Mr. Tuke fell back a pace, breathing quickly. Then he advanced in quick fury, so that the man in the doorway2 shrunk before him.
“At your good service, sir.”
“Who was that that went in before me—that has been stalking me all up the drive?”
“Ah, sir! You must hold her excused. I did not know she was out. It is my sister Darda.”
“The fiend take the jade5! I’ll have her out bag and baggage if she trifles with me. Here, sir—do you know who I am? Take my horse and see that he has food and water.”
He stalked angrily past the shrinking figure and made his way into the passage.
“Go, now,” he said with an impatient stamp, “and join me when your service is done.”
He saw a long hall, not too wide, that in its panelling of black oak looked a very catacomb of dismality in the light of a single flaring9 oil-lamp that stood up on a bracket, half-way down, and whose greasy10 radiance rather emphasized than relieved the enwrapping gloom. Somewhere in the further obscurity, the first steps of a stairway, with old carved-end posts, were evident; and here the windy darkness seemed to rise into vacancy11 like smoke up a chimney.
The traveller uttered a fretful expression, and pushing open a door to his left—through which a weak shaft12 of light issuing appeared to give promise of a certain comfort beyond—almost fell down a couple of stone steps that led straight into a large massive-beamed room, with a great hearth13 in it on which some smouldering faggots glowed with a dull crimson14.
Here, at any rate, was a board spread with food and drink, and, amongst them, a couple of candles in brass15 sconces. The revivifying sight led the baronet to look about him with a wider geniality16. Certainly the room was beautiful in its proportions and in its air of antique solemnity. The floor was paved with solid stone flags; the walls were oak up to the ceiling; and a long oriel window, now heavily shuttered, was set deep in the masonry17 of the side over against the hearth.
The tired man sat him down on a wooden stool before the embers, and fell to a fit of musing18 over his queer destiny. So this was to be his fate—to plunge19 from the fever and glare of fashionable dissipation into a lonely and half-dismantled dwelling-place situate in the heart of an isolated20 thicket21. Well, he had accepted his life on the terms, and the powers of destiny should find that he had the will to shake the life out of a resolution into which he had fastened his teeth.
In the depths of his pondering, he heard the front door slammed to and bolted, and was aware the next moment that the caretaker was standing22 in the room, silently awaiting his notice.
The latter hung his head under the scrutiny24. He was a hectic25, bashful-looking fellow, tall and weedy, with pale eyes and a weak, sloping chin. His age might have been thirty-eight or so—was in fact; though there was a curious suggestion of youthfulness in his smooth, shaven cheeks and soft, uncertain voice.
Mr. Tuke waved his hand towards the table.
“These preparations are for me?”
“The best we could compass, sir.”
He spoke with hesitancy, and in a manner of deprecation.
“The notice was very short. I had no instructions to provide but what the house could supply; and no means of learning your wishes.”
“There is little in the house, I suppose?”
“Little, indeed, sir, but some linen26 and a trifle of silver and a good store of wine in the cellars.”
“Of whose providing?”
The man did not answer. The other repeated his question in a more peremptory27 tone. Already—he could not have said why—a prejudice was forming in his mind against this patient-spoken servant.
“Of whose providing? I say. Why—don’t you know?”
“It has always been here, sir. It was here before I came.”
“And when was that?”
The answer followed so soft that the baronet could scarcely distinguish it.
“Speak out, sir!” said he angrily. “When was that? I ask.”
The caretaker cleared his throat.
“It was in November of the year ’79.”
“The year before my father’s death? Why, man, do you mean to tell me you have lived here all this age—lived and vegetated28 in this isolation29 for twenty-one years?”
“It is true, indeed, sir.”
Again the soft, distressed31 answer:
“I don’t know, sir. Indeed I don’t know. How can I tell?”
“How, truly—for one who can be content to rust32 in a solitude33 for a double decade? Well—you take your service from Mr. Creel, I suppose; and he knows his business. And whither do you wend now?”
The man was emboldened34 to step forward, his eyes shining with a pitiful anxiety.
“Oh, sir, sir! If you will only continue the service? We have no home or hope or prospect35 without ‘Delsrop’; and Mr. Creel—Mr. Creel, sir, he bade me throw myself upon your bounty36.”
“I am beholden to him.”
He looked a little sourly on the flushed, weak face. Perhaps there had been small charge of powder behind his shot; but anyhow, in the long run, good-nature was sure to incline him to generosity37.
“I will consider of it,” he said coolly. “Perhaps you can prove yourself worthy38 of my interest. For the present, at least, you may stop—you, and your sister, to whom I conclude you desire me to extend the permission.”
“If you will, sir. And I can only thank you from my heart.”
His broken tones found a weak spot in the other’s breast.
“Well,” he said—“well, what are you called?”
“My name is Dennis.”
“And your sister?”
“She is Darda.”
“H’m! A pet expression, I presume.”
“Indeed, no, sir. ’Tis Hebrew, and signifies ‘Pearl of Wisdom.’”
“And is she that?”
“Ah, sir! ’Twas a fanciful notion of her mother’s. God help her, poor stricken loveling! Sure the fiends of pride suggested it in a bitter irony39.”
“Her mind keeps no growth with her body. In this, her twenty-fifth year, she is nought41 but a wayward and fantastic child.”
“Alone, sir, and have always been.”
“Well, Mr. Dennis Whimple—and I would say, ‘as I would be, too.’ Leave me, my good fellow, and light me presently to bed.”
The caretaker withdrew, with a humble43 obeisance44, and Mr. Tuke sat down to his meal. This proved homely45 enough, but acceptable to a ravenous46 stomach; and no doubt the wine made rich amends47 for the poverty of the repast.
His supper finished, and a great wave of sleepiness threatening to overwhelm him, he called for his henchman and demanded guidance to his bedroom.
Up the broad stairway Dennis, bearing a candlestick in either hand, preceded him, and his drowsiness48 inclined him there and then to little observation of the passages by which he passed. But presently he was aware of standing in a great gusty49 room, strongly shuttered like the one below, and having for its one conspicuous50 piece of furniture a mighty51 four-poster, with curtains and tester of heavy, faded brocade.
Dismissing his guide with a curt52 “good-night,” he crawled shortly between sheets fragrant53 of lavender, and fell almost at once into a profound slumber54.
He woke in the morning to the sound of a tap on his door panels.
“Come in!” he groaned—for his head was like lead with the close atmosphere of the room.
A broad spurt55 of light flooded him from the opened door, and Dennis entered with shaving water and a towel.
“Ah!” said Tuke, recollecting56 himself. “It’s you, is it? Oblige me, my friend, by flinging open those shutters57. And for the future, refrain from closing them at night.”
The man did as he was ordered, and then paused.
“Sir,” said he, with the same painful hesitancy of manner—“if I may presume—pray let me entreat58 you to reconsider the question.”
The other raised his head in staring surprise.
“What question?” said he.
“That of opening the shutters at night.”
“What the devil!” he cried. “Are you to begin by disputing my orders?”
“But——”
“Leave the room, sir.”
When he was alone—“Mr. Whimple,” muttered he, “you must have that hang-dog mouth muzzled60 if you are to stop.”
He looked forth through the broad-latticed casement61. It was a fair, still morning, and the sun made idyllic62 glory of what had overnight appeared so haunted and so sombre. The house lay, so far as he could make out, in a wide basin of ground cut out of the heart of a thronging63 woodland, and must from its position be very private and remote. Before him was stretched a noble lawn, with a couple of gnarled and buttressed64 oaks to break its greenness; but the grass was a foot long, and so weighted with dew that a kilderkin of sweet water might have been gathered from it.
To his right he saw the opening of the drive by which he had come to his own. This, so far as he could see down it, was less an avenue than a passage driven through a wood, and all over its mossy floor the light fell in brilliant smears65 and patches, as if the branches dripped green fire.
Elsewhere, on every side visible, were trees; but with, here and there, scant66 openings in them. They closed in the further line of the lawn; they packed the hollows and mounted the slopes; in every direction they filled the prospect with an ardent67 leafiness.
The gazer turned and pursued his inquiries68 into the room. He found little to reward his curiosity, beyond the general beauty of an ancient interior; for the chamber69 was panelled in oak, like the other where he had supped, and the window was a fine oriel, with heraldic devices in stained glass in its topmost squares. For furniture there were the great bed, whose posts were richly carved in antique foliage70; a wardrobe no less generously designed; a washhand-stand and chairs of plain solid oak, and an oak table in the embrasure of the window, with a cracked mirror of old repoussé brass work standing on it. This, indeed, was the one exception to that tasteful substantiality of accessory with which a mysterious destiny seemed to have supplied his needs. Else there were no pictures, no carpet, no curtains, no adornments of any kind—only a severe simplicity71, in which was suggested a certain methodical cleanliness which, it pleased the man of fashion to think, was far remote from the systems of society with its accumulations of glittering rubbish.
He went through his toilet singing, and, opening his door, found himself on a broad landing, wherefrom half-a-dozen other doors gave access to as many rooms. Into each of these In order he peeped. They were empty, one and all—dusty, spider-haunted; and not a room of them, it appeared, but had had, at some remote period, its oak flooring roughly jarred up, and as roughly thrown and stamped into place again. In one or two, moreover, bricks, dislodged from the chimneys, were cast pell-mell upon the hearths72; or fissures73 gaped74 in the walls or in the plaster of the ceilings.
“One would think,” he murmured, “that the place had withstood a siege.”
That it was designed with an eye to such a contingency75, the massive nature of its window-shutters would seem to point. These—all of which had been obviously only recently thrown open—were of a common pattern of studded oak, and their hinges were sunk deep in the masonry of the walls. Closed, their power of resistance would have been as that of the stones themselves.
Throughout the house, when its owner came to explore it, this same feature was apparent. The building, in an emergency, could have been sealed as securely as a castle.
Mr. Tuke found his breakfast laid in the room where he had supped. As he entered the figure of a girl, that had been busy at the table, came forward as if to pass him. He barred her way, and she stopped immediately.
“Are you Darda?” said he.
She was an eldritch creature and undersized; but the clean symmetry of her limbs was perfect, and her manners of movement showed all the mingled77 grace and self-consciousness of a child of ten. In her face was a marvellous contrast of colour, that was even startling on first acquaintance—for the skin was white as bleached78 kid, but the eyebrows79 were very dark; and the piled heap of hair that curled down upon her forehead was of a bright coppery tint80.
She nodded at the intruder, and showed a line of even teeth.
“You come in good time for the shadows,” she said. “In the autumn the house is dark with them.”
“What shadows, girl?”
“Ah! you will know. They moan and look from corners; or swing from the cobwebs and clutch at you as you go by. You will know. Did I frighten you last night?”
“You startled me, you jade.”
She clapped her hands merrily. Her laugh was the most weird81 concatenation of rippling82 discords83 the baronet had ever heard.
“Poor gentleman!” she said. “Perhaps you shall see my museum for recompense. Will you come?”
“By and by, maybe. Is my breakfast ready?”
She nodded again, with her lips set, and vanished from the room.
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收听单词发音
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1
rebound
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| v.弹回；n.弹回，跳回 | |
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2
doorway
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| n.门口，(喻)入门；门路，途径 | |
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3
tremor
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| n.震动，颤动，战栗，兴奋，地震 | |
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4
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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5
jade
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| n.玉石；碧玉；翡翠 | |
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forth
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| adv.向前；向外，往外 | |
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dour
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| adj.冷酷的，严厉的；（岩石）嶙峋的；顽强不屈 | |
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apprehensions
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| 疑惧 | |
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flaring
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| a.火焰摇曳的，过份艳丽的 | |
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greasy
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| adj. 多脂的，油脂的 | |
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vacancy
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| n.（旅馆的）空位，空房，（职务的）空缺 | |
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shaft
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| n.(工具的)柄，杆状物 | |
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13
hearth
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| n.壁炉炉床，壁炉地面 | |
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14
crimson
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| n./adj.深(绯)红色(的)；vi.脸变绯红色 | |
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15
brass
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| n.黄铜；黄铜器，铜管乐器 | |
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16
geniality
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| n.和蔼，诚恳；愉快 | |
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masonry
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| n.砖土建筑；砖石 | |
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18
musing
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| n. 沉思，冥想 adj. 沉思的, 冥想的 动词muse的现在分词形式 | |
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19
plunge
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| v.跳入，(使)投入，(使)陷入；猛冲 | |
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isolated
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| adj.与世隔绝的 | |
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thicket
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| n.灌木丛，树林 | |
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22
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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perch
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| n.栖木，高位，杆；v.栖息，就位，位于 | |
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24
scrutiny
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| n.详细检查，仔细观察 | |
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hectic
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| adj.肺病的；消耗热的；发热的；闹哄哄的 | |
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26
linen
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| n.亚麻布，亚麻线，亚麻制品；adj.亚麻布制的，亚麻的 | |
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27
peremptory
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| adj.紧急的，专横的，断然的 | |
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28
vegetated
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| v.过单调呆板的生活( vegetate的过去式和过去分词 )；植物似地生长；（瘤、疣等）长大 | |
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29
isolation
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| n.隔离，孤立，分解，分离 | |
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30
tenant
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| n.承租人；房客；佃户；v.租借，租用 | |
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31
distressed
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| 痛苦的 | |
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32
rust
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| n.锈；v.生锈；(脑子)衰退 | |
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33
solitude
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| n. 孤独; 独居,荒僻之地,幽静的地方 | |
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emboldened
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| v.鼓励，使有胆量( embolden的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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35
prospect
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| n.前景，前途；景色，视野 | |
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bounty
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| n.慷慨的赠予物，奖金；慷慨，大方；施与 | |
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generosity
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| n.大度，慷慨，慷慨的行为 | |
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worthy
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| adj.(of)值得的，配得上的；有价值的 | |
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irony
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| n.反语，冷嘲；具有讽刺意味的事，嘲弄 | |
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40
ails
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| v.生病( ail的第三人称单数 )；感到不舒服；处境困难；境况不佳 | |
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41
nought
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| n.／adj.无，零 | |
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premises
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| n.建筑物，房屋 | |
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43
humble
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| adj.谦卑的，恭顺的；地位低下的；v.降低，贬低 | |
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obeisance
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| n.鞠躬，敬礼 | |
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45
homely
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| adj.家常的，简朴的；不漂亮的 | |
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46
ravenous
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| adj.极饿的，贪婪的 | |
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amends
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| n. 赔偿 | |
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48
drowsiness
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| n.睡意；嗜睡 | |
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49
gusty
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| adj.起大风的 | |
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50
conspicuous
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| adj.明眼的，惹人注目的；炫耀的，摆阔气的 | |
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51
mighty
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| adj.强有力的；巨大的 | |
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52
curt
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| adj.简短的，草率的 | |
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53
fragrant
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| adj.芬香的，馥郁的，愉快的 | |
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54
slumber
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| n.睡眠，沉睡状态 | |
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55
spurt
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| v.喷出；突然进发；突然兴隆 | |
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56
recollecting
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| v.记起，想起( recollect的现在分词 ) | |
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57
shutters
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| 百叶窗( shutter的名词复数 )； （照相机的）快门 | |
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58
entreat
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| v.恳求，恳请 | |
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posture
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| n.姿势，姿态，心态，态度；v.作出某种姿势 | |
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60
muzzled
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| 给（狗等）戴口套( muzzle的过去式和过去分词 )； 使缄默，钳制…言论 | |
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61
casement
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| n.竖铰链窗；窗扉 | |
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62
idyllic
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| adj.质朴宜人的，田园风光的 | |
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thronging
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| v.成群，挤满( throng的现在分词 ) | |
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buttressed
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| v.用扶壁支撑，加固( buttress的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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smears
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| 污迹( smear的名词复数 )； 污斑； （显微镜的）涂片； 诽谤 | |
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scant
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| adj.不充分的，不足的；v.减缩，限制，忽略 | |
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67
ardent
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| adj.热情的，热烈的，强烈的，烈性的 | |
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68
inquiries
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| n.调查( inquiry的名词复数 )；疑问；探究；打听 | |
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69
chamber
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| n.房间，寝室；会议厅；议院；会所 | |
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70
foliage
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| n.叶子，树叶，簇叶 | |
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71
simplicity
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| n.简单，简易；朴素；直率，单纯 | |
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72
hearths
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| 壁炉前的地板，炉床，壁炉边( hearth的名词复数 ) | |
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73
fissures
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| n.狭长裂缝或裂隙( fissure的名词复数 )；裂伤；分歧；分裂v.裂开( fissure的第三人称单数 ) | |
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74
gaped
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| v.目瞪口呆地凝视( gape的过去式和过去分词 )；张开，张大 | |
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75
contingency
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| n.意外事件，可能性 | |
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76
shrill
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| adj.尖声的；刺耳的；v尖叫 | |
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77
mingled
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| 混合，混入( mingle的过去式和过去分词 )； 混进，与…交往[联系] | |
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bleached
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| 漂白的，晒白的，颜色变浅的 | |
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eyebrows
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| 眉毛( eyebrow的名词复数 ) | |
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tint
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| n.淡色，浅色；染发剂；vt.着以淡淡的颜色 | |
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81
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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rippling
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| 起涟漪的，潺潺流水般声音的 | |
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discords
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| 不和（discord的复数形式） | |
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