There was none knew her as her husband did—none in the world—though so many were her friends and worshippers. As he loved her he knew her, the passion of his noble heart giving him clearer and more watchful1 eyes than any other. Truth was, indeed, that she herself did not know how much he saw and pondered on and how tender his watch upon her was.
The dark shadow in her eyes he had first noted2, the look which would pass over her face sometimes at a moment when 'twas brightest, when it glowed with tenderest love for himself or with deepest yearning3 over the children who were given to them as time passed, for there were born to fill their home four sons who were like young gods for strength and beauty, and two daughters as fair things as Nature ever made to promise perfect womanhood.
And how she loved and tended them, and how they joyed in their young lives and worshipped and revered5 her!
"When I was a child, Gerald," she said to their father, "I was unhappy—and 'tis a hideous6 thing that a child should be so. I loved none and none loved me, and though all feared my rage and gave me my will, I was restless and savage7 and a rebel, though I knew not why. There were hours—I did not know their meaning, and hated them—when I was seized with fits of horrid8 loneliness and would hide myself in the woods, and roll in the dead leaves, and curse myself and all things because I was wretched. I used to think that I was angered at my dogs, or my horse, or some servant, or my father, and would pour forth9 oaths at them—but 'twas not they. Our children must be happy—they must be happy, Gerald. I will have them happy!"
What a mother they had in her!—a creature who could be wild with play and laughter with them, who was so beauteous that even in mere10 babyhood they would sit upon her knee and stare at her for sheer infant pleasure in her rich bloom and great, sweet eyes; who could lift and toss and rock them in her strong, soft arms as if they were but flowers and she a summer wind; whose voice was music, and whose black hair was a great soft mantle11 'twas their childish delight to coax12 her to loosen that it might flow about her, billowing, she standing13 laughing beneath and tossing it over them to hide their smallness under it as beneath a veil. She was their heroine and their young pride, and among themselves they made joyful14 little boasts that there was no other such lady in all England. To behold15 her mount her tall horse and gallop16 and leap hedges and gates, to hear her tell stories of the moorlands and woods, and the game hiding in nests and warrens, of the ways of dogs and hawks17 and horses, and soldiers and Kings and Queens, and of how their father had fought in battles, and of how big the world was and how full of wonders and of joys! What other children had such pleasures in their lives?
But a few months after their Graces' visit to the Cow at Wickben, young John, who was heir and Marquess of Roxholm, had been born; following each other his two brothers, and later the child Daphne and her sister Anne; last, the little Lord Cuthbert, who was told as he grew older that he was to be the hero of his house in memory of Cuthbert de Mertoun, who had lived centuries ago; and in the five villages 'twas sworn that each son her Grace bore her husband was a finer creature than the last, and that her girl children outbloomed their brothers all.
Among these young human flowers Mistress Anne reigned18 gentle queen and saint, but softly faded day by day, having been a fragile creature all her life, but growing more so as time passed, despite the peace she lived in and the happiness surrounding her.
In her eyes, too, his Grace had seen a look which held its mystery. They were such soft eyes and so kind and timid he had always loved them. In days gone by he had often observed them as they followed her sister, and had been touched by the faithful tenderness of their look; but after her marriage they seemed to follow her more tenderly still, and sometimes with a vague, piteous wonder, as if the fond creature asked herself in secret a question she knew not how to answer. More and more devout19 she had grown, and, above all things, craved20 to aid her Grace in the doing of her good deeds. To such work she gave herself with the devotion of one who would strive to work out a penance21.
Her own attendant was one of those whom her sister had aided, and was a young creature with a piteous little story indeed—a pretty, rosy22, country child of but seventeen when, after her Grace's marriage, she came to Camylott to serve Mistress Anne.
On her first coming my lord Duke had marked her and the sadness of her innocent, childish face and blue eyes, and had spoken of her to Anne, asking if she had met with some misfortune.
"A pretty, curly-headed creature such as she should be a village beauty and dimpling with smiles," he said, "but the little thing looks sometimes as if she had wept a year. Who has done her a wrong?"
Mistress Anne gave a little start and bent24 lower over her embroidery25 frame, but her Grace, who was in the apartment, answered for her.
"'Twas Sir John Oxon," she answered, "who has wronged so many."
"No," the Duchess replied; "but would have done it, and she, poor child, all innocent, believing herself an honest wife. He had so planned it, but Fate saved her!"
"A mock marriage," says the Duke, "and she saved from it! How?"
"Because the day she went to him to be married, as he had told her, he was not at his lodgings27, and did not return."
"'Twas the very day he disappeared—the day you saw him?" Osmonde exclaimed.
"Yes," was the answer given, as her Grace crossed the room. "And 'twas because I had seen him that the poor thing came to me with her story—and I cared for her."
She, too, had been sitting at her embroidery frame, and had crossed the room for silks, which lay upon the table near to Mistress Anne. As she laid her hand upon them she looked down and uttered a low exclamation28, springing to her sister's side.
Mistress Anne's small, worn face had dropped so low over her frame that it at last lay upon it, showing white against the silken roses so gaily30 broidered there. She was in a dead swoon.
Later Osmonde heard further details of this story—of how the poor child, having no refuge in the great city, had dared at last to go to Dunstanwolde House in the wild hope that her ladyship, who had last seen Sir John, might tell her if he had let drop any word concerning his journey—if he had made one. She had at first hung long about the servants' entrance, watching the workmen who were that day walling in the wing of black cellars my lady had wished to close before she left the place, and at length, in desperation, had appealed to a young stone-mason, with a good-humoured countenance31, and he had interceded32 for her with a lacquey passing by.
"But had I not spoke23 Sir John's name," the girl said when my lord Duke spoke kindly33 to her of her story and her Grace's goodness; "had I not spoke his name, the man would not have carried my message. But he said she would see me if I had news of Sir John Oxon. He blundered, your Grace, thinking I came from Sir John himself, and told her Grace 'twas so. And she bade him bring me to her."
Her Grace she worshipped, and would break here into sobs34 each time she told the story, describing her fright when she had been led to the apartment where sate35 the great lady, who had spoke to her in a voice like music and with such strange, deep pity of her grief, and in a passion of tenderness had told the truth to her, taking her, after her swoon, in her own strong, lovely arms, as if she had been no rich Countess but a poor woman, such as she who wept, and one whose heart, too, might have been broke by a cruel, deadly blow.
This poor simple child (who was in time cured of her wound and married an honest fellow who loved her) was not the only one of Sir John Oxon's victims whom her Grace protected. There were, indeed, many of them, and 'twas as though she had made it her curious duty to search them out. When she and her lord lived sumptuously36 at Osmonde House in town, shining at Court, entertaining Royalty37 itself at their home, envied and courted by all as the happiest married lovers and the favourites of Fortune, my lord Duke knew that many a day she cast her rich robes and, clad in the dark garments and black hood4, went forth to visit strange, squalid places. Since the hour of his first meeting her on her return from such an errand, when they had spoken together, he had never again forbade her to follow the path 'twas plain she had chosen.
"Were I going forth to battle," he had said, "you would not seek to hold me back; and in your battle, for it seems one to me, though I know not what 'tis fought for, I will not restrain you."
"Ay, 'tis a battle," she had said, and seized his hands and kissed them as if in passionate38 gratitude39. "And 'tis a debt—a debt I swore to pay—if that we call God would let me. Perhaps He will not, but were He you—who know my soul—He would."
Yet but a few hours later, when he joined her in the Mall, where she had descended40 from her coach to walk with the world of fashion and moved among the wits and beaux and leaders of the mode, drawing all round her by the marvel41 of her spirit and the brilliancy of her gayety and bearing, he hearing her rich laughter and meeting the bright look of her lovely, flashing eyes, wondered if she was the woman whose voice still lingered in his ears and the memory of whose words would not leave his fervent42 heart.
Their love was so perfect a thing that they had never denied each other aught. Why should they; indeed, how could they? Each so understood and trusted the other that they scarce had need for words in the deciding of such questions as other pairs must reason gravely over. There was no question, only one thought between them, and in his life a thing which grew each hour as he had long since known it would. 'Twas this woman whom he loved—this one—her looks, her ways, her laughter and her tears, her very faults, if she should have them, her past, her present, and her future which seemed all himself.
That—Duchess of Osmonde though she might be—she was known in dark places and moved among the foul43 evil there, like the sun which strove at rare hours to cleanse44 and dispel45 it; that she had in kennels47 and noisome48 dens49 strange friends, was a thing at first vaguely50 rumoured51 because the world had ever loved its stories of her, and been ready to believe any it heard and invent new ones when it had tired of the old. But there came a time when through a strange occurrence the rumour52 was proved, most singularly, to be a truth.
Two gilt53 coaches, full of chattering54 fine ladies and gentlemen, were being driven on a certain day through a part of the town not ordinarily frequented by fashion, but the occupants of the coaches had been entertaining themselves with a great and curious sight it had been their delicate fancy to desire to behold as an exciting novelty. This had been no less an exhibition than the hanging of two malefactors on Tyburn Hill—the one a handsome young highwayman, the other a poor woman executed for larceny55.
The highwayman had been a favourite and had died gaily, and that he should have been cut off in his prime had put the crowd (among which were several of his yet uncaught companions) in an ill-humour; the poor woman had wept and made a poor end, which had added to the anger of the beholders.
'Twas an evil, squalid, malodorous mob, not of the better class of thieves and tatterdemalions, but of the worst, being made up of cutthroats out of luck, pickpockets56, and poor wretches57 who were the scourings of the town and the refuse of the kennel46. 'Twas just the crowd to be roused to some insensate frenzy58, being hungry, bitter, and vicious; and when, making ready to slouch back to its dens, its attention was attracted by the gay coaches, with their liveries and high-fed horses, and their burden of silks and velvets, and plumes59 nodding over laughing, carefree, selfish faces, it fell into a sudden fit of animal rage.
'Twas a woman who began it. (She had been a neighbour of the one who had just met punishment, and in her own hovel at that moment lay hid stolen goods.) She was a wild thing, with a battered60 face and unkempt hair; her rags hung about her waving, and she had a bloodshot, fierce eye.
"Look!" she screamed out suddenly, high and shrill61; "look at them in their goold coaches riding home from Tyburn, where they've seen their betters swing!"
The ladies in the chariots, pretty, heartless fools, started affrighted in their seats, and strove to draw back; their male companions, who were as pretty, effeminate fools themselves and of as little spirit, started also, and began to look pale about the gills.
"Look at them!" shrieked62 the virago64, "shivering like rabbits. A pretty end they would make if they were called to dance at a rope's end. Look ye at them, with their white faces and their swords and periwigs!"
'Twas enough. The woman beside her looked and began to shake her fist, seized by the same frenzy; her neighbour caught up her cry, her neighbour hers; a sodden-faced thief broke into a howling laugh, another followed him, the madness spread from side to side, and in a moment the big foul crowd surged about the coaches, shrieking66 blasphemies67 and obscenities, shaking fists, howling cries of "Shame!" and threats of vengeance68.
"Turn over the coaches! Drag them out! Tear their finery from them! Stuff their mincing69 mouths with mud!" rose all about them.
The servants were dragged from their seats and hauled from side to side, their liveries were in ribbands, their terrified faces, ghastly with terror and streaming with blood, might be seen one moment in one place, the next in another, sometimes they seemed down on the ground. The crowd roared with rage and laughter at their cries. One lady swooned with terror, one or two crouched70 on the floor of the coach; the dandies gesticulated and called for help.
"They will kill us! they will kill us!" screamed the finest beau among them. "The watch! the watch! The constables71!"
"'Tis worse than the Mohocks," cried another, but his hand so shook he could not have drawn72 his sword if he had dared.
The next instant the glass of the first coach was smashed and its door beaten open. A burly fellow seized upon a shrieking beauty and dragged her forth laughing, dealing73 her gallant74 a mighty75 clout76 on the face as he caught her. Blood spouted77 from the poor gentleman's delicate aquiline78 nose, and the mob danced and yelled.
"Drag 'em all out!" was roared by the sodden-faced thief. "The women to the women and the men to the men, and then change about." The creatures were like wild beasts, and their prey79 would have been torn to pieces, but at that moment, from a fellow at the edge of the crowd broke a startled oath.
Someone had made way to him and laid a strong hand on his shoulder, and there was that in his cry which made those nearest turn.
A tall figure in black draperies stood towering above him, and in truth above all the rest of the crowd. 'Twas a woman, and she called out to the mad creatures about her in command.
"Fools!" she cried; "have a care. Do you want to swing at a rope's end yourselves?" 'Twas a fierce voice, the voice of a brave creature who feared none of them; though 'twas a rich voice and a woman's, and so rang with authority that it actually checked the tempest for a moment and made the leaders turn to look.
She made her way nearer and threw back her hood from her face.
"I am Clorinda Mertoun, who is Duchess of Osmonde," she cried to them. "There are many of you know me. Call back your senses, and hearken to what I say."
The ladies afterwards in describing the scene used to quake as they tried to paint this moment.
"There was a cry that was like a low howl," they said, "as if beasts were baffled and robbed of their prey. Some of them knew her and some did not, but they all stood and stared. Good Lord! 'twas her great black eyes that held them; but I shall be affrighted when I think of her, till my dying day."
'Twas her big black eyes and the steady flame in them that held the poor frenzied80 fools, perchance as wolves are said to be held by the eye of man sometimes; but 'twas another thing, and on that she counted. She looked round from one face to the other.
"You know me," she said to one; "and you, and you, and you," nodding at each. "I can pick out a dozen of you who know me, and should find more if I marked you all. How many here are my friends and servants?"
There was a strange hoarse81 chorus of sounds; they were the voices of women who were poor bedraggled drabs, men who were thieves and cutthroats, a few shrill voices of lads who were pickpockets and ripe for the gallows82 already.
"Ay, we know thee! Ay, your Grace! Ay!" they cried, some in half-sullen grunts83, some as if half-affrighted, but all in the tones of creatures who suddenly began to submit to a thing they wondered at.
Then the woman who had begun the turmoil84 suddenly fell down on her knees and began to kiss her Grace's garments with hysteric, choking sobs.
"She said thou wert the only creature had ever spoke her fair," she cried. "She said thou hadst saved her from going distraught when she lay in the gaol85. Just before the cart was driven away she cried out sobbing86, 'Oh, Lord! Oh, your Grace!' and they thought her praying, but I knew she prayed to thee."
The Duchess put her hand on the woman's greasy87, foul shoulder and answered in a strange voice, nodding her head, her black brows knit, her red mouth drawn in.
"'Tis over now!" she said. "'Tis over and she quiet, and perchance ere this she has seen a fair thing. Poor soul! poor soul!"
By this time the attacked party had gained strength to dare to move. The pretty creature who had been first dragged forth from the coach uttered a shriek63 and fell on her knees, clutching at her rescuer's robe.
"Oh, your Grace! your Grace!" she wept; "have mercy! have mercy!"
"Mercy!" said her Grace, looking down at the tower of powdered hair decked with gewgaws. "Mercy! Sure we all need it. Your ladyship came—for sport—to see a woman hang? I saw her in the gaol last night waiting her doom88, which would come with the day's dawning. 'Twas not sport. Had you been there with us, you would not have come here to-day. Get up, my lady, and return to your coach. Make way, there!" raising her voice. "Let that poor fellow," pointing to the ashen-faced coachman, "mount to his place. Be less disturbed, Sir Charles," to the trembling fop, "my friends will let you go free."
And that they did, strangely enough, though 'twas not willingly, the victims knew, as they huddled89 into their places, shuddering90, and were driven away, the crowd standing glaring after them, a man or so muttering blasphemies, though none made any movement to follow, but loitered about and cast glances at her Grace of Osmonde, who waited till the equipages were well out of sight and danger.
"'Twas wasted rage," she said to those about her. "The poor light fools were not worth ill-usage."
The next day the Duke heard the tale, which had flown abroad over the town. His very soul was thrilled by it and that it told him, and he went to her Grace and poured forth to her a passion of love that was touched with awe91.
"I could see you!" he cried, "when they told the story to me. I could see you as you stood there and held the wild beasts at bay. 'Twas that I saw in your child-eyes when you rode past me in the hunting-field; 'twas that fire which held them back, and the great sweet soul of you which has reached them in their dens and made you worshipped of them."
"Twas that they know me," she answered; "'twas that I have stood by their sides in their blackest hours. I have seen their children born. I have helped their old ones and their young through death. Some I have saved from the gallows. Some I have—" she stopped and hung her head as if black memories overpowered her.
He knew what she had left unfinished.
"Ay," she answered. "The one who will show kindness to them in those awful hours they worship as God's self. There was a poor fellow I once befriended there"—she spoke slowly and her voice shook. "He was condemned—for taking a man's life. The last night—before I left him—he knelt to me and swore—he had meant not murder. He had struck in rage—one who had tortured him with taunts93 till he went raving94. He struck, and the man fell—and he had killed him! And now must hang."
"Good God!" cried my lord Duke. "By chance! In frenzy! Not knowing! And he died for it?"
"Ay," she answered, her great eyes on his and wide with horror, "on Tyburn Tree!"
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收听单词发音
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1
watchful
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| adj.注意的，警惕的 | |
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noted
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| adj.著名的，知名的 | |
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yearning
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| a.渴望的；向往的；怀念的 | |
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hood
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| n.头巾，兜帽，覆盖；v.罩上，以头巾覆盖 | |
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revered
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| v.崇敬，尊崇，敬畏( revere的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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hideous
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| adj.丑陋的，可憎的，可怕的，恐怖的 | |
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savage
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| adj.野蛮的；凶恶的，残暴的；n.未开化的人 | |
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horrid
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| adj.可怕的；令人惊恐的；恐怖的；极讨厌的 | |
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forth
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| adv.向前；向外，往外 | |
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mere
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| adj.纯粹的；仅仅，只不过 | |
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mantle
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| n.斗篷，覆罩之物，罩子；v.罩住，覆盖，脸红 | |
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coax
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| v.哄诱，劝诱，用诱哄得到，诱取 | |
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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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joyful
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| adj.欢乐的，令人欢欣的 | |
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behold
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| v.看，注视，看到 | |
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gallop
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| v./n.(马或骑马等)飞奔；飞速发展 | |
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hawks
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| 鹰( hawk的名词复数 )； 鹰派人物，主战派人物 | |
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reigned
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| vi.当政，统治（reign的过去式形式） | |
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devout
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| adj.虔诚的，虔敬的，衷心的 (n.devoutness) | |
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craved
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| 渴望，热望( crave的过去式 )； 恳求，请求 | |
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penance
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| n.（赎罪的）惩罪 | |
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rosy
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| adj.美好的，乐观的，玫瑰色的 | |
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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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bent
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| n.爱好，癖好；adj.弯的；决心的，一心的 | |
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embroidery
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| n.绣花，刺绣；绣制品 | |
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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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lodgings
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| n. 出租的房舍, 寄宿舍 | |
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exclamation
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| n.感叹号，惊呼，惊叹词 | |
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nay
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| adv.不；n.反对票，投反对票者 | |
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gaily
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| adv.欢乐地，高兴地 | |
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countenance
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| n.脸色，面容；面部表情；vt.支持，赞同 | |
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interceded
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| v.斡旋，调解( intercede的过去式和过去分词 )；说情 | |
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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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sobs
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| 啜泣（声），呜咽（声）( sob的名词复数 ) | |
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sate
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| v.使充分满足 | |
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sumptuously
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| 奢侈地，豪华地 | |
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royalty
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| n.皇家，皇族 | |
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passionate
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| adj.热情的，热烈的，激昂的，易动情的，易怒的，性情暴躁的 | |
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gratitude
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| adj.感激，感谢 | |
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descended
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| a.为...后裔的，出身于...的 | |
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marvel
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| vi.(at)惊叹vt.感到惊异；n.令人惊异的事 | |
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fervent
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| adj.热的，热烈的，热情的 | |
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foul
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| adj.污秽的；邪恶的；v.弄脏；妨害；犯规；n.犯规 | |
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cleanse
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| vt.使清洁，使纯洁，清洗 | |
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dispel
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| vt.驱走，驱散，消除 | |
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46
kennel
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| n.狗舍，狗窝 | |
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kennels
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| n.主人外出时的小动物寄养处，养狗场；狗窝( kennel的名词复数 )；养狗场 | |
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noisome
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| adj.有害的，可厌的 | |
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dens
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| n.牙齿，齿状部分；兽窝( den的名词复数 )；窝点；休息室；书斋 | |
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50
vaguely
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| adv.含糊地，暖昧地 | |
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51
rumoured
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| adj.谣传的；传说的；风 | |
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52
rumour
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| n.谣言，谣传，传闻 | |
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53
gilt
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| adj.镀金的；n.金边证券 | |
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54
chattering
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| n. （机器振动发出的）咔嗒声，(鸟等)鸣，啁啾 adj. 喋喋不休的，啾啾声的 动词chatter的现在分词形式 | |
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55
larceny
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| n.盗窃（罪） | |
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pickpockets
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| n.扒手( pickpocket的名词复数 ) | |
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57
wretches
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| n.不幸的人( wretch的名词复数 )；可怜的人；恶棍；坏蛋 | |
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58
frenzy
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| n.疯狂，狂热，极度的激动 | |
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59
plumes
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| 羽毛( plume的名词复数 )； 羽毛饰； 羽毛状物； 升上空中的羽状物 | |
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60
battered
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| adj.磨损的；v.连续猛击；磨损 | |
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shrill
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| adj.尖声的；刺耳的；v尖叫 | |
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62
shrieked
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| v.尖叫( shriek的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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shriek
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| v./n.尖叫，叫喊 | |
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virago
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| n.悍妇 | |
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65
torrent
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| n.激流，洪流；爆发，(话语等的)连发 | |
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shrieking
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| v.尖叫( shriek的现在分词 ) | |
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67
blasphemies
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| n.对上帝的亵渎，亵渎的言词[行为]( blasphemy的名词复数 )；侮慢的言词（或行为） | |
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68
vengeance
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| n.报复，报仇，复仇 | |
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mincing
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| adj.矫饰的；v.切碎；切碎 | |
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crouched
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| v.屈膝，蹲伏( crouch的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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71
constables
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| n.警察( constable的名词复数 ) | |
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72
drawn
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| v.拖，拉，拔出；adj.憔悴的，紧张的 | |
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dealing
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| n.经商方法，待人态度 | |
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gallant
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| adj.英勇的，豪侠的；(向女人)献殷勤的 | |
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mighty
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| adj.强有力的；巨大的 | |
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clout
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| n.用手猛击；权力，影响力 | |
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spouted
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| adj.装有嘴的v.（指液体）喷出( spout的过去式和过去分词 )；滔滔不绝地讲；喋喋不休地说；喷水 | |
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aquiline
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| adj.钩状的，鹰的 | |
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prey
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| n.被掠食者，牺牲者，掠食；v.捕食，掠夺，折磨 | |
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frenzied
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| a.激怒的；疯狂的 | |
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hoarse
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| adj.嘶哑的，沙哑的 | |
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82
gallows
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| n.绞刑架，绞台 | |
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83
grunts
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| （猪等）作呼噜声( grunt的第三人称单数 )； （指人）发出类似的哼声； 咕哝着说； 石鲈 | |
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turmoil
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| n.骚乱，混乱，动乱 | |
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85
gaol
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| n.(jail)监狱；(不加冠词)监禁；vt.使…坐牢 | |
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86
sobbing
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| <主方>Ⅰ adj.湿透的 | |
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87
greasy
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| adj. 多脂的，油脂的 | |
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88
doom
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| n.厄运，劫数；v.注定，命定 | |
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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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shuddering
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| v.战栗( shudder的现在分词 )；发抖；（机器、车辆等）突然震动；颤动 | |
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91
awe
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| n.敬畏，惊惧；vt.使敬畏，使惊惧 | |
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extremity
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| n.末端，尽头；尽力；终极；极度 | |
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93
taunts
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| 嘲弄的言语，嘲笑，奚落( taunt的名词复数 ) | |
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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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