But just now he felt sick, physically10 sick, and descending11 with trembling limbs to the ground floor of the house, staggered towards the hall and door. All he desired was to get away, and put the corn-fields between himself and the evil atmosphere of Bleacres. But his legs failed him as he laid hands on the latch12, and he sank white-faced and shaking into a chair. In this state he was discovered by Mrs. Coppersley, the captain's sister and housekeeper13. She was a buxom14, amiable15 woman, with a fixed16 smile meaning nothing. The expression of her rosy17 face changed to one of alarm when she saw the heap in the chair. "Save us, Mr. Pence, what's wrong?"
Pence was about to break forth18 into a denunciation of Huxham's wickedness, but a timely recollection of the captain's last words—that his story would not be believed—made him pause. After all, Huxham was well known as a decent man and an open-handed friend to one and all, so there was nothing to be gained by telling a truth which would certainly be scoffed19 at. The preacher changed his mind in one swift instant, and replied nervously20 to Mrs. Coppersley's inquiry21. "I have been on the quarter-deck, and it made me dizzy. I am not accustomed to——"
"Drat that brother of mine," interrupted Mrs. Coppersley angrily, "he got me up there once, and I thought I'd never come down. Here, Mr. Pence, you hold up while I get you a sup of rum."
"No, no! Strong drink leads us into desperate ways," protested the preacher. But Mrs. Coppersley was gone, and had returned before he could make up his mind to fly temptation. Silas was not used to alcohol, but the shock he had sustained in learning so much of Huxham's true nature prevented his exercising his usual self-control. With his highly strung nerves he was half-hysterical22, and so, when forced by kindly23 Mrs. Coppersley, readily drank half a tumbler of rum slightly diluted24 with water.
"No!" He pushed it away. "I feel better already!" and he did, for the strong spirit brought colour to his cheek and new strength to his limbs. He stood up in a few minutes, quite himself, and indeed more than himself, since the rum put into him more courage than came by nature. "Wine maketh glad the heart of man," said Silas, in excuse for his unusual indulgence.
"Rum isn't wine," said Mrs. Coppersley, with a jolly laugh, "it's something much better, Mr. Pence. Now you go home and lie down."
"Then wait in the study." She indicated the panelled room with a jerk of her head. "Jabez will be down from his quarter-deck soon."
"No." Pence shivered, in spite of the rum, at the thought of again having to face his tempter. "I must go now. My presence is required in the village."
"Then you can take a message for me to Mr. Vand," said Mrs. Coppersley, with a slight accession of colour to her already florid face. "Say that I am coming to Marshely about seven o'clock, and will call at the shop."
This request changed Pence into the preacher and the leader of the godly people who called his chapel27 their fold. Vand was the son of the woman who kept the village grocery shop, and a cripple who played the violin at various local concerts. He was at least ten years younger than Mrs. Coppersley, who confessed to being thirty-five—though probably she was older—and the way in which the widow ran after him was something of a scandal. As both Mrs. Coppersley and Henry Vand were members of Little Bethel, Silas felt that he was entitled to inquire into the matter. "You ask me to take such a message, sister?" he demanded austerely28.
The widow's face flamed, and her eyes sparkled. "There is no shame in it that I am aware of, Mr. Pence," she declared violently; "if I choose to marry again, that's no one's business but mine, I take it."
"Oh, so you desire to marry Henry Vand?" said Pence, amazed.
"It's not a question of desiring," said the buxom woman impatiently. "Henry and I have arranged to be married this summer."
"He is a cripple."
"I know that," she snapped, "and therefore needs the care of a wife."
"His mother looks after him," protested Pence weakly.
"Does she?" inquired Mrs. Coppersley. "I thought she looked after no one but herself. She's that selfish as never was, so don't you go to defend her, Mr. Pence. Henry, poor boy, who is an angel, if ever there was one, is quite neglected; so I am going to marry him and look after him. So there!" and Mrs. Coppersley, placing her hands akimbo, defied her pastor29.
"Henry has no money," said Pence, finding another objection.
"As to that," remarked Mrs. Coppersley indifferently, "when my brother dies I'll have money for us both, and this house into the bargain."
"You will have nothing of the sort," said Silas, surprised into saying more than was wise. "Your brother's daughter will inherit this——"
"Oh, will she?" cried Mrs. Coppersley violently, "and much you know about it, Mr. Pence. When my late husband, who was a ship's steward30, and saving, died ten year ago, I lent my brother some money to add to his own, so that he might buy Bleacres. He agreed that if I did so, I should inherit the house and the land. I promised to look after Bella until she got married, and——"
"Mrs. Coppersley," said Pence, with an effort at firmness, "your brother told me only lately that if I married Bella, he would give her the farm and the house when he died, so——"
"Ho, indeed," interrupted Mrs. Coppersley wrathfully, "pretty goings on, I'm sure. You call yourself a pastor, Mr. Pence, and come plotting to rob me of what is mine. I take everything, and Bella nothing, so you can put that in your pipe and smoke it, though you ain't man enough to smoke even a penny cigar. You marry Bella? Why, she's as good as engaged to that young Lister, who has got more gumption31 about him than you have."
"I advise you," said Pence, and his voice sounded strangely in his own ears, "not to tell your brother that his daughter is engaged to Mr. Lister."
"I never said that she was. But——"
"In heaven's name, why?" gasped33 Mrs. Coppersley, looking the picture of stout34 amazement35 and sitting down heavily.
"Because for some reason he hates Mr. Lister, and would kill him rather than accept him as his son-in-law."
Mrs. Coppersley's florid face turned quite pale. Evidently she knew what her brother was like when roused. "Why should Jabez hate Mr. Lister?" she asked.
"You had better ask him," said Pence, opening the hall door; then to soften36 his abruptness37 he added, "I'll tell Henry Vand that you will see him." After which he departed, leaving Mrs. Coppersley still pale and still gasping38.
After all there was no reason why the ship steward's widow would not marry the young man. Vand was handsome in a refined way, and very clever as a musician. He was only slightly crippled, too, and could get about with the aid of a stick. All the same, he needed someone to look after him, and as his own mother did not do so—as was notorious—why should he not become Mrs. Coppersley's husband? The disparity in age did not matter, as Vand, in spite of his good looks, was club-footed and poor. But Pence doubted if Mrs. Coppersley would inherit Bleacres after Captain Huxham's death, in spite of the arrangement between them. Unless—and here was the chance for the housekeeper—unless Bella married Lister, notwithstanding her father's opposition40. In that event, Huxham would assuredly disinherit her. "I'll point this out to her," said the preacher, as he left the manor-house, "and urge my suit. Common-sense will make her yield to my prayers. Moreover, I can plead, and——" here he smiled complacently41 as he thought of his pulpit eloquence42. Besides, the unaccustomed spirit of the rum was still keeping him brave.
Pence sauntered in the glowing sunshine down the narrow path which ran between the standing39 corn. The path was not straight. It wound deviously43, as though Huxham wished to make the approach to his abode44 as difficult as possible. Indeed, it was strange that he should sow corn at all, since corn at the time was not remunerative45. But every year since he had entered into possession of Bleacres the owner had sown corn, and every year there had only been the one meandering46 path through the same, the very path which Pence was now taking. There was evidently some purpose in this sowing, and in the fact that only one pathway was left whereby to approach the mansion47. But what that purpose might be, neither Pence, nor indeed anyone else, could guess. Not that they gave it a thought. Huxham was presumed to be very wealthy, and his farming was looked upon more as a hobby than a necessity.
The preacher brushed between the breast-high corn, and walked over two or three narrow planks48 laid across two or three narrow ditches. But where the corn ended was a wide channel, at least ten feet broad, which stretched the whole length of the estate and passed beyond it on its way under the railway line to the distant river. The water-way ran straightly for some distance, and then curved down into the marshes49 at its own will, to spread into swamps. On one side sprang the thick green corn, but on the other stretched waste-lands up to the outskirts50 of the village, one mile distant. There was no fence round Bleacres at this point. Apparently51, Huxham deemed the wide channel a sufficient protection to his corn, which it assuredly was, as no tramps ever trespassed52 on the land. But then, Marshely was not a tramp village. The inhabitants were poor, and had nothing to give in the way of charity. The loafer of the roads avoided the locality for very obvious reasons.
Before crossing the planks, which were laid on mid-channel supporting tressels over the water-way, Pence looked from right to left. The evening was so very beautiful that he thought he would prolong his walk until sundown, and it wanted some time to that hour. He was still indignant with Captain Huxham for his base offer, and came to the conclusion that the ex-mariner was mad when he made it. Pence, in his simplicity53, could not think that any man could ask another to kill a third in cold blood. All the same, the offer had been made, and Silas found himself asking why Huxham should desire the death of a stranger with whom—so far as the preacher knew—he was not even acquainted. Huxham had always refused to permit Bella to bring Lister to Bleacres, and indeed had forbidden her even to speak to the young man. He therefore could not be cognisant of the fact, stated by Mrs. Coppersley, that Lister and the girl were on the eve of an engagement.
Thus thinking, Pence mechanically wandered along the left bank of the boundary water-way, and found himself near a small hut, inhabited by the sole labourer whom Huxham habitually54 employed. He engaged others, of course, when his fields were ploughed, and sown, and reaped, but Tunks—such was the euphonious55 name of the handy-man—was in demand all the year round. He resided in this somewhat lonely hut, along with his grandmother, a weird56 old gipsy reputed to be a witch, and it was this reputation which set Mr. Pence thinking.
Remembering that Mrs. Tunks was of the Romany, he thought, and blushed as he thought, that it would be worth while to expend57 a shilling in order to learn if his suit with Bella would really prosper58. The temple of fate was before him, and the Sibyl was probably within, since the smoke of cooking the evening meal curled from the chimney. It was only necessary to lift the latch, lay down a shilling, and inquire. But even as the temptation drew him, he was seized with a feeling of shame, that he—a preacher of the Gospel, and the approved foe59 thereby60 of witches—should think for one moment of encouraging such traffic with the Evil One. Pence, blushing as red as the now setting sun, turned away hastily, and found himself face to face with the very girl who was causing him such torment61.
"How are you, Mr. Pence?" said Bella Huxham, lightly. "A lovely evening, isn't it?" and she tried to pass him on the narrow path. Probably she was going to see the Witch of Endor.
The preacher placed himself directly before her.
"Wait for one moment."
The girl did not reply immediately, but looked at him earnestly, trying to guess what the usually nervous preacher had to say. Bella looked more lovely than ever in Pence's eyes, as she stood before him in her white dress and bathed in the rosy glory of the sunset. She did not in the least resemble her father or her aunt, both of whom were stout, uncomely folk of true plebeian62 type. Bella was aristocratic in her looks, as tall and slim and willowy as a young sapling. Her hair and eyes were dark, her face was a perfect oval of ivory-white delicately flushed with red, like a sweet-pea, and if her chin was a trifle resolute63 and hard, her mouth was perfect. She carried herself in a haughty64 way, and had a habit of bending her dark brows so imperiously, that she reminded Pence of Judith, who killed Holofernes. Judith and Jael and Deborah must have been just such women.
"Well?" asked Bella, bending her brows like an empress, "what is it?"
"I—I—love you, Miss Huxham."
She could not be angry at so naive65 a declaration, and one coming from a man whom she knew to be as timid as a hare. "I am somewhat surprised, Mr. Pence," she replied demurely66, "are you not making a mistake?"
"No," he stuttered, flushing with eagerness, for amorous67 passion makes the most timid bold. "I have loved you for months, for years. I want you to be my wife—to share with me the glorious privilege of leading my flock to the land of Beulah, and——"
"Stop, stop!" She flung up her hand. "I assure you, Mr. Pence, that it is impossible. Forget that you ever said anything."
"I cannot forget. Why should I forget?"
"You must not ask a woman for her reasons, Mr. Pence," she answered drily, "for a woman never gives the true ones."
"Bella!"
"No," he cried wildly; "to me you are Bella. I think of you by that sweet name day and night. You come between me and my work. When I console the afflicted70 I feel that I am talking to you. When I read my Bible, your face comes between me and the sacred page. To me you are Hephzibah—yes, and the Shulamite. The Angel of the Covenant71; the joy of my heart. Oh, Bella, I love the very ground that you tread on. Can you refuse me? See!" He threw himself on the path, heedless of the fact that Mrs. Tunks might be at her not far distant window. "I am at your feet, Bella! Bella!"
The girl was distressed72 by this earnestness. "Rise, Mr. Pence, someone will see you. You must not behave like this. I cannot be your wife."
"Why not? Oh, why not?"
"Because I am not fit to be a minister's wife."
The young man sprang to his feet, glowing with passion. "Let me teach you."
Bella avoided his extended arms. "No, no, no!" she insisted, "you must take my answer once and for all, Mr. Pence. I cannot marry you."
"But why?" he urged despairingly.
"I have a reason," she replied formally; "don't ask me for it."
"I have no need to. I know your reason."
Bella flushed, but overlooked the bitterness of his tone because she guessed what he suffered. "In that case, I need not explain," she said coldly, and again tried to pass. Again he prevented her.
"You love that man Lister," he said between his teeth.
"That is my business, Mr. Pence."
"Mine also," he cried, undaunted by her haughtiness73. "Your father's business, too. Mrs. Coppersley said that you were almost engaged to this man Lister. But you shall not marry him; you will not even be engaged to him."
"Who will prevent me?" asked Bella angrily.
"Your father. He hates this man Lister."
"How can my father hate a man he has never even seen?" she demanded; "you are talking rubbish."
"Miss Huxham"—Pence detained her by laying his thin fingers on her arm—"if you marry this man Lister"—he kept to this sentence as though it were a charm—"you will be a pauper74."
She flashed up into a royal rage and stamped. "How dare you say that?"
"I dare tell the truth."
"It is not the truth. How can you tell if——"
"Your father told me," insisted the preacher, hotly.
Bella withdrew a step or so, her eyes growing round with surprise. "My—father—said—that?"
"Yes, yes, yes!" cried Silas feverishly75. "I went to him this very afternoon to ask permission to present myself to you as a suitor. He consented, but only when he heard that you loved this man who——"
"You told him that?" demanded Bella, her breath coming quick and short.
"Yes," said Pence, trying to be courageous76, "and it is true."
"Who says that it is?"
"Everyone in the village."
"The village has nothing to do with my business," she declared imperiously, "and even if I do love—but let that pass. You told me that my father said I should be a pauper."
"If you married the man Lister," he reminded her. "Yes, he did say so, and declared also that he would give me the manor-house and the farm when he died, if I made you my wife."
Bella shrugged77 her shoulders. "My father does not mean what he says," she remarked disbelievingly; "as I am his only child, the Solitary78 Farm, as they call it, comes to me in any case. And I see no reason why I should discuss my father's business with you. Stand aside and let me pass."
"No." Silas was wonderfully brave for one of his timid soul. "You shall not pass until you learn the truth. You think that I am a fool and weak. I am not. I feel wise and strong; and I am strong—strong enough to withstand temptation, even when you are offered as a bribe79."
Bella grew somewhat alarmed. She did not like the glittering of his shallow, grey eyes. "You are mad."
"I am sane80; you know that I am sane, but you think to put me off by saying that I am crazy. I have had enough to make me so. Your father"—here his voice took on the sing-song pulpit style—"your father took me up to an exceedingly high mountain, and showed me the kingdoms of the world. All of them he offered me, together with you, if I murdered Lister."
"What!" Bella's voice leaped an octave; "you—you—murder Cyril?"
"Yes, Cyril, the man you love. And if I dared——"
"Mr. Pence"—Bella saw the necessity of keeping herself well in hand with this hysterical youth, for he was nothing else, and spoke in a calm, kind voice—"my father has not seen Mr. Lister, and cannot hate him."
"Go and ask him what he thinks," said Pence fiercely. "I tell you that to-day I was offered everything if I would kill this man Lister."
"You are talking at random," she said soothingly81; "go home, and lie down."
"I am talking of what may come to pass. Your father wishes it, so why not, when I love you so deeply? I offer you the heart of an honest man, and yet you would throw that aside for this profligate82."
"Cyril is not a profligate," interrupted Bella, and could have bitten out her tongue for the hasty speech.
"He is. He comes from London, the City of Evil, that shall yet fall like Babylon the Great. But your soul shall not be lost; you shall not marry him."
"I shall!" cried Bella, indignantly, and becoming rash again in her anger; "and what is more, I am engaged to him now. So there! Let me pass."
She slipped deftly83 past him, and walked swiftly homeward. Silas Pence stood where he was, staring after her, unable to speak or move or to follow. Then the sun sank, leaving him in the twilight84 of sorrow.
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1
infancy
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| n.婴儿期；幼年期；初期 | |
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civilisation
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| n.文明，文化，开化，教化 | |
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slaying
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| 杀戮。 | |
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thwarted
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| 阻挠( thwart的过去式和过去分词 )； 使受挫折； 挫败； 横过 | |
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horrified
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| a.(表现出)恐惧的 | |
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follower
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| n.跟随者；随员；门徒；信徒 | |
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7
underlies
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| v.位于或存在于（某物）之下( underlie的第三人称单数 )；构成…的基础（或起因），引起 | |
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germinate
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| v.发芽；发生；发展 | |
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horrifying
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| a.令人震惊的，使人毛骨悚然的 | |
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physically
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| adj.物质上，体格上，身体上，按自然规律 | |
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descending
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| n. 下行 adj. 下降的 | |
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latch
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| n.门闩，窗闩；弹簧锁 | |
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housekeeper
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| n.管理家务的主妇，女管家 | |
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buxom
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| adj.（妇女）丰满的，有健康美的 | |
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amiable
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| adj.和蔼可亲的，友善的，亲切的 | |
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fixed
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| adj.固定的，不变的，准备好的；(计算机)固定的 | |
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rosy
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| adj.美好的，乐观的，玫瑰色的 | |
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forth
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| adv.向前；向外，往外 | |
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scoffed
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| 嘲笑，嘲弄( scoff的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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nervously
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| adv.神情激动地，不安地 | |
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inquiry
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| n.打听，询问，调查，查问 | |
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hysterical
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| adj.情绪异常激动的，歇斯底里般的 | |
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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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diluted
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| 无力的，冲淡的 | |
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entreated
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| 恳求，乞求( entreat的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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valiantly
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| adv.勇敢地，英勇地；雄赳赳 | |
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chapel
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| n.小教堂，殡仪馆 | |
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austerely
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| adv.严格地，朴质地 | |
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pastor
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| n.牧师，牧人 | |
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steward
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| n.乘务员，服务员；看管人；膳食管理员 | |
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gumption
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| n.才干 | |
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mere
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| adj.纯粹的；仅仅，只不过 | |
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gasped
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| v.喘气( gasp的过去式和过去分词 )；喘息；倒抽气；很想要 | |
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amazement
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| n.惊奇，惊讶 | |
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soften
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| v.(使)变柔软；(使)变柔和 | |
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abruptness
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| n. 突然，唐突 | |
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gasping
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| adj. 气喘的, 痉挛的 动词gasp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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opposition
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| n.反对，敌对 | |
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complacently
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| adv. 满足地, 自满地, 沾沾自喜地 | |
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eloquence
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| n.雄辩；口才，修辞 | |
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deviously
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| 弯曲地，绕道地 | |
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abode
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| n.住处，住所 | |
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remunerative
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| adj.有报酬的 | |
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meandering
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| 蜿蜒的河流，漫步，聊天 | |
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mansion
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| n.大厦，大楼；宅第 | |
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planks
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| （厚）木板( plank的名词复数 )； 政纲条目，政策要点 | |
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marshes
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| n.沼泽，湿地( marsh的名词复数 ) | |
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outskirts
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| n.郊外，郊区 | |
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apparently
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| adv.显然地；表面上，似乎 | |
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trespassed
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| （trespass的过去式与过去分词形式） | |
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simplicity
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| n.简单，简易；朴素；直率，单纯 | |
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habitually
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| ad.习惯地，通常地 | |
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euphonious
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| adj.好听的，悦耳的，和谐的 | |
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weird
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| adj.古怪的，离奇的；怪诞的，神秘而可怕的 | |
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expend
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| vt.花费，消费，消耗 | |
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58
prosper
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| v.成功，兴隆，昌盛；使成功，使昌隆，繁荣 | |
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foe
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| n.敌人，仇敌 | |
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thereby
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| adv.因此，从而 | |
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torment
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| n.折磨；令人痛苦的东西(人)；vt.折磨；纠缠 | |
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plebeian
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| adj.粗俗的；平民的；n.平民；庶民 | |
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resolute
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| adj.坚决的，果敢的 | |
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haughty
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| adj.傲慢的，高傲的 | |
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naive
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| adj.幼稚的，轻信的；天真的 | |
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demurely
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| adv.装成端庄地，认真地 | |
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amorous
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| adj.多情的；有关爱情的 | |
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68
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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chilly
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| adj.凉快的，寒冷的 | |
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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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covenant
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| n.盟约，契约；v.订盟约 | |
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distressed
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| 痛苦的 | |
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haughtiness
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| n.傲慢；傲气 | |
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pauper
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| n.贫民，被救济者，穷人 | |
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feverishly
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| adv. 兴奋地 | |
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courageous
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| adj.勇敢的，有胆量的 | |
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77
shrugged
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| vt.耸肩（shrug的过去式与过去分词形式） | |
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78
solitary
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| adj.孤独的，独立的，荒凉的；n.隐士 | |
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79
bribe
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| n.贿赂；v.向…行贿，买通 | |
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sane
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| adj.心智健全的，神志清醒的，明智的，稳健的 | |
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81
soothingly
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| adv.抚慰地，安慰地；镇痛地 | |
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82
profligate
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| adj.行为不检的；n.放荡的人，浪子，肆意挥霍者 | |
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83
deftly
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| adv.灵巧地，熟练地，敏捷地 | |
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84
twilight
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| n.暮光，黄昏；暮年，晚期，衰落时期 | |
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