Old Lady Farrington, in her losses and her loneliness, was a woman much to be pitied. She had seen her children die, all of them but one. He also was dead, but[17] miserably1, and at a distance probably from home. Her husband she had mourned last of all, at a time when she had most needed strength and support. The new baronet did not treat her well. She was no doubt fortified2 by ample settlements. Farrington Court was hers also, by right inalienable, during her lifetime. Yet Sir Rupert had had it in his power to put her to infinite pain, and wittingly or unwittingly had not spared her in the least. The ejectment from the Hall—her once happy home, the scene of her married life, where all her children had been born, and where all were buried, save one—had been carried out with an almost brutal3 abruptness4, which cut the poor afflicted5 soul to the quick. Sir Rupert had driven hard bargains with her also in taking over the house and the estate; had insisted upon the uttermost[18] farthing, had denied her many possessions, small and great, which she valued as reminding her of the past, but which were his, according to the strict letter of the law. His unkindness pursued her even to the house which she might still call her own. But hers was only a life-interest, after all; and, as Farrington Court must in due course lapse6 back to the family, Sir Rupert felt bound, he said, for his own and his son’s sake, to see that the place came to no harm. His interference and inquisitiveness7 were, in consequence, constant and vexatious. He insisted upon inspecting the house regularly; he must satisfy himself that the repairs were duly executed, that the gardens and glass houses were properly kept up, and that no timber was cut down. He did not scruple8 to tell Lady Farrington that he looked upon her as a tenant9, and[19] by no means a good one, to whom he would gladly give notice to quit if he could.
These first causes for irritation10 and dislike deepened in time to positive hatred11. Lady Farrington came by degrees to fear Sir Rupert with a terror that was almost abject13; and when we fear others to this extent we undoubtedly14 hate them very cordially too. Her terror was not difficult to explain. It had its grounds in the conviction that she was more or less in his power. There was a secret which she had as she thought kept hitherto entirely15 to herself, but which he, as time passed and brought him opportunities for close observation, had eventually discovered. She herself knew, and by degrees she felt that he also knew that her mind was a little unsound.
Lady Farrington had been an eccentric woman even in her husband’s lifetime. Her[20] ways had been odd; her manners strange. She was given to curious likes and dislikes, which showed themselves in extraordinary ways. Thus she hated the wife of a neighbouring squire—an upstart woman, certainly, but nothing worse than gauche16 or ill-bred. Whenever this lady called at the hall the chair on which she had sat was sent to the upholsterers to be re-covered. On one occasion, when she came at the time of afternoon tea, Lady Farrington threw the cup and saucer her visitor had used into the fire, declaring it should never be drunk out of again. A more unnatural17 antipathy18 was that which she long entertained for her second son—a dislike which had caused him much misery19, and her much subsequent anguish20 of mind. As against all this, she had been extravagantly21 fond of her husband and her first-born. When the former[21] left her even for a few hours, she kept his hat and walking-stick in the room with her, as though to cheat herself into the belief that he was really in the house; the latter she coddled and cossetted to such an extent that he grew up weakly and died young.
But after all her bitter trials and heavy blows, her eccentricity22 had developed so rapidly that it might fairly be called by a stronger name. At first she shut herself up in a private chamber23, surrounded by the relics24 of happier days, and brooded sorrowfully over riding-whips, cricket-bats, and all manner of childish toys. Then she went to the other extreme; threw off her widow’s weeds and decked out in gay colours, and with a long white veil, drove about the country lanes in a carriage with grey horses, as though she were a newly-married bride.[22] When Sir Rupert’s persecution25 had grown into a serious annoyance26, she concentrated upon him all the aversion she had once levelled at more innocent objects of dislike. She never would have admitted him to the house, but as he would take no denial she consoled herself by throwing open all the windows and doors, whatever the weather, directly he had left the house, insisting that the place was unfit for habitation until it had been thoroughly27 aired. Then, saying his threats and menaces put her in bodily fear, she got into the habit of packing all her most treasured belongings28 in one or two trunks which she kept locked in her bedroom, under her own eye, in readiness as it were for immediate29 flight.
For a long time Sir Rupert seemed to take but little notice of her vagaries30. When the county folk commiserated31 him, and[23] inquired after poor Lady Farrington, he merely shrugged33 his shoulders and touched his forehead in a melancholy34 pitying way. She had had so much trouble in her time, poor soul. It was very dreadful of course. But what could be done? She had every care and attention he could secure for her. He went to see her frequently in spite of her strange dislike, so did his wife. He did his duty by her as well as he possibly could. She was harmless, and as he thought perfectly35 safe. She had good servants about her; he himself saw to that, and there was no necessity to put her under restraint—unless indeed, she became very much worse. If her malady36 increased to the extent of endangering the safety of those about her or of the house—by no means a secondary consideration with him—why then, as a last alternative, she must be shut up.
[24]
He did not conceal37 from her, however, that this would ultimately be her fate. More than once he warned her that he knew her condition, and would some day be compelled to take steps to make her secure. But he said this with no object but to prove his power, and Lady Farrington would probably have been left to pursue the curious tenour of her ways, had not her mania38 taken a direction which threatened to be distinctly inconvenient39 to Sir Rupert.
Of all the woes40 which Lady Farrington suffered, the keenest perhaps was remorse41 for her treatment of her second son. As has been said, she had looked upon him always with disfavour; Herbert never could please. Where another more tenderly cared for would have been gently corrected, he was called wilful42, obstinate43, perverse,[25] and sharply chicled and admonished44. He it was who was always in the wrong; he it was who led the other boys into mischief45. It was his fault, or said to be his, when the boat upset, or the ice broke, or the gun went off, or any mishap46 occurred. As he grew to man’s estate his mother’s indifference47 did not soften48 into warmer feelings. Poor Herbert failed at school and college, the obvious consequence of early neglect. He could not pass the army examination, although he longed to wear a red coat. All he could do was to roam the woods with dog and gun at Farrington, consorting49 with grooms50 and keepers, enjoying an open air life the more because he thereby51 escaped from the house and his mother’s sneers52. But these last, although thus rarely encountered, became at length unbearable53, and one fine morning Herbert was not to be[26] found. He had gone off, leaving a note to say that pursuit or inquiry54 would be fruitless, as he meant to leave England for good and all; nothing should induce him to return to Farrington Hall.
The blow fell heaviest upon Lady Farrington, who felt that she had been principally to blame. Prompt search was accordingly instituted, but all to no purpose.
Some said that he had emigrated, some that he had enlisted55, others that he had gone to sea. No one ever saw him in the flesh again. Only Lady Farrington, in whom the catastrophe56 had worked a strong revulsion of feeling, was positive that she had seen him in the spirit more than once. He had appeared to her, last of all, just after the death of Algernon, the eldest57 son. Nor had he appeared alone. Hand-in-hand with him was a comely58 fair-haired girl, with[27] a baby in her arms. Herbert had pointed59 significantly to the child, and Lady Farrington interpreted the gesture to mean that he and his son were now the rightful heirs of the Farrington title and estates. This vision she tremulously described to her husband and to others, but it was treated even by Sir Algernon as a mere32 dream, or the hallucination of an over-wrought brain.
Nothing more would have been thought of the circumstances of Herbert’s disappearance60 and shadowy return, except as a great and irreparable sorrow, but for the arrival of a mysterious packet, a year or two later, which contained a lock of light curly hair—Herbert’s?—and a scrap61 of paper, on which was written, in Herbert’s handwriting, ‘Be kinder to my boy.’
After this, a frantic62 desire to discover and do justice to her injured son possessed63 Lady[28] Farrington, to the exclusion64 of all other objects in life. The family lawyers were called in; detectives, public and private, were employed; advertisements were inserted in the agony columns of the journals with the largest circulation in the world. As substantial rewards were offered, numbers of sons were promptly65 forthcoming. But not one of them was the right one; nor was any information which could be relied upon obtained, neither as to whether Herbert Farrington himself was alive or dead, or whether, in the latter case, he had left any heirs. Lady Farrington endured another and a more bitter disappointment than any she had hitherto experienced in life.
It was not till long after the death of her husband and her occupation of Farrington Court, that the old theory as to the[29] existence of a grandson was revived by her. Why or wherefore no one could understand. Had she come upon any traces of the long-lost son? Or was it merely that her mind, in its increasing weakness, worked back into old grooves66? Be the cause what it might, Lady Farrington seemed at times strangely positive that she should find the missing dear one, or his representative, after all. She often hinted, darkly and mysteriously, that there was a great surprise in store for Sir Rupert. Something he little expected would assuredly come to pass when matters were properly ripe. There was no hurry. It was better to make all sure before the mine was sprung. No link in the chain must be wanting. But all would be ready ere long. Then let Sir Rupert look to himself.
All this gave the baronet, who was[30] really the man in possession, but little uneasiness. As the next heir, he had heard long ago of the eager inquiries67 for the missing Herbert; and although he had resented them then, he had accepted their impotent conclusion as an unanswerable proof that his presumptive rights were not to be impugned68. On the death of Sir Algernon his title had not been disputed, and he had succeeded, as a matter of course. Lady Farrington had made no protest. There was no shadow of foundation for a protest. And if not then, would any person in his sober senses think of disputing his rights now, when he had a firm grip of the title, property, and place? Only an old mad woman would harbour such an idea. Even she would hardly dare to raise the question openly, after such a lapse of years. And who would believe her if she did?
[31]
He told her so, very roughly, when her allusions69 became more and more significant. He warned her too that ‘she had better be careful what she said or did. It was a fact well known to the whole country-side that she was quite unable to take care of herself, that she was not responsible for her actions, that her proper place was an asylum70, and she might come to that yet if—’
One day, when he had been taunting71 thus longer and more bitterly than usual, she was goaded72 into making an incautious reply.
‘The cup is nearly full to the brim, Rupert. Your time is fast drawing to a close.’
‘What new craze is this, Lady Farrington?’ he said, laughing scornfully, but with a black look on his face.
Sir Rupert’s was a hard dark face, with[32] full eyes rather prominent, and a long, drooping73, black moustache. When he looked black it was not a pleasant face to see.
‘It is nothing new, Rupert. I have waited patiently, hopefully. I thought the end would never come. It is near at hand now, although the consummation has been long delayed.’
‘Your ladyship’s language is, as usual, clear and perspicuous, yet you will forgive me if I ask you to explain.’
‘Listen,’ she said, as she laid her hand upon his arm, and hissed74 out her words slowly one by one. ‘Within a few short months, nay75 weeks, whenever I choose, I can produce the rightful heir of the Farringtons; and he shall come to his own.’
‘This is mere rhapsody, mere raving76. You cannot touch me, you know that.’
[33]
‘I can, ay, and I will, miserable77 fool! You have not the shadow of a claim to the title and estates. My grandson, Herbert’s son, lives, and you must make way for him.’
‘Psha! Herbert’s son? How do you know that? What proof have you?’
‘The youth himself. He has been under my charge these five years past, and more. I found him—I myself found him. I knew I could not err12. He had Herbert’s eyes, he is Herbert’s image; he—’
‘He must have more proof than this if he is to make good his case in a court of law,’ said Sir Rupert coolly.
‘I know it, and the proof shall be forthcoming. Every link in the chain.’
‘All right. If it is to be war to the knife, so let it be. But I tell you plainly that no one will believe a word you say.’
[34]
‘They will believe my beautiful boy, my own Herbert’s boy, when they hear his story from his own sweet lips. He shall come forward himself when the occasion is ripe for him to speak.’
‘Where is he now?’ asked Sir Rupert, carelessly, but with deeply cunning intent.
She laughed in his face.
‘No, no, Sir Rupert, I am not to be so easily beguiled78. He is safe, quite safe, to be produced at exactly the right time.’
Sir Rupert gave her another fierce look, which boded79 her no good, but he said nothing more. He was not exactly disconcerted by her positive assertions, which he only half believed, yet his peace of mind had been rudely assailed80. That he must discover the whereabouts of this mysterious claimant, and test the accuracy of Lady Farrington’s far-fetched statements, was[35] clear. It was equally clear that he must, if possible, put a gag upon the old woman, and remove her where she could work no further harm.
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1
miserably
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| adv.痛苦地；悲惨地；糟糕地；极度地 | |
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fortified
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| adj. 加强的 | |
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brutal
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| adj.残忍的，野蛮的，不讲理的 | |
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abruptness
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| n. 突然，唐突 | |
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afflicted
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| 使受痛苦，折磨( afflict的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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lapse
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| n.过失，流逝，失效，抛弃信仰，间隔；vi.堕落，停止，失效，流逝；vt.使失效 | |
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inquisitiveness
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| 好奇，求知欲 | |
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scruple
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| n./v.顾忌，迟疑 | |
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tenant
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| n.承租人；房客；佃户；v.租借，租用 | |
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irritation
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| n.激怒，恼怒，生气 | |
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hatred
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| n.憎恶，憎恨，仇恨 | |
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err
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| vi.犯错误，出差错 | |
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abject
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| adj.极可怜的，卑屈的 | |
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undoubtedly
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| adv.确实地，无疑地 | |
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entirely
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| ad.全部地，完整地；完全地，彻底地 | |
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gauche
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| adj.笨拙的，粗鲁的 | |
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unnatural
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| adj.不自然的；反常的 | |
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antipathy
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| n.憎恶；反感，引起反感的人或事物 | |
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misery
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| n.痛苦，苦恼，苦难；悲惨的境遇，贫苦 | |
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anguish
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| n.(尤指心灵上的)极度痛苦，烦恼 | |
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extravagantly
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| adv.挥霍无度地 | |
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eccentricity
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| n.古怪，反常，怪癖 | |
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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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relics
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| [pl.］n.遗物，遗迹，遗产；遗体，尸骸 | |
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persecution
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| n. 迫害,烦扰 | |
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annoyance
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| n.恼怒，生气，烦恼 | |
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thoroughly
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| adv.完全地，彻底地，十足地 | |
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belongings
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| n.私人物品，私人财物 | |
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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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vagaries
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| n.奇想( vagary的名词复数 )；异想天开；异常行为；难以预测的情况 | |
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31
commiserated
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| v.怜悯，同情( commiserate的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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mere
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| adj.纯粹的；仅仅，只不过 | |
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shrugged
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| vt.耸肩（shrug的过去式与过去分词形式） | |
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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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perfectly
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| adv.完美地，无可非议地，彻底地 | |
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malady
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| n.病，疾病(通常做比喻) | |
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conceal
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| v.隐藏，隐瞒，隐蔽 | |
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mania
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| n.疯狂；躁狂症，狂热，癖好 | |
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inconvenient
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| adj.不方便的，令人感到麻烦的 | |
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woes
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| 困境( woe的名词复数 )； 悲伤； 我好苦哇； 某人就要倒霉 | |
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41
remorse
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| n.痛恨，悔恨，自责 | |
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42
wilful
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| adj.任性的，故意的 | |
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obstinate
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| adj.顽固的，倔强的，不易屈服的，较难治愈的 | |
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admonished
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| v.劝告( admonish的过去式和过去分词 )；训诫；（温和地）责备；轻责 | |
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45
mischief
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| n.损害，伤害，危害；恶作剧，捣蛋，胡闹 | |
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46
mishap
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| n.不幸的事，不幸；灾祸 | |
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47
indifference
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| n.不感兴趣，不关心，冷淡，不在乎 | |
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48
soften
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| v.(使)变柔软；(使)变柔和 | |
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49
consorting
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| v.结伴( consort的现在分词 )；交往；相称；调和 | |
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50
grooms
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| n.新郎( groom的名词复数 )；马夫v.照料或梳洗（马等）( groom的第三人称单数 )；使做好准备；训练；（给动物）擦洗 | |
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51
thereby
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| adv.因此，从而 | |
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52
sneers
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| 讥笑的表情（言语）( sneer的名词复数 ) | |
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53
unbearable
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| adj.不能容忍的；忍受不住的 | |
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54
inquiry
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| n.打听，询问，调查，查问 | |
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55
enlisted
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| adj.应募入伍的v.（使）入伍， （使）参军( enlist的过去式和过去分词 )；获得（帮助或支持） | |
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56
catastrophe
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| n.大灾难，大祸 | |
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eldest
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| adj.最年长的，最年老的 | |
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58
comely
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| adj.漂亮的，合宜的 | |
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59
pointed
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| adj.尖的，直截了当的 | |
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disappearance
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| n.消失，消散，失踪 | |
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61
scrap
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| n.碎片；废料；v.废弃，报废 | |
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62
frantic
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| adj.狂乱的，错乱的，激昂的 | |
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63
possessed
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| adj.疯狂的；拥有的，占有的 | |
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64
exclusion
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| n.拒绝，排除，排斥，远足，远途旅行 | |
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65
promptly
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| adv.及时地，敏捷地 | |
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66
grooves
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| n.沟( groove的名词复数 )；槽；老一套；（某种）音乐节奏v.沟( groove的第三人称单数 )；槽；老一套；（某种）音乐节奏 | |
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67
inquiries
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| n.调查( inquiry的名词复数 )；疑问；探究；打听 | |
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impugned
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| v.非难，指谪( impugn的过去式和过去分词 )；对…有怀疑 | |
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69
allusions
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| 暗指，间接提到( allusion的名词复数 ) | |
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70
asylum
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| n.避难所，庇护所，避难 | |
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71
taunting
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| 嘲讽( taunt的现在分词 )； 嘲弄； 辱骂； 奚落 | |
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72
goaded
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| v.刺激( goad的过去式和过去分词 )；激励；（用尖棒）驱赶；驱使（或怂恿、刺激）某人 | |
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73
drooping
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| adj. 下垂的，无力的 动词droop的现在分词 | |
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74
hissed
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| 发嘶嘶声( hiss的过去式和过去分词 )； 发嘘声表示反对 | |
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75
nay
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| adv.不；n.反对票，投反对票者 | |
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76
raving
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| adj.说胡话的；疯狂的，怒吼的；非常漂亮的；令人醉心[痴心]的v.胡言乱语(rave的现在分词)n.胡话；疯话adv.胡言乱语地；疯狂地 | |
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77
miserable
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| adj.悲惨的，痛苦的；可怜的，糟糕的 | |
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78
beguiled
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| v.欺骗( beguile的过去式和过去分词 )；使陶醉；使高兴；消磨（时间等） | |
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79
boded
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| v.预示，预告，预言( bode的过去式和过去分词 )；等待，停留( bide的过去分词 )；居住；（过去式用bided）等待 | |
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80
assailed
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| v.攻击( assail的过去式和过去分词 )；困扰；质问；毅然应对 | |
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