They held a long consultation1 that night as to what they must do. Plainly the first and most important thing was to rid Francis of the delusion2 that he had disgraced himself in the eyes of his fellow-officers. This would at once wake him as from a bad dream to the reality of his condition: convinced of the unreality of the idea that possessed3 him, he would at once, they believed, resume his place in the march of his generation through life. To find means, then, for the attainment4 of this end, they set their wits to work; and it was almost at once clear to David that the readiest way would be to enter into communication with any they could reach of the officers under whom he had served. His regiment5 having by this time, however, with the rest of the Company’s soldiers, passed into the service of the Queen, a change doubtless involving many other changes concerning which Francis, even were he fit to be questioned, could give no information, David resolved to apply to sir Haco Macintosh, who had succeeded Archibald Gordon in the command, for assistance in finding those who could bear the testimony6 he desired to possess.
‘Divna ye think, father,’ said Kirsty, ‘it wud be the surest and speediest w’y for me to gang mysel to sir Haco?’
‘’Deed it wud be that, Kirsty!’ answered David. ‘There’s naething like the bodily presence o’ the leevin sowl to gar things gang!’
To this Marion, although at first not a little appalled7 at the thought of Kirsty alone in such a huge city as Edinburgh, could not help assenting8, and the next morning Kirsty started, bearing a letter from her father to his old officer, in which he begged for her the favour of a few minutes’ conference on business concerning her father and the son of the late colonel Gordon.
Sir Haco had retired9 from the service some years before the mutiny, and was living in one of the serenely10 gloomy squares of the Scots capital. Kirsty left her letter at the door, and calling the next day, was shown to the library, where lady Macintosh as well as sir Haco awaited, with curious and kindly11 interest, the daughter of the man they had known so well, and respected so much.
When Kirsty entered the room, dressed very simply in a gown of dark cloth and a plain straw bonnet12, the impression she at once made was more than favourable13, and they received her with a kindness and courtesy that made her feel herself welcome. They were indeed of her own kind.
Sir Haco was one of the few men who, regarding constantly the reality, not the show of things, keep throughout their life, however long, great part of their youth, and all their childhood. Deeper far in his heart than any of the honours he had received, all unsought but none undeserved, lay the memory of a happy and reverential boyhood. Sprung from a peasant stock, his father was a man of ‘high erected14 thought seated in a heart of courtesy.’
He was well matched with his wife, who, though born to a far higher social position in which simplicity15 is rarer, was, like him, true and humble16 and strong. They had one daughter, who grew up only to die: the moment they saw Kirsty, their hearts went out to her.
For there was in Kirsty that unassumed, unconscious dignity, that simple propriety17, that naturalness of a carriage neither trammeled nor warped18 by thought of self, which at once awakes confidence and regard; while her sweet, unaffected ‘book English,’ in which appeared no attempt at speaking like a fine lady, no disastrous19 endeavour to avoid her country’s utterance20, revealed at once her genuine cultivation21. Sir Haco said afterward22 that when she spoke23 Scotch24 it was good and thorough, and when she spoke English it was Wordsworthian.
Listening to her first words, and reminded of the solemn sententious way in which sergeant25 Barclay used to express himself, his face rose clear in his mind’s eye, he saw it as it were reflected in his daughter’s, and broke out with—
‘Eh, lassie, but ye’re like yer father!’
‘Ye min’ upon him, sir?’ rejoined Kirsty, with her perfect smile.
‘Min’ upon him! Naebody worth his min’in upo’ could ever forget him! Sit ye doon, and tell ’s a’ aboot him!’
Kirsty did as she was told. She began at the beginning, and explained first, what doubtless sir Haco knew at least something of before, the relation between her father and colonel Gordon, whence his family as well as himself had always felt it their business to look after the young laird. Then she told how, after a long interval26, during which they could do nothing, a sad opportunity had at length been given them of at least attempting to serve him; and it was for aid in this attempt that she now sought sir Haco, who could direct her toward the procuring27 of certain information.
‘And what sort of information do you think I can give or get for you, Miss Barclay?’ asked sir Haco.
‘I’ll explain the thing to ye, sir, in as feow words as I can,’ answered Kirsty, dropping her English. ‘The young laird has taen ’t intil his heid that he didna carry himsel like a man i’ the siege, and it’s grown to be in him what they ca’ a fixt idea. He was left, ye see, sir, a’ himlane i’ the beleaguert toon, and I fancy the suddent waukin and the discovery that he was there his lee lane, jist pat him beside himsel.’
Here she told the whole story, as they had gathered it from Francis, mingling28 it with some elucidatory29 suggestions of her own, and having ended her narration30, went on thus:—
‘Ye see, sir, and my leddy, he was little better nor a laddie, and fowk ’at sair needs company, like Francie, misses company ower sair. Men’s no able—some men, my leddy—to tak coonsel wi’ their ain herts, as women whiles learns to du. And sae, whan he cam oot o’ the fricht, he was ower sair upon himsel for bein i’ the fricht. For it seems to me there’s no shame in bein frichtit, sae lang as ye dinna serve and obey the fricht, but trust in him ’at sees, and du what ye hae to du. Naebody ’at kenned32 Francie as I did, cud ever believe he faun’ mair fear in ’s hert nor was lawfu’ and rizzonable—sae lang, that is, as he was in his richt min’: ayont that nane but his maker33 can jeedge him. I dinna mean Francie was a pettern, but, sir, he was no cooard—and that I ken31, for I’m no cooard mysel, please God to keep me as he’s made me. But the laddie—the man, I suld say—he’s no to be persuaudit oot o’ the fancy o’ his ain cooardice; and I dinna believe he’ll ever win oot o’ ’t wantin the testimony o’ his fellow-officers, wha o’ them may be left to grant the same. And I canna but think, gien ye’ll excuse me, sir, that, for his father’s sake, it wud be a gracious ac’ to tak him intil the queen’s service, and lat him haud on fechtin for ’s country, whaurever it may please her mejesty to want him.—Oot whaur he was afore micht be best for him—I dinna ken. It wad be to put his country’s seal upo’ their word.’
‘Surely, Miss Barclay, you wouldn’t set the poor lad in the forefront of danger again!’ said lady Macintosh.
‘I wud that, my lady! I canna but think the airmy, savin for this misadventur—gien there be ony sic thing as misadventur—hed a fair chance o’ makin a man o’ Francie; and whiles I canna help doobtin gien onything less ’ill ever restore him til himsel but restorin him til ’s former position. It wud ony gait gie him the best chance o’ shawin til himsel ’at there wasna a hair o’ the cooard upon him.’
‘But,’ said sir Haco, ‘would her majesty34 be justified35 in taking the risk involved? Would it not be to peril36 many for a doubtful good to one?’
Kirsty was silent for a moment, with downcast eyes.
‘I’m answert, sir—as to that p’int,’ she said, looking up.
‘For my part,’ said lady Macintosh, ‘I can’t help thinking that the love of a good woman like yourself must do more for the poor fellow than the approval of all the soldiers in the world.—Pardon me, Haco.’
But lady Macintosh hardly heard him, so startled, almost so frightened was she at the indignation instantly on Kirsty’s countenance38.
‘Putna things intil ony heid, my leddy, ’at the hert wud never put there. It wad be an ill fulfillin o’ my father’s duty til his auld39 colonel, no to say his auld freen’, to coontenance sic a notion!’
‘I beg your pardon, Miss Barclay; I was wrong to venture the remark. But may I say in excuse, that it is not unnatural40 to imagine a young woman, doing so much for a young man, just a little bit in love with him?’
‘I wud fain hae yer leddyship un’erstan’,’ returned Kirsty, ‘that my father, my mother, and mysel, we’re jist ane and nae mair. No ane o’ ’s hes a wuss that disna belang to a’ three. The langest I can min’, it’s been my ae ambition to help my father and mother to du what they wantit. I never desirit merriage, my leddy, and gien I did, it wudna be wi’ sic as Francie Gordon, weel as I lo’e him, for we war bairnies, and laddie and lassie thegither: I wudna hae a man it was for me to fin’ faut wi’! ’Deed, mem, what fowk ca’s love, hes neither airt nor pairt i’ this metter!’
Not to believe the honest glow in Kirsty’s face, and the clear confident assertion of her eyes, would have shown a poor creature in whom the faculty41 of belief was undeveloped.
Sir Haco and lady Macintosh insisted on Kirsty’s taking up her abode42 with them while she was in Edinburgh; and Kirsty, partly in the hope of expediting the object of her mission thereby43, and partly because her heart was drawn44 to her new friends, gladly consented. Before a week was over, like understanding like, her hostess felt as if she were a daughter until now long waiting for her somewhere in the infinite.
The self-same morning, sir Haco sat down to his study-table, and began writing to every officer alive who had served with Francis Gordon, requesting to know his feeling, and that of the regiment about him. Within three days he received the first of the answers, which kept dropping in for the next six months. They all described Gordon as rather a scatterbrain, as not the less a favourite with officers and men, and as always showing the courage of a man, or rather of a boy, seeing he not unfrequently acted with a reprehensible45 recklessness that smacked46 a little of display.
‘That’s Francie himsel!’ cried Kirsty, with the tears in her eyes, when her host read, to this effect, the first result of his inquiry47.
Within a fortnight he received also, from one high in office, the assurance that, if Mr. Gordon, on his recovery, wished to enter her majesty’s service, he should have his commission.
While her husband was thus kindly occupied, lady Macintosh was showing Kirsty every loving attention she could think of, and, in taking her about Edinburgh and its neighbourhood, found that the country girl knew far more of the history of Scotland than she did herself.
She would gladly have made her acquainted with some of her friends, but Kirsty shrank from the proposal: she could not forget how her hostess had herself misinterpreted the interest she took in Francie Gordon. As soon as she felt that she could do so without seeming ungrateful, she bade her new friends farewell, and hastened home, carrying with her copies of the answers which sir Haco had up to that time received.
When she arrived it was with such a glad heart that, at sight of Francis in her father’s Sunday clothes, she laughed so merrily that her mother said ‘The lassie maun be fey!’ Haggard as he looked, the old twinkle awoke in his eye responsive to her joyous48 amusement; and David, coming in the next moment from putting up the gray mare49 with which he had met the coach to bring Kirsty home, saw them all three laughing in such an abandonment of mirth as, though unaware50 of the immediate51 motive52, he could not help joining.
The same evening Kirsty went to the castle, and Mrs. Bremner needed no persuasion53 to find the suit which the young laird had left in his room, and give it to her to carry to its owner; so that, when he woke the next morning, Francis saw the gray garments lying by his bed-side in place of David’s black, and felt the better for the sight.
The letters Kirsty had brought, working along with returning health, and the surrounding love and sympathy most potent54 of all, speedily dispelled55 his yet lingering delusion. It had occasionally returned in force while Kirsty was away, but now it left him altogether.
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收听单词发音
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1
consultation
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| n.咨询；商量；商议；会议 | |
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2
delusion
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| n.谬见，欺骗，幻觉，迷惑 | |
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3
possessed
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| adj.疯狂的；拥有的，占有的 | |
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4
attainment
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| n.达到，到达；［常pl.］成就，造诣 | |
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regiment
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| n.团，多数，管理；v.组织，编成团，统制 | |
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6
testimony
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| n.证词；见证，证明 | |
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7
appalled
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| v.使惊骇，使充满恐惧( appall的过去式和过去分词)adj.惊骇的；丧胆的 | |
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8
assenting
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| 同意，赞成( assent的现在分词 ) | |
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9
retired
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| adj.隐退的，退休的，退役的 | |
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10
serenely
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| adv.安详地，宁静地，平静地 | |
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11
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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12
bonnet
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| n.无边女帽；童帽 | |
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13
favourable
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| adj.赞成的，称赞的，有利的，良好的，顺利的 | |
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ERECTED
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| adj. 直立的，竖立的，笔直的 vt. 使 ... 直立，建立 | |
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15
simplicity
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| n.简单，简易；朴素；直率，单纯 | |
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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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propriety
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| n.正当行为；正当；适当 | |
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warped
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| adj.反常的；乖戾的；（变）弯曲的；变形的v.弄弯，变歪( warp的过去式和过去分词 )；使（行为等）不合情理，使乖戾， | |
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disastrous
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| adj.灾难性的，造成灾害的；极坏的，很糟的 | |
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utterance
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| n.用言语表达，话语，言语 | |
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cultivation
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| n.耕作，培养，栽培（法），养成 | |
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afterward
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| adv.后来；以后 | |
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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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24
scotch
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| n.伤口，刻痕；苏格兰威士忌酒；v.粉碎，消灭，阻止；adj.苏格兰(人)的 | |
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sergeant
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| n.警官，中士 | |
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interval
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| n.间隔，间距；幕间休息，中场休息 | |
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procuring
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| v.（努力）取得， （设法）获得( procure的现在分词 )；拉皮条 | |
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mingling
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| adj.混合的 | |
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elucidatory
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| adj.阐释的，阐明的 | |
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narration
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| n.讲述，叙述；故事；记叙体 | |
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ken
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| n.视野，知识领域 | |
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kenned
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| v.知道( ken的过去式和过去分词 )；懂得；看到；认出 | |
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maker
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| n.制造者，制造商 | |
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majesty
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| n.雄伟，壮丽，庄严，威严；最高权威，王权 | |
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justified
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| a.正当的，有理的 | |
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peril
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| n.(严重的)危险；危险的事物 | |
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perfectly
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| adv.完美地，无可非议地，彻底地 | |
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countenance
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| n.脸色，面容；面部表情；vt.支持，赞同 | |
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auld
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| adj.老的，旧的 | |
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unnatural
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| adj.不自然的；反常的 | |
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41
faculty
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| n.才能；学院，系；(学院或系的)全体教学人员 | |
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abode
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| n.住处，住所 | |
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thereby
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| adv.因此，从而 | |
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44
drawn
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| v.拖，拉，拔出；adj.憔悴的，紧张的 | |
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45
reprehensible
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| adj.该受责备的 | |
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46
smacked
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| 拍，打，掴( smack的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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47
inquiry
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| n.打听，询问，调查，查问 | |
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48
joyous
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| adj.充满快乐的；令人高兴的 | |
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49
mare
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| n.母马，母驴 | |
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50
unaware
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| a.不知道的，未意识到的 | |
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51
immediate
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| adj.立即的；直接的，最接近的；紧靠的 | |
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52
motive
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| n.动机，目的；adv.发动的，运动的 | |
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53
persuasion
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| n.劝说；说服；持有某种信仰的宗派 | |
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54
potent
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| adj.强有力的，有权势的；有效力的 | |
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dispelled
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| v.驱散，赶跑( dispel的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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