the light thus admitted, he easily found his way to a window at the other end of the hall, which he also opened. There was an immediate11 inward rush, not only of the sunny daylight, but of the sweet, warm air of the autumn afternoon, with its inevitable12 suggestions of tranquil13 sea, and tender sky, and slow-waving forest; quickly penetrating14, he felt sure, to the uppermost corner of the long-deserted15 dwelling16, and scattering17 everywhere some healthful, purifying, enlivening influence.
He could now see that he stood in a wide and lofty entrance-hall, decorated with a profusion18 of carved woodwork; panels, cornices, and casements19, being ornamented20 with garlands of oaken roses, or quaint21 heads of animals, stiff as petrifactions, and almost ebon-black with time and rubbing. The furniture consisted of a small table, a cumbrous cabinet, and ponderous22, high-backed chairs, of the Elizabethan age, or perhaps earlier, brought from England, as heir-looms, by the first emigrant23 Bergan. There was also a tall, spectral24 clock, which, to Bergan's intense astonishment25, suddenly began to fill the hall with a loud, monotonous26 tick, as if the march of time, long ago arrested in the deserted mansion27, was now duly resumed:—doubtless the rusty28 wheels had been jarred into spasmodic motion by the violent closing of the door. By way of decoration, there were a few dingy29 pictures, in dark, carved frames; and in two of the oaken panels hung complete suits of armor,—helmets, cuirasses, gorgets, greaves, and gauntlets,—memorials, not only of long-buried Bergans, but of long-vanished days.
Hesitating, for a moment, between two half-open doors, Bergan finally chose to enter the main parlor30, a room full of a dusky, old-time grandeur31. A piano stood between the windows, over the keys of which he ran his fingers, but found that its music had been imprisoned so long as to have grown hoarse32 and melancholy33. So, doubtless, had that of the harp34, which showed skeleton-like through its torn baize cover, and was flanked by a pile of music-books, the leaves of which were yellow with age. Odd, unwieldy chairs, covered with faded silk damask and a rich coat of dust, kept solemn state in the dim corners; ottomans and footstools, elaborately embroidered35 by forgotten fingers with birds, flowers, and other once cheerful devices, stood under the windows, or were scattered36 around the floor. On the walls, in frames of tarnished37 magnificence, hung two or three pictures in worsted, the designs of which, like the hands that had wrought38 them, were now faded beyond recognition. Just in proportion as these things had once helped to brighten the room, they helped to make it more sombre now. Like the images of vanished joys, they were all the gloomier because once so glad. Looking upon them, Bergan was painfully impressed with the latent identity of gayety and grief. Only give them time enough, and they merge39 into the same dull neutral tint40!
Bergan next glanced into a second parlor, a dusky ante-room, and a dining-room, but leaving these places undisturbed in their dim and dusty sanctity, as not of pressing interest, he made his way to the library, on the other side of the hall. It was a large and lofty room, set round with ancient book-cases, above and between which hung rows of portraits, in frames of oak and gilt41. These represented the early forefathers42 and later worthies43 of the Bergan lineage,—some in knightly44 armor, with mailed hands clasping a gleaming sword-hilt; some in the rich array of the Tudor or the Stuart court, with laced and plumed45 hats under their arms; some in the red coats and top-boots of English squires46, with a favorite horse or hound looking out from one corner of the picture; some in the huge horsehair wigs47 and ermined robes of the judge's bench; and others in the cocked hats and knee-breeches of the Revolution, or in the modern black coat and pantaloons, seated in arm-chairs, with their backs to a crimson48 curtain. There were also dames49 to match, with towers of lace and curls upon their heads, ruffs, farthingales, and all manner of obsolete50 finery.
Most of the faces had the austerity of aspect common to old portraits, as if time had delighted to bring into clearer view the hard, stern traits of character which the painter had dared but faintly to delineate, and had even then done his best to cover up with pleasant coloring, and a final coat of lustrous51 varnish52. Nowhere was this effect more striking than in the portrait of Sir Harry53 Bergan, earliest emigrant of the name, and father of the American line. The younger son of a noble English house, he had early fallen under the displeasure of a stern father, by reason of careless and spendthrift habits; and had finally been banished54, in disgrace, to a small continental55 town, upon an allowance barely sufficient to keep body and soul together. Under this severe discipline,—smarting, too, with a rankling56 sense of injustice57 in the treatment that he had received,—his character underwent a complete transformation58. His carelessness and extravagance, as well as the generosity59 and frankness of which they had been the rank, ill-trained outgrowth, fell from him like worn-out garments; he became bitter, morose60, and dogged.
At this crisis, the sudden death of his mother placed him in possession of her own large fortune and family estate. Life once more opened before him; but no gentle affection called him back to the paternal61 neighborhood. On the contrary, he emigrated to Georgia, just then luminous62 with the career and the fame of General Oglethorpe; with the ambitious design of founding a Bergan lineage in the new world, which should equal, if not surpass, that of the old one. He bought a vast tract63 of land, and vigorously commenced the work of bringing it under cultivation64; he distinguished65 himself both as soldier and citizen in the Spanish war and the colonial trials, and was knighted for his services; finally, he imported men and materials, and built Bergan Hall as nearly as was possible in the style of his early English home, and called it by the same name. The bricks, the tiles, the elaborate oak carvings66, the door and window-frames, the furniture and decorations, the copies of ancestral portraits, were all brought from England, and put in their places by English artisans.
Scarcely was the work finished ere he died, bequeathing to his descendants, not only a vast estate, a splendid home, and an illustrious name, but, by a still stronger law of heirship67, certain marked traits of character hereditary68 in himself,—indomitable energy, dogged independence, strong family pride, and an occasional lunacy of rage, familiarly known as the "Black Bergan temper," to which the race had been subject from time immemorial. These characteristics were to be traced, more or less distinctly through all the portraits of his successors; but in none did they seem to be so perfectly69 reproduced as in his present representative. In truth, Major Bergan might be regarded as the original Sir Harry over again; his harsh features and stern expression being shown in the old, time-darkened picture with a degree of prophetical accuracy little short of actual portraiture70.
Other pictured faces there were, however, which time, still faithful to its work of bringing out the essential truth, had only touched into softer beauty. Such was the face of Eleanor, wife of Sir Harry; a woman of fair and noble presence, in the rich prime of her life, with a wise, strong, beautiful soul, shining out through her deep, soft eyes. Before this picture Bergan lingered long. Even in babyhood, his mother had resembled it strongly enough to make it seem most fitting that she should receive its name; and the likeness71 had so strengthened with years, that now, it might easily have passed for her portrait, painted from life.
Seeing how perfectly these twain of their ancestors were reflected in his mother and uncle, not only in features, but also in character, Bergan was suddenly seized with a nightmare of doubt and questioning. Was a man's good or evil, then, a mere72 matter of inheritance, an inevitable heirloom, handed down to him from a remote ancestry73, by a more effectual law of transmission than has ever been established, in respect to more tangible74 property? If so,—if the defects and weaknesses, the depraved tastes and ungovernable passions, which characterized the father were inevitably75 passed on to the son, and the son's son,—if the moral disease under which this man groaned76, as well as the sweet temper which made that woman a household sunbeam, were to be surely traced back to their ancestor of a hundred years ago; what became of individual worth, individual shame, and individual accountability?
Bergan shrank from the apparently77 inevitable conclusion. He felt, with an unutterable horror, its snaky coils tightening78 around him, squeezing the breath out of every noble aim and aspiration79. He could only escape from it by an appeal from his reason to his consciousness.
"If," he asked himself, "I should now take that grim picture from the wall, and thrust it into the fire, in revenge for the pain which it has given me, should I not know, despite all reasoning to the contrary, that I—I alone, and not that bearded Sir Harry, was responsible for the foolish act? Certainly, I should; for whatever else he may have sent down to me, he did not give me either my will or my conscience. These are my own, and never Bergan of them all had them before me!" And he drew a long breath of relief.
His attention was now directed to the portrait of a young girl, at the end of the second row, nearest the window. It had an odd, illusive80 resemblance to some one that he had known,—a singular likeness in unlikeness, which puzzled while it attracted him. All at once, capturing the fleeting81, familiar expression, as it were, by a swift side-glance, he recognized it as that portrait of his mother in her youth, of which Major Bergan had spoken. He stood gazing upon it long and earnestly, yet with a strange, undefinable feeling of sadness, too. For this bright, young being, with the smooth brow, the arch, dimpled face, and the unwakened soul dreaming at the depths of the soft eyes, was, after all, a stranger to him,—a being that he had never known, and never could know, any more than if she had been laid years ago under the sod, and her sweet substance gradually transformed into violets and daisies. He went back to the picture of Lady Eleanor, and felt, with a thrill of gladness, that he had found again the mother that he seemed, for a brief space, to have lost.
He now turned from the pictures to the book-cases, and found them to contain a heterogeneous82 collection of ancient and modern volumes, carelessly ranged upon the shelves, without reference either to age or theme. Latin and English classics stood shoulder to shoulder; law and poetry were harmoniously83 cheek by jowl; divinity and science amiably84 helped each other to stand upright; history, philosophy, morality, and controversy85, met on the same plane, and sunk their differences under one uniform coat of dust. Geography that read like fiction, geology that had no interest except to the antiquarian, and infidelity that had not a peg86 left to stand upon, were huddled87 together in one corner, and (no doubt to their utter amazement) helped, in these latter days, to point the same moral.
Growing oppressed, at last, with the sight of so much hopelessly shelved thought, so many pages bearing the prints of a long succession of fingers now crumbled88 into dust, Bergan turned back to the hall, mounted the staircase, and glanced into two or three of the chambers90. He found in all faded carpets, ancient bureaus, high-post bedsteads, shadow-haunted hangings, a thick coating of dust, and a heavy, breathless scent91 which, it seemed to him, death must needs have left there, in his oldtime visits. Indeed, he could almost have believed that the last occupant of each dusky cavern92 of a bed had stiffened93 into clay therein, and been left to choke the air, and coat the furniture, with his own mouldering94 substance. No lighter95 dust, he thought, could have made the atmosphere so thick, or caused him to draw his breath so heavily.
Opening the last door in the gallery, Bergan was startled to find a room with every appearance of recent occupancy. Not a speck96 of dust dimmed the carpet or the furniture; the curtains and the bed-drapery stirred lightly with the breeze from a half-open window; the soft pillows seemed waiting for the head that had dreamed upon them last night; a chair, with a shawl thrown carelessly over the back, stood where it must needs have been left a moment ago; an open workbox showed a suggestive confusion of spools97 of silk and bits of ribbon and worsted; a vase of flowers adorned98 the mantel; and a little white glove lay on the toilet-table, among brushes and scent-bottles, and was reflected in a small, bright mirror. Bergan hastily drew back, feeling intuitively that he had intruded99 upon a maiden100's bed-chamber, keeping still the perfume of her sweet breath and happy thoughts.
Yet—the bed-linen101, how strangely yellow!—the shawl, how dim and faded!—the flowers, how withered102! He advanced again; he began to understand that the maiden who had dreamed on that pillow, whose hand had left its dainty mould in that glove, the sweetness of whose virgin103 breath still lingered in the room with the scent of the withered rosebuds104, went out from it years ago,—a bride,—to be known thenceforth as wife and mother,—his mother! His eyes grew moist; one by one he touched the little possessions left behind with her girlhood, striving thus to come a little closer to the fair, shy image, that moved him with such unutterable tenderness, yet seemed so far beyond his ken8. Reverently105, at last, he closed the door, as upon a still, white, smiling corpse106, at once ineffably107 beautiful and ineffably sad.
But who had cared for this one room so tenderly, while all the rest of the house had been left to go to ruin? The answer was plain. Old Rue108, whose love for her young mistress was half a worship, had taken a sorrowful pleasure in keeping the room (with such help as she could easily command) in the exact state in which it had been left.
Bergan was in no mood for further exploration. He made his way back to the entrance-hall, and sat down in one of the antique chairs. He was not quite ready for the instant transition into the outward sunshine. His heart was too heavy. The ancestral home was only an ancestral tomb. Surrounded by memorials of the old state and splendor109 of Bergan Hall, he felt all the more keenly its present desolation and decay. Remembering the noble Bergan lineage, he was humiliated110 to the dust by the thought of its present representative.
And here, first, his uncle's offer rose before him in the dazzling garments of temptation. Was it, after all, an ignoble111 ambition to lift the family name out of the dust, to restore the family home, fill it again with social life and warmth, and make it the centre of purer, more refining, and more elevating influences than ever before? Was it not better than any mere personal ambition? Might it not be just the place which he was meant to fill, and which, if he declined to take it, would be left empty? From questions he went on to answers; and his thoughts shaped out a tempting112 vision of Bergan Hall restored, revivified. Light steps and rustling113 garments went up and down the broad staircase,—his mother sat smiling in her old room,—voices of children echoed through the large, sunshiny parlors,—guests came and went,—he himself sat in the library, crowned with honors as with years, and—
He was recalled to the present and the actual by a low rumble89 of thunder. The sunshine had faded from the sky; clouds were rolling up from the west; he hastened back to the cottage through the first drops of the rain.
The evening passed much like its predecessor114. When, at last, he went up to his room, leaving his uncle to the dear companionship of his bottle and glass, he found it half-flooded with water from a newly sprung leak in the roof. Hastily declining the Major's hesitating offer of a share in his own apartment, he begged permission to quarter himself in the old Hall.
Major Bergan set down his glass, and looked at him with a mixture of wonder and admiration115. "Certainly, Harry, if you are in earnest about it," said he. "But I must say that you are a brave fellow to choose to sleep alone in an old ruin like that,—haunted, too, the negroes say. But are you sure that you can find a room there any less leaky than your present one?"
"Quite sure. I noticed two or three, on the south side, which seemed to be in excellent condition."
"Very well; take your choice, and make yourself as comfortable as you can. Brick is under your orders, of course; and Maumer Rue will send you out one of the women, with what linen is needed. Good night."
The Major remained standing116 at the door, till he saw, first, a wandering gleam of light through the crevices117 of the old house, and then the steady beam of a candle, shining from an upper window.
"A light in Eleanor's room!—I never expected to see that again!" he murmured, and went back to his bottle, to drink all the deeper for some unwontedly sad and remorseful118 thoughts.
Meanwhile, Bergan had not once dreamed of appropriating that maiden sanctuary119. He had merely chosen the room next to it; and the door between being transiently opened for better ventilation, Major Bergan had seen his light through the designated window.
It was not an easy task to make his dusty, mouldy room even tolerably habitable, but it was finally achieved; and, dismissing Brick, Bergan laid his head on his pillow, with a real satisfaction in being, at last, domiciled under his ancestral roof.
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1
gust
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| n.阵风，突然一阵（雨、烟等），（感情的）迸发 | |
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imprisoned
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| 下狱，监禁( imprison的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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reverberated
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| 回响，回荡( reverberate的过去式和过去分词 )； 使反响，使回荡，使反射 | |
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smothered
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| （使）窒息， （使）透不过气( smother的过去式和过去分词 )； 覆盖； 忍住； 抑制 | |
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lurking
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| 潜在 | |
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dreary
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| adj.令人沮丧的，沉闷的，单调乏味的 | |
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density
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| n.密集，密度，浓度 | |
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ken
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| n.视野，知识领域 | |
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opaque
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| adj.不透光的；不反光的，不传导的；晦涩的 | |
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shutters
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| 百叶窗( shutter的名词复数 )； （照相机的）快门 | |
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immediate
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| adj.立即的；直接的，最接近的；紧靠的 | |
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inevitable
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| adj.不可避免的，必然发生的 | |
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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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penetrating
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| adj.（声音）响亮的，尖锐的adj.（气味）刺激的adj.（思想）敏锐的，有洞察力的 | |
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15
deserted
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| adj.荒芜的，荒废的，无人的，被遗弃的 | |
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dwelling
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| n.住宅，住所，寓所 | |
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scattering
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| n.[物]散射；散乱，分散；在媒介质中的散播adj.散乱的；分散在不同范围的；广泛扩散的；（选票）数量分散的v.散射(scatter的ing形式)；散布；驱散 | |
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profusion
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| n.挥霍；丰富 | |
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casements
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| n.窗扉( casement的名词复数 ) | |
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ornamented
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| adj.花式字体的v.装饰，点缀，美化( ornament的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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quaint
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| adj.古雅的，离奇有趣的，奇怪的 | |
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ponderous
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| adj.沉重的，笨重的，(文章)冗长的 | |
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emigrant
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| adj.移居的，移民的；n.移居外国的人，移民 | |
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spectral
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| adj.幽灵的，鬼魂的 | |
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astonishment
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| n.惊奇，惊异 | |
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monotonous
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| adj.单调的，一成不变的，使人厌倦的 | |
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mansion
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| n.大厦，大楼；宅第 | |
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rusty
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| adj.生锈的；锈色的；荒废了的 | |
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dingy
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| adj.昏暗的，肮脏的 | |
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parlor
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| n.店铺，营业室；会客室，客厅 | |
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grandeur
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| n.伟大，崇高，宏伟，庄严，豪华 | |
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hoarse
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| adj.嘶哑的，沙哑的 | |
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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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harp
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| n.竖琴；天琴座 | |
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embroidered
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| adj．绣花的 | |
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scattered
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| adj.分散的，稀疏的；散步的；疏疏落落的 | |
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tarnished
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| （通常指金属）（使）失去光泽，（使）变灰暗( tarnish的过去式和过去分词 )； 玷污，败坏 | |
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wrought
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| v.引起；以…原料制作；运转；adj.制造的 | |
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merge
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| v.(使)结合，(使)合并，(使)合为一体 | |
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40
tint
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| n.淡色，浅色；染发剂；vt.着以淡淡的颜色 | |
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41
gilt
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| adj.镀金的；n.金边证券 | |
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42
forefathers
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| n.祖先，先人；祖先，祖宗( forefather的名词复数 )；列祖列宗；前人 | |
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43
worthies
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| 应得某事物( worthy的名词复数 )； 值得做某事； 可尊敬的； 有（某人或事物）的典型特征 | |
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44
knightly
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| adj. 骑士般的 adv. 骑士般地 | |
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plumed
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| 饰有羽毛的 | |
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46
squires
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| n.地主，乡绅( squire的名词复数 ) | |
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47
wigs
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| n.假发，法官帽( wig的名词复数 ) | |
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48
crimson
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| n./adj.深(绯)红色(的)；vi.脸变绯红色 | |
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49
dames
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| n.（在英国）夫人（一种封号），夫人（爵士妻子的称号）( dame的名词复数 )；女人 | |
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50
obsolete
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| adj.已废弃的，过时的 | |
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51
lustrous
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| adj.有光泽的；光辉的 | |
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52
varnish
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| n.清漆；v.上清漆；粉饰 | |
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53
harry
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| vt.掠夺，蹂躏，使苦恼 | |
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54
banished
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| v.放逐，驱逐( banish的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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55
continental
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| adj.大陆的，大陆性的，欧洲大陆的 | |
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56
rankling
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| v.（使）痛苦不已，（使）怨恨不已( rankle的现在分词 ) | |
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57
injustice
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| n.非正义，不公正，不公平，侵犯（别人的）权利 | |
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58
transformation
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| n.变化；改造；转变 | |
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59
generosity
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| n.大度，慷慨，慷慨的行为 | |
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60
morose
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| adj.脾气坏的，不高兴的 | |
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61
paternal
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| adj.父亲的，像父亲的，父系的，父方的 | |
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62
luminous
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| adj.发光的，发亮的；光明的；明白易懂的；有启发的 | |
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tract
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| n.传单，小册子，大片(土地或森林) | |
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cultivation
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| n.耕作，培养，栽培（法），养成 | |
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distinguished
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| adj.卓越的，杰出的，著名的 | |
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66
carvings
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| n.雕刻( carving的名词复数 )；雕刻术；雕刻品；雕刻物 | |
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67
heirship
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| n.继承权 | |
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68
hereditary
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| adj.遗传的，遗传性的，可继承的，世袭的 | |
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perfectly
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| adv.完美地，无可非议地，彻底地 | |
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portraiture
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| n.肖像画法 | |
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likeness
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| n.相像，相似（之处） | |
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72
mere
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| adj.纯粹的；仅仅，只不过 | |
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ancestry
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| n.祖先，家世 | |
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74
tangible
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| adj.有形的，可触摸的，确凿的，实际的 | |
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inevitably
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| adv.不可避免地；必然发生地 | |
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76
groaned
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| v.呻吟( groan的过去式和过去分词 )；发牢骚；抱怨；受苦 | |
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apparently
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| adv.显然地；表面上，似乎 | |
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78
tightening
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| 上紧，固定，紧密 | |
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79
aspiration
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| n.志向，志趣抱负；渴望；(语)送气音；吸出 | |
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80
illusive
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| adj.迷惑人的，错觉的 | |
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81
fleeting
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| adj.短暂的，飞逝的 | |
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82
heterogeneous
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| adj.庞杂的；异类的 | |
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83
harmoniously
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| 和谐地，调和地 | |
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84
amiably
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| adv.和蔼可亲地，亲切地 | |
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85
controversy
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| n.争论，辩论，争吵 | |
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86
peg
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| n.木栓，木钉；vt.用木钉钉，用短桩固定 | |
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huddled
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| 挤在一起（huddle的过去式与过去分词形式） | |
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88
crumbled
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| （把…）弄碎， （使）碎成细屑( crumble的过去式和过去分词 )； 衰落； 坍塌； 损坏 | |
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89
rumble
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| n.隆隆声；吵嚷；v.隆隆响；低沉地说 | |
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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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91
scent
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| n.气味，香味，香水，线索，嗅觉；v.嗅，发觉 | |
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cavern
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| n.洞穴，大山洞 | |
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93
stiffened
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| 加强的 | |
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mouldering
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| v.腐朽( moulder的现在分词 )；腐烂，崩塌 | |
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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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speck
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| n.微粒，小污点，小斑点 | |
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spools
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| n.（绕线、铁线、照相软片等的）管( spool的名词复数 )；络纱；纺纱机；绕圈轴工人v.把…绕到线轴上（或从线轴上绕下来）( spool的第三人称单数 )；假脱机（输出或输入） | |
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adorned
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| [计]被修饰的 | |
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intruded
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| n.侵入的，推进的v.侵入，侵扰，打扰( intrude的过去式和过去分词 )；把…强加于 | |
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100
maiden
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| n.少女，处女；adj.未婚的，纯洁的，无经验的 | |
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101
linen
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| n.亚麻布，亚麻线，亚麻制品；adj.亚麻布制的，亚麻的 | |
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102
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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103
virgin
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| n.处女，未婚女子；adj.未经使用的；未经开发的 | |
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104
rosebuds
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| 蔷薇花蕾，妙龄少女，初入社交界的少女( rosebud的名词复数 ) | |
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105
reverently
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| adv.虔诚地 | |
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106
corpse
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| n.尸体，死尸 | |
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107
ineffably
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| adv.难以言喻地，因神圣而不容称呼地 | |
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108
rue
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| n.懊悔，芸香，后悔；v.后悔，悲伤，懊悔 | |
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109
splendor
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| n.光彩；壮丽，华丽；显赫，辉煌 | |
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110
humiliated
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| 感到羞愧的 | |
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111
ignoble
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| adj.不光彩的，卑鄙的；可耻的 | |
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112
tempting
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| a.诱人的, 吸引人的 | |
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113
rustling
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| n. 瑟瑟声，沙沙声 adj. 发沙沙声的 | |
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114
predecessor
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| n.前辈，前任 | |
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115
admiration
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| n.钦佩，赞美，羡慕 | |
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116
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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117
crevices
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| n.（尤指岩石的）裂缝，缺口( crevice的名词复数 ) | |
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118
remorseful
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| adj.悔恨的 | |
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119
sanctuary
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| n.圣所，圣堂，寺庙；禁猎区，保护区 | |
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