Our inquiries1 at Limmeridge were patiently pursued in all directions, and among all sorts and conditions of people. But nothing came of them. Three of the villagers did certainly assure us that they had seen the woman, but as they were quite unable to describe her, and quite incapable2 of agreeing about the exact direction in which she was proceeding3 when they last saw her, these three bright exceptions to the general rule of total ignorance afforded no more real assistance to us than the mass of their unhelpful and unobservant neighbours.
The course of our useless investigations5 brought us, in time, to the end of the village at which the schools established by Mrs. Fairlie were situated6. As we passed the side of the building appropriated to the use of the boys, I suggested the propriety7 of making a last inquiry8 of the schoolmaster, whom we might presume to be, in virtue9 of his office, the most intelligent man in the place.
"I am afraid the schoolmaster must have been occupied with his scholars," said Miss Halcombe, "just at the time when the woman passed through the village and returned again. However, we can but try."
We entered the playground enclosure, and walked by the schoolroom window to get round to the door, which was situated at the back of the building. I stopped for a moment at the window and looked in.
The schoolmaster was sitting at his high desk, with his back to me, apparently10 haranguing11 the pupils, who were all gathered together in front of him, with one exception. The one exception was a sturdy white-headed boy, standing12 apart from all the rest on a stool in a corner--a forlorn little Crusoe, isolated13 in his own desert island of solitary14 penal15 disgrace.
The door, when we got round to it, was ajar, and the schoolmaster's voice reached us plainly, as we both stopped for a minute under the porch.
"Now, boys," said the voice, "mind what I tell you. If I hear another word spoken about ghosts in this school, it will be the worse for all of you. There are no such things as ghosts, and therefore any boy who believes in ghosts believes in what can't possibly be; and a boy who belongs to Limmeridge School, and believes in what can't possibly be, sets up his back against reason and discipline, and must be punished accordingly. You all see Jacob Postlethwaite standing up on the stool there in disgrace. He has been punished, not because he said he saw a ghost last night, but because he is too impudent17 and too obstinate18 to listen to reason, and because he persists in saying he saw the ghost after I have told him that no such thing can possibly be. If nothing else will do, I mean to cane19 the ghost out of Jacob Postlethwaite, and if the thing spreads among any of the rest of you, I mean to go a step farther, and cane the ghost out of the whole school."
"We seem to have chosen an awkward moment for our visit," said Miss Halcombe, pushing open the door at the end of the schoolmacter's address, and leading the way in.
Our appearance produced a strong sensation among the boys. They appeared to think that we had arrived for the express purpose of seeing Jacob Postlethwaite caned20.
"Go home all of you to dinner," said the schoolmaster, "except Jacob. Jacob must stop where he is; and the ghost may bring him his dinner, if the ghost pleases."
Jacob's fortitude21 deserted22 him at the double disappearance23 of his schoolfellows and his prospect24 of dinner. He took his hands out of his pockets, looked hard at his knuckles25, raised them with great deliberation to his eyes, and when they got there, ground them round and round slowly, accompanying the action by short spasms26 of sniffing27, which followed each other at regular intervals--the nasal minute guns of juvenile28 distress29.
"We came here to ask you a question, Mr. Dempster." said Miss Halcombe, addressing the schoolmaster; "and we little expected to find you occupied in exorcising a ghost. What does it all mean? What has really happened?"
"That wicked boy has been frightening the whole school, Miss Halcombe, by declaring that he saw a ghost yesterday evening," answered the master; "and he still persists in his absurd story, in spite of all that I can say to him."
"Most extraordinary," said Miss Halcombe "I should not have thought it possible that any of the boys had imagination enough to see a ghost. This is a new accession indeed to the hard labour of forming the youthful mind at Limmeridge, and I heartily30 wish you well through it, Mr. Dempster. In the meantime, let me explain why you see me here, and what it is I want."
She then put the same question to the schoolmaster which we had asked already of almost every one else in the village. It was met by the same discouraging answer Mr. Dempster had not set eyes on the stranger of whom we were in search.
"We may as well return to the house, Mr. Hartright," said Miss Halcombe; "the information we want is evidently not to be found."
She had bowed to Mr. Dempster, and was about to leave the schoolroom, when the forlorn position of Jacob Postlethwaite, piteously sniffing on the stool of penitence31, attracted her attention as she passed him, and made her stop good-humouredly to speak a word to the little prisoner before she opened the door.
"You foolish boy," she said, "why don't you beg Mr. Dempster's pardon, and hold your tongue about the ghost?"
"Eh!--but I saw t' ghaist," persisted Jacob Postlethwaite, with a stare of terror and a burst of tears.
"Stuff and nonsense! You saw nothing of the kind. Ghost indeed! What ghost----"
"I beg your pardon, Miss Halcombe," interposed the school-master a little uneasily--"but I think you had better not question the boy. The obstinate folly32 of his story is beyond all belief; and you might lead him into ignorantly----"
"Ignorantly what?" inquired Miss Halcombe sharply.
"Ignorantly shocking your feelings," said Mr. Dempster, looking very much discomposed.
"Upon my word, Mr. Dempster, you pay my feelings a great compliment in thinking them weak enough to be shocked by such an urchin33 as that!" She turned with an air of satirical defiance34 to little Jacob, and began to question him directly. "Come!" she said, "I mean to know all about this. You naughty boy, when did you see the ghost?"
"Yestere'en, at the gloaming," replied Jacob.
"Oh! you saw it yesterday evening, in the twilight35? And what was it like?"
"Arl in white--as a ghaist should be," answered the ghost-seer, with a confidence beyond his years.
"And where was it?"
"Away yander, in t' kirkyard--where a ghaist ought to be."
"As a 'ghaist' should be--where a 'ghaist' ought to be--why, you little fool, you talk as if the manners and customs of ghosts had been familiar to you from your infancy36! You have got your story at your fingers' ends, at any rate. I suppose I shall hear next that you can actually tell me whose ghost it was?"
"Eh! but I just can," replied Jacob, nodding his head with an air of gloomy triumph.
Mr. Dempster had already tried several times to speak while Miss Halcombe was examining his pupil, and he now interposed resolutely37 enough to make himself heard.
"Excuse me, Misc Halcombe," he said, "if I venture to say that you are only encouraging the boy by asking him these questions."
"I will merely ask one more, Mr. Dempster, and then I shall be quite satisfied. Well," she continued, turning to the boy, "and whose ghost was it?"
"T' ghaist of Mistress Fairlie," answered Jacob in a whisper.
The effect which this extraordinary reply produced on Miss Halcombe fully38 justified39 the anxiety which the schoolmaster had shown to prevent her from hearing it. Her face crimsoned40 with indignation--she turned upon little Jacob with an angry suddenness which terrified him into a fresh burst of tears--opened her lips to speak to him--then controlled herself, and addressed the master instead of the boy.
"It is useless," she said, "to hold such a child as that responsible for what he says. I have little doubt that the idea has been put into his head by others. If there are people in this village, Mr. Dempster, who have forgotten the respect and gratitude41 due from every soul in it to my mother's memory, I will find them out, and if I have any influence with Mr. Fairlie, they shall suffer for it."
"I hope--indeed, I am sure, Miss Halcombe--that you are mistaken," said the schoolmaster. "The matter begins and ends with the boy's own perversity42 and folly. He saw, or thought he saw, a woman in white, yesterday evening, as he was passing the churchyard; and the figure, real or fancied, was standing by the marble cross, which he and every one else in Limmeridge knows to be the monument over Mrs. Fairlie's grave. These two circumstances are surely sufficient to have suggested to the boy himself the answer which has so naturally shocked you?"
Although Miss Halcombe did not seem to be convinced, she evidently felt that the schoolmaster's statement of the case was too sensible to be openly combated. She merely replied by thanking him for his attention, and by promising43 to see him again when her doubts were satisfied. This said, she bowed, and led the way out of the schoolroom.
Throughout the whole of this strange scene I had stood apart, listening attentively44, and drawing my own conclusions. As soon as we were alone again, Miss Halcombe asked me if I had formed any opinion on what I had heard.
"A very strong opinion," I answered; "the boy's story, as I believe, has a foundation in fact. I confess I am anxious to see the monument over Mrs. Fairlie's grave, and to examine the ground about it."
"You shall see the grave."
She paused after making that reply, and reflected a little as we walked on. "What has happened in the schoolroom," she resumed, "has so completely distracted my attention from the subject of the letter, that I feel a little bewildered when I try to return to it. Must we give up all idea of making any further inquiries, and wait to place the thing in Mr. Gilmore's hands to-morrow?"
"By no means, Miss Halcombe. What has happened in the schoolroom encourages me to persevere45 in the investigation4."
"Why does it encourage you?"
"Because it strengthens a suspicion I felt when you gave me the letter to read."
"I suppose you had your reasons, Mr. Hartright, for concealing46 that suspicion from me till this moment?"
"I was afraid to encourage it in myself. I thought it was utterly47 preposterous--I distrusted it as the result of some perversity in my own imagination. But I can do so no longer. Not only the boy's own answers to your questions, but even a chance expression that dropped from the schoolmaster's lips in explaining his story, have forced the idea back into my mind. Events may yet prove that idea to be a delusion48, Miss Halcombe; but the belief is strong in me, at this moment, that the fancied ghost in the churchyard, and the writer of the anonymous49 letter, are one and the same person."
She stopped, turned pale, and looked me eagerly in the face.
"What person?"
"The schoolmaster unconsciously told you. When he spoke16 of the figure that the boy saw in the churchyard he called it 'a woman in white.'"
"Not Anne Catherick?"
"Yes, Anne Catherick."
She put her hand through my arm and leaned on it heavily.
"I don't know why," she said in low tones, "but there is something in this suspicion of yours that seems to startle and unnerve me. I feel----" She stopped, and tried to laugh it off. "Mr. Hartright," she went on, "I will show you the grave, and then go `ack at once to the house. I had better not leave Laura too long alone. I had better go back and sit with her."
We were close to the churchyard when she spoke. The church, a dreary50 building of grey stone, was situated in a little valley, so as to be sheltered from the bleak51 winds blowing over the moorland all round it. The burial-ground advanced, from the side of the church, a little way up the slope of the hill. It was surrounded by a rough, low stone wall, and was bare and open to the sky, except at one extremity52, where a brook53 trickled54 down the stony55 hill-side, and a clump56 of dwarf57 trees threw their narrow shadows over the short, meagre grass. Just beyond the brook and the trees, and not far from one of the three stone stiles which afforded entrance, at various points, to the church-yard, rose the white marble cross that distinguished58 Mrs. Fairlie's grave from the humbler monuments scattered59 about it.
"I need go no farther with you," said Miss Halcombe, pointing to the grave. "You will let me know if you find anything to confirm the idea you have just mentioned to me. Let us meet again at the house."
She left me. I descended60 at once to the churchyard, and crossed the stile which led directly to Mrs. Fairlie's grave.
The grass about it was too short, and the ground too hard, to show any marks of footsteps. Disappointed thus far, I next looked attentively at the cross, and at the square block of marble below it, on which the inscription61 was cut.
The natural whiteness of the cross was a little clouded, here and there, by weather stains, and rather more than one half of the square block beneath it, on the side which bore the inscription, was in the same condition. The other half, however, attracted my attention at once by its singular freedom from stain or impurity62 of any kind. I looked closer, and saw that it had been cleaned-recently cleaned, in a downward direction from top to bottom. The boundary line between the part that had been cleaned and the part that had not was traceable wherever the inscription left a blank space of marble--sharply traceable as a line that had been produced by artificial means. Who had begun the cleansing63 of the marble, and who had left it unfinished?
I looked about me, wondering how the question was to be solved. No sign of a habitation could be discerned from the point at which I was standing--the burial-ground was left in the lonely possession of the dead. I returned to the church, and walked round it till I came to the back of the building; then crossed the boundary wall beyond, by another of the stone stiles, and found myself at the head of a path leading down into a deserted stone quarry64. Against one side of the quarry a little two-room cottage was built, and just outside the door an old woman was engaged in washing.
I walked up to her, and entered into conversation about the church and burial-ground. She was ready enough to talk, and almost the first words she said informed me that her husband filled the two offices of clerk and sexton. I said a few words next in praise of Mrs. Fairlie's monument. The old woman shook her head, and told me I had not seen it at its best. It was her husband's business to look after it, but he had been so ailing65 and weak for months and months past, that he had hardly been able to crawl into church on Sundays to do his duty, and the monument had been neglected in consequence. He was getting a little better now, and in a week or ten days' time he hoped to be strong enough to set to work and clean it.
This information--extracted from a long rambling66 answer in the broadest Cumberland dialect--told me all that I most wanted to know. I gave the poor woman a trifle, and returned at once to Limmeridge House.
The partial cleansing of the monument had evidently been accomplished67 by a strange hand. Connecting what I had discovered, thus far, with what I had suspected after hearing the story of the ghost seen at twilight, I wanted nothing more to confirm my resolution to watch Mrs. Fairlie's grave, in secret, that evening, returning to it at sunset, and waiting within sight of it till the night fell. The work of cleansing the monument had been left unfinished, and the person by whom it had been begun might return to complete it.
On getting back to the house I informed Miss Halcombe of what I intended to do. She looked surprised and uneasy while I was explaining my purpose, but she made no positive objection to the execution of it. She only said, "I hope it may end well."
Just as she was leaving me again, I stopped her to inquire, as calmly as I could, after Miss Fairlie's health. She was in better spirits, and Miss Halcombe hoped she might be induced to take a little walking exercise while the afternoon sun lasted.
I returned to my own room to resume setting the drawings in order. It was necessary to do this, and doubly necessary to keep my mind employed on anything that would help to distract my attention from myself, and from the hopeless future that lay before me. From time to time I paused in my work to look out of window and watch the sky as the sun sank nearer and nearer to the horizon. On one of those occasions I saw a figure on the broad gravel68 walk under my window. It was Miss Fairlie.
I had not seen her since the morning, and I had hardly spoken to her then. Another day at Limmeridge was all that remained to me, and after that day my eyes might never look on her again. This thought was enough to hold me at the window. I had sufficient consideration for her to arrange the blind so that she might not see me if she looked up, but I had no strength to resist the temptation of letting my eyes, at least, follow her as far as they could on her walk.
She was dressed in a brown cloak, with a plain black silk gown under it. On her head was the same simple straw hat which she had worn on the morning when we first met. A veil was attached to it now which hid her face from me. By her side trotted69 a little Italian greyhound, the pet companion of all her walks, smartly dressed in a scarlet70 cloth wrapper, to keep the sharp air from his delicate skin. She did not seem to notice the dog. She walked straight forward, with her head drooping71 a little, and her arms folded in her cloak. The dead leaves, which had whirled in the wind before me when I had heard of her marriage engagement in the morning, whirled in the wind before her, and rose and fell and scattered themselves at her feet as she walked on in the pale waning72 sunlight. The dog shivered and trembled, and pressed against her dress impatiently for notice and encouragement. But she never heeded73 him. She walked on, farther and farther away from me, with the dead leaves whirling about her on the path-walked on, till my aching eyes could see her no more, and I was left alone again with my own heavy heart.
In another hour's time I had done my work, and the sunset was at hand. I got my hat and coat in the hall, and slipped out of the house without meeting any one.
The clouds were wild in the western heaven, and the wind blew chill from the sea. Far as the shore was, the sound of the surf swept over the intervening moorland, and beat drearily74 in my ears when I entered the churchyard. Not a living creature was in sight. The place looked lonelier than ever as I chose my position, and waited and watched, with my eyes on the white cross that rose over Mrs. Fairlie's grave.
收听单词发音 |
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inquiries
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| n.调查( inquiry的名词复数 )；疑问；探究；打听 | |
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incapable
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| adj.无能力的，不能做某事的 | |
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proceeding
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| n.行动，进行，(pl.)会议录，学报 | |
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investigation
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| n.调查，调查研究 | |
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investigations
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| （正式的）调查( investigation的名词复数 )； 侦查； 科学研究； 学术研究 | |
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situated
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| adj.坐落在...的，处于某种境地的 | |
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propriety
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| n.正当行为；正当；适当 | |
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inquiry
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| n.打听，询问，调查，查问 | |
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virtue
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| n.德行，美德；贞操；优点；功效，效力 | |
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apparently
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| adv.显然地；表面上，似乎 | |
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haranguing
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| v.高谈阔论( harangue的现在分词 ) | |
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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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isolated
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| adj.与世隔绝的 | |
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solitary
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| adj.孤独的，独立的，荒凉的；n.隐士 | |
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penal
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| adj.刑罚的；刑法上的 | |
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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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impudent
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| adj.鲁莽的，卑鄙的，厚颜无耻的 | |
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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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cane
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| n.手杖，细长的茎，藤条；v.以杖击，以藤编制的 | |
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caned
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| vt.用苔杖打（cane的过去式与过去分词形式） | |
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fortitude
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| n.坚忍不拔；刚毅 | |
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deserted
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| adj.荒芜的，荒废的，无人的，被遗弃的 | |
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disappearance
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| n.消失，消散，失踪 | |
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prospect
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| n.前景，前途；景色，视野 | |
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knuckles
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| n.（指人）指关节( knuckle的名词复数 )；（指动物）膝关节，踝v.（指人）指关节( knuckle的第三人称单数 )；（指动物）膝关节，踝 | |
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spasms
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| n.痉挛( spasm的名词复数 )；抽搐；（能量、行为等的）突发；发作 | |
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sniffing
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| n.探查法v.以鼻吸气，嗅，闻( sniff的现在分词 )；抽鼻子（尤指哭泣、患感冒等时出声地用鼻子吸气）；抱怨，不以为然地说 | |
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juvenile
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| n.青少年，少年读物；adj.青少年的，幼稚的 | |
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distress
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| n.苦恼，痛苦，不舒适；不幸；vt.使悲痛 | |
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heartily
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| adv.衷心地，诚恳地，十分，很 | |
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penitence
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| n.忏悔，赎罪；悔过 | |
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folly
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| n.愚笨，愚蠢，蠢事，蠢行，傻话 | |
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urchin
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| n.顽童；海胆 | |
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defiance
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| n.挑战，挑衅，蔑视，违抗 | |
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twilight
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| n.暮光，黄昏；暮年，晚期，衰落时期 | |
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infancy
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| n.婴儿期；幼年期；初期 | |
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resolutely
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| adj.坚决地，果断地 | |
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fully
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| adv.完全地，全部地，彻底地；充分地 | |
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justified
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| a.正当的，有理的 | |
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crimsoned
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| 变为深红色（crimson的过去式与过去分词形式） | |
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gratitude
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| adj.感激，感谢 | |
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perversity
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| n.任性；刚愎自用 | |
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promising
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| adj.有希望的，有前途的 | |
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attentively
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| adv.聚精会神地；周到地；谛；凝神 | |
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persevere
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| v.坚持，坚忍，不屈不挠 | |
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concealing
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| v.隐藏，隐瞒，遮住( conceal的现在分词 ) | |
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utterly
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| adv.完全地，绝对地 | |
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delusion
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| n.谬见，欺骗，幻觉，迷惑 | |
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anonymous
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| adj.无名的；匿名的；无特色的 | |
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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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bleak
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| adj.(天气)阴冷的；凄凉的；暗淡的 | |
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extremity
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| n.末端，尽头；尽力；终极；极度 | |
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brook
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| n.小河，溪；v.忍受，容让 | |
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trickled
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| v.滴( trickle的过去式和过去分词 )；淌；使)慢慢走；缓慢移动 | |
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stony
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| adj.石头的，多石头的，冷酷的，无情的 | |
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clump
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| n.树丛，草丛；vi.用沉重的脚步行走 | |
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dwarf
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| n.矮子，侏儒，矮小的动植物；vt.使…矮小 | |
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distinguished
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| adj.卓越的，杰出的，著名的 | |
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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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descended
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| a.为...后裔的，出身于...的 | |
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61
inscription
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| n.（尤指石块上的）刻印文字，铭文，碑文 | |
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impurity
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| n.不洁，不纯，杂质 | |
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63
cleansing
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| n. 净化(垃圾) adj. 清洁用的 动词cleanse的现在分词 | |
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64
quarry
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| n.采石场；v.采石；费力地找 | |
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ailing
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| v.生病 | |
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rambling
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| adj.[建]凌乱的，杂乱的 | |
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67
accomplished
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| adj.有才艺的；有造诣的；达到了的 | |
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gravel
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| n.砂跞；砂砾层；结石 | |
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69
trotted
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| 小跑，急走( trot的过去分词 )； 匆匆忙忙地走 | |
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scarlet
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| n.深红色，绯红色，红衣；adj.绯红色的 | |
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drooping
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| adj. 下垂的，无力的 动词droop的现在分词 | |
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72
waning
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| adj.（月亮）渐亏的，逐渐减弱或变小的n.月亏v.衰落( wane的现在分词 )；（月）亏；变小；变暗淡 | |
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heeded
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| v.听某人的劝告，听从( heed的过去式和过去分词 )；变平，使（某物）变平( flatten的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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drearily
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| 沉寂地，厌倦地，可怕地 | |
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