"Turn, Fortune, turn thy wheel, and lower the proud."
—Idylls of the King.
The very next morning brings Molly the news of her grandfather's death. He had died quietly in his chair the day before without a sign, and without one near him. As he had lived, so had he died—alone.
The news conveyed by Mr. Buscarlet shocks Molly greatly, and causes her, if not actual sorrow, at least a keen regret. To have him die thus, without reconciliation1 or one word of forgiveness,—to have him go from this world to the next, hard of heart and unrelenting, saddens her for his soul's sake.
The funeral is to be on Thursday, and this is Tuesday. So Mr. Buscarlet writes, and adds that, by express desire of Mr. Amherst, the will is to be opened and read immediately after the funeral before all those who spent last autumn in his house. "Your presence," writes the attorney, "is particularly desired."
In the afternoon Lady Stafford drops in, laden2, as usual, with golden grain (like the Argosy), in the shape of cakes and sweetmeats for the children, who look upon her with much reverence3 in the light of a modern and much-improved Santa Claus.
"I see you have heard of your grandfather's death by your face," she says, gravely. "Here, children,"—throwing them their several packages,—"take your property and run away while I have a chat with mamma and Auntie Molly."
"Teddy brought us such nice sugar cigars yesterday," says Renee, who, in her black frock and white pinafore and golden locks, looks perfectly4 angelic: "only I was sorry they weren't real; the fire at the end didn't burn one bit."
"How do you know?"
"Because"—with an enchanting5 smile—"I put it on Daisy's hand, to see if it would, and it wouldn't; and wasn't it a pity?"
"It was, indeed. I am sure Daisy sympathizes with your grief. There, go away, you blood-thirsty child; we are very busy."
While the children, in some remote corner of the house, are growing gradually happier and stickier, their elders discuss the last new topic.
"I received a letter this morning," Cecil says, "summoning me to Herst, to hear the will read. You, too, I suppose?"
"Yes; though why I don't know."
"I am sure he has left you something. You are his grandchild. It would be unkind of him and most unjust to leave you out altogether, once having acknowledged you."
"You forget our estrangement6."
"Nevertheless, something tells me there is a legacy7 in store for you. I shall go down to-morrow night, and you had better come with me."
"Very well," says Molly, indifferently.
At Herst, in spite of howling winds and drenching8 showers, Nature is spreading abroad in haste its countless9 charms. Earth, struggling disdainfully with its worn-out garb11, is striving to change its brown garment for one of dazzling green. Violets, primroses12, all the myriad13 joys of spring, are sweetening the air with a thousand perfumes.
Within the house everything is subdued14 and hushed, as must be when the master lies low. The servants walk on tiptoe; the common smile is checked; conversation dwindles16 into compressed whispers, as though they fear by ordinary noise to bring to life again the unloved departed. All is gloom and insincere melancholy17.
Cecil and Molly, traveling down together, find Mrs. Darley, minus her husband, has arrived before them. She is as delicately afflicted18, as properly distressed19, as might be expected; indeed, so faithfully, and with such perfect belief in her own powers, does she perform the pensive20 rôle, that she fails not to create real admiration21 in the hearts of her beholders. Molly is especially struck, and knows some natural regret that it is beyond her either to feel or look the part.
Marcia, thinking it wisdom to keep herself invisible, maintains a strict seclusion22. The hour of her triumph approaches; she hardly dares let others see the irrepressible exultation23 that her own heart knows.
Philip has been absent since the morning; so Molly and Lady Stafford dine in the latter's old sitting-room24 alone, and, confessing as the hours grow late to an unmistakable dread25 of the "uncanny," sleep together, with a view to self-support.
About one o'clock next day all is over. Mr. Amherst has been consigned26 to his last resting-place,—a tomb unstained by any tears. At three the will is to be read.
Coming out of her room in the early part of the afternoon, Cecil meets unexpectedly with Mr. Potts, who is meandering27 in a depressed28 and aimless fashion all over the house.
"You here, Plantagenet! Why, I thought you married to some fascinating damsel in the Emerald Isle," she cannot help saying in a low voice, giving him her hand. She is glad to see his ugly, good-humored, comical face in the gloomy house, although it is surmounted29 by his offending hair.
"So I was,—very near it," replies he, modestly, in the same suppressed whisper. "You never knew such a narrow escape as I had: they were determined30 to marry me——"
"'They'! You terrify me. How many of them? I had no idea they were so bad as that,—even in Ireland."
"Oh, I mean the girl and her father. It was as near a thing as possible; in fact, it took me all I knew to get out of it."
"I'm not surprised at that," says Cecil, with a short but comprehensive glance at her companion's cheerful but rather indistinct features.
"I don't exactly mean it was my personal appearance was the attraction," he returns, feeling a strong inclination31 to explode with laughter, as is his habit on all occasions, but quickly suppressing the desire, as being wicked under the circumstances. The horror of death has not yet vanished from among them. "It was my family they were after,—birth, you know,—and that. Fact is, she wasn't up to the mark,—wasn't good enough. Not but that she was a nice-looking girl, and had a lovely brogue. She had money too—and she had a—father! Such a father! I think I could have stood the brogue, but I could not stand the father."
"But why? Was he a lunatic? Or perhaps a Home-ruler?"
"No,"—simply,—"he was a tailor. When first I met Miss O'Rourke she told me her paternal32 relative had some appointment in the Castle. So he had. In his youthful days he had been appointed tailor to his Excellency. It wasn't a bad appointment, I dare say; but I confess I didn't see it."
"It was a lucky escape. It would take a good deal of money to make me forget the broadcloth. Are you coming down-stairs now? I dare say we ought to be assembling."
"It is rather too early, I am afraid. I wish it was all done with, and I a hundred miles away from the place. The whole affair has made me downright melancholy. I hate funerals: they don't agree with me."
"Nor yet weddings, as it seems. Well, I shall be as glad as you to quit Herst once we have installed Miss Amherst as its mistress."
"Why not Shadwell as its master?"
"If I were a horrible betting-man," says Cecil, "I should put all my money upon Marcia. I do not think Mr. Amherst cared for Philip. However, we shall see. And"—in a yet lower tone—"I hope he has not altogether forgotten Molly."
"I hope not indeed. But he was a strange old man. To forget Miss Massereene——" Here he breathes a profound sigh.
"Don't sigh, Plantagenet: think of Miss O'Rourke," says Cecil, unkindly, leaving him.
One by one, and without so much as an ordinary "How d'ye do?" they have all slipped into the dining-room. The men have assumed a morose33 air, which they fondly believe to be indicative of melancholy; the women, being by nature more hypocritical, present a more natural and suitable appearance. All are seated in sombre garments and dead silence.
Marcia, in crape and silk of elaborate design, is looking calm but full of decorous grief. Philip—who has grown almost emaciated34 during these past months—is the only one who wears successfully an impression of the most stolid35 indifference36. He is leaning against one of the windows, gazing out upon the rich lands and wooded fields which so soon will be either all his or nothing to him. After the first swift glance of recognition he has taken no notice of Molly, nor she of him. A shuddering37 aversion fills her toward him, a distaste bordering on horror. His very pallor, the ill-disguised misery38 of his whole appearance,—which he seeks but vainly to conceal39 under a cold and sneering40 exterior,—only adds to her dislike.
A sickening remembrance of their last meeting in the wood at Brooklyn makes her turn away from him with palpable meaning on his entrance, adding thereby42 one pang43 the more to the bitterness of his regret. The meeting is to her a trial,—to him an agony harder to endure than he had even imagined.
Feeling strangely out of place and nervous, and saddened by memories of happy days spent in this very room so short a time ago, Molly has taken a seat a little apart from the rest, and sits with loosely-folded hands upon her knees, her head bent44 slightly downward.
Cecil, seeing the dejection of her attitude, leaves her own place, and, drawing a chair close to hers, takes one of her hands softly between her own.
Then the door opens, and Mr. Buscarlet, with a sufficiently45 subdued though rather triumphant46 and consequential47 air, enters.
He bows obsequiously48 to Marcia, who barely returns the salute49. Detestable little man! She finds some consolation50 in the thought that at all events his time is nearly over; that probably—nay, surely—he is now about to administer law for the last time at Herst.
He bows in silence to the rest of the company,—with marked deference51 to Miss Massereene,—and then involuntarily each one stirs in his or her seat and settles down to hear the will read.
A will is a mighty52 thing, and requires nice handling. Would that I were lawyer enough to give you this particular one in full, with all its many bequests53 and curious directions. But, alas54! ignorance forbids. The sense lingers with me, but all the technicalities and running phrases and idiotic55 repetitions have escaped me.
To most of those present Mr. Amherst has left bequests; to Lady Stafford five thousand pounds; to Plantagenet Potts two thousand pounds; to Mrs. Darley's son the same; to all the servants handsome sums of money, together with a year's wages; to Mrs. Nesbit, the housekeeper56, two hundred pounds a year for her life. And then the attorney pauses and assumes an important air, and every one knows the end is nigh.
All the rest of his property of which he died possessed—all the houses, lands, and moneys—all personal effects—"I give and bequeath to——"
Here Mr. Buscarlet, either purposely or otherwise, stops short to cough and blow a sonorous57 note upon his nose. All eyes are fixed58 upon him; some, even more curious or eager than the others, are leaning forward in their chairs. Even Philip has turned from the window and is waiting breathlessly.
"To my beloved grandchild, Eleanor Massereene!"
Not a sound follows this announcement, not a movement. Then Marcia half rises from her seat; and Mr. Buscarlet, putting up his hand, says, hurriedly, "There is a codicil59," and every one prepares once more to listen.
But the codicil produces small effect. The old man at the last moment evidently relented so far in his matchless severity as to leave Marcia Amherst ten thousand pounds (and a sealed envelope, which Mr. Buscarlet hands her), on the condition that she lives out of England; and to Philip Shadwell ten thousand pounds more,—and another sealed envelope,—which the attorney also delivers on the spot.
As the reading ceases, another silence, even more profound than the first, falls upon the listeners. No one speaks, no one so much as glances at the other.
"It is false," she says, in a clear, impassioned tone. "It is the will of an imbecile,—a madman. It shall not be." She has lost all self-restraint, and is trembling with fear and rage and a terrible certainty of defeat.
"Pardon me, Miss Amherst," says Mr. Buscarlet, courteously61, "but I fear you will find it unwise to lay any stress on such a thought. To dispute this will would be madness indeed: all the world knows my old friend, your grandfather, died in perfect possession of his senses, and this will was signed three months ago."
"You drew up this will, sir?" she asks in a low tone, only intended for him, drawing closer to him.
"Certainly I did, madam."
"And during all these past months understood thoroughly62 how matters would be?"
"Certainly, madam."
"And knowing, continued still—with a view to deceive me—to treat me as the future mistress of Herst?"
"I trust, madam, I always treated you with proper respect. You would not surely have had me as rude to you as you invariably were to me? I may not be a gentleman, Miss Amherst, in your acceptation of that term, but I make it a rule never to be—offensive."
"It was a low—a mean revenge," says Marcia, through her teeth, her eyes aflame, her lips colorless; "one worthy63 of you. I understand you, sir; but do not for an instant think you have crushed me." Raising her head haughtily64, she sweeps past him back to her original seat.
Molly has risen to her feet. She is very pale and faint; her eyes, large and terrified, like a fawn's, are fixed, oddly enough, upon Philip. The news has been too sudden, too unexpected, to cause her even the smallest joy as yet. On the contrary, she knows only pity for him who, but a few minutes before, she was reviling65 in her thoughts. Perhaps the sweetness of her sympathy is the one thing that could have consoled Philip just then.
"'Farewell, a long farewell to all my greatness,'" he says, with a little sneering laugh, shrugging his shoulders. Then, rousing himself, he draws a long breath, and goes straight up to Molly.
"Permit me to congratulate you," he says, with wonderful grace, considering all things. He is standing66 before her, with his handsome head well up, a certain pride of birth about him, strong enough to carry him successfully through this great and lasting67 disaster. "It is, after all, only natural that of the three you should inherit. Surprise should lie in the fact that never did such a possibility occur to us. We might have known that even our grandfather's worn and stony68 heart could not be proof against such grace and sweetness as yours."
He bows over her hand courteously, and, turning away, walks back again to the window, standing with his face hidden from them all.
Never has he appeared to such advantage. Never has he been so thoroughly liked as at this moment. Molly moves as though she would go to him; but Cecil, laying her hand upon her arm, wisely restrains her. What can be said to comfort him, who has lost home, and love, and all?
"It is all a mistake; it cannot be true," says Molly, piteously. "It is a mistake." She looks appealingly at Cecil, who, wise woman that she is, only presses her arm again meaningly, and keeps a discreet69 silence. To express her joy at the turn events have taken at this time would be gross; though not to express it goes hard with Cecil. She contents herself with glancing expressively70 at Sir Penthony every now and then, who is standing at the other end of the room.
"I also congratulate you," says Luttrell, coming forward, and speaking for the first time. He is not nearly so composed as Shadwell, and his voice has a strange and stilted71 sound. He speaks so that Molly and Cecil alone can hear him, delicacy72 forbidding any open expression of pleasure. "With all my heart," he adds; but his tone is strange. The whole speech is evidently a lie. His eyes meet hers with an expression in them she has never seen there before,—so carefully cold it is, so studiously unloving.
Molly is too agitated73 to speak to him, but she lifts her head, and shows him a face full of the keenest reproach. Her pleading look, however, is thrown away, as he refuses resolutely74 to meet her gaze. With an abrupt75 movement he turns away and leaves the room, and, as they afterward76 discover, the house.
Meantime, Marcia has torn open her envelope, and read its enclosure. A blotted77 sheet half covered with her own writing,—the very letter begun and lost in the library last October; that, being found, has condemned78 her. With a half-stifled groan79 she lets it flutter to the ground, where it lies humbled80 in the dust, an emblem81 of all her falsely-cherished hopes.
Philip, too, having examined his packet, has brought to light that fatal letter of last summer that has so fully10 convicted him of unlawful dealings with Jews. Twice he reads it, slowly, thoughtfully, and then, casting one quick, withering82 glance at Marcia (under which she cowers), he consigns83 it to his pocket without a word.
The play is played out. The new mistress of Herst has been carried away by Cecil Stafford to her own room; the others have dispersed84. Philip and Marcia Amherst are alone.
Marcia, waking from her reverie, makes a movement as though she, too, would quit the apartment, but Shadwell, coming deliberately85 up to her, bars her exit. Laying his hand gently but firmly on her wrist, he compels her to both hear and remain.
"You betrayed me?" he says, between his teeth. "You gave this letter"—producing it—"to my grandfather? I trusted you, and you betrayed me."
"I did," she answers, with forced calmness.
"Why?"
"Because—I loved you."
"You!" with a harsh grating laugh. It is with difficulty he restrains his passion. "You to love! And is it by ruining those upon whom you bestow86 your priceless affection you show the depth of your devotion? Pah! Tell me the truth. Did you want all, and have you been justly punished?"
"I have told you the truth," she answers, vehemently87. "I was mad enough to love you even then, when I saw against my will your wild infatuation for that designing——"
"Hush15!" he interrupts her, imperiously, in a low, dangerous tone. "If you are speaking of Miss Massereene, I warn you it is unsafe to proceed. Do not mention her. Do not utter her name. I forbid you."
"So be it! Your punishment has been heavier than any I could inflict88.—You want to know why I showed that letter to the old man, and I will tell you. I thought, could I but gain all Herst, I might, through it, win you back to my side. I betrayed you for that alone. I debased myself in my own eyes for that sole purpose. I have failed in all things. My humiliation89 is complete. I do not ask your forgiveness, Philip; I crave90 only—your forbearance. Grant me that at least, for the old days' sake!"
"You would have bought my love!" he says, with a bitter sneer41. "Know, then, that with a dozen Hersts at your back, I loathe92 you too much ever to be more to you than I now am, and that is—nothing."
Quietly but forcibly he puts her from him, and leaves the room. Outside in the hall he encounters Sir Penthony, who has been lingering there with intent to waylay93 him. However rejoiced Stafford may be at Molly's luck, he is profoundly grieved for Philip.
"I know it is scarcely form to express sympathy on such occasions," he says, with some hesitation94, laying his hand on Shadwell's shoulder. "But I must tell you how I regret, for your sake, all that has taken place."
"Thank you, Stafford. You are one of the very few whose sympathy is never oppressive. But do not be uneasy about me," with a short laugh. "I dare say I shall manage to exist. I have five hundred a year of my own, and my grandfather's thoughtfulness has made it a thousand. No doubt I shall keep body and soul together, though there is no disguising the fact that I feel keenly the difference between one thousand and twenty."
"My dear fellow, I am glad to see you take it so well. I don't believe there are a dozen men of my acquaintance who would be capable of showing such pluck as you have done."
"I have always had a fancy for exploring. I shall go abroad and see some life; the sooner the better. I thank you with all my heart, Stafford, for your kindness. I thank you—and"—with a slight break in his voice—"good-bye!"
He presses Stafford's hand warmly, and, before the other can reply, is gone.
Half an hour later, Marcia, sweeping95 into her room in a torrent96 of passion impossible to quell97, summons her maid by a violent attack on her bell.
"Take off this detested98 mourning," she says to the astonished girl. "Remove it from my sight. And get me a colored gown and a Bradshaw."
The maid, half frightened, obeys, and that night Marcia Amherst quits her English home forever.
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收听单词发音
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1
reconciliation
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| n.和解，和谐，一致 | |
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laden
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| adj.装满了的；充满了的；负了重担的；苦恼的 | |
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3
reverence
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| n.敬畏，尊敬，尊严；Reverence:对某些基督教神职人员的尊称；v.尊敬，敬畏，崇敬 | |
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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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enchanting
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| a.讨人喜欢的 | |
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estrangement
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| n.疏远，失和，不和 | |
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legacy
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| n.遗产，遗赠；先人(或过去)留下的东西 | |
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8
drenching
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| n.湿透v.使湿透( drench的现在分词 )；在某人（某物）上大量使用（某液体） | |
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countless
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| adj.无数的，多得不计其数的 | |
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fully
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| adv.完全地，全部地，彻底地；充分地 | |
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garb
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| n.服装，装束 | |
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primroses
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| n.报春花( primrose的名词复数 )；淡黄色；追求享乐（招至恶果） | |
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myriad
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| adj.无数的；n.无数，极大数量 | |
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subdued
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| adj. 屈服的，柔和的，减弱的 动词subdue的过去式和过去分词 | |
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15
hush
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| int.嘘，别出声；n.沉默，静寂；v.使安静 | |
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16
dwindles
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| v.逐渐变少或变小( dwindle的第三人称单数 ) | |
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melancholy
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| n.忧郁，愁思；adj.令人感伤（沮丧）的，忧郁的 | |
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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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distressed
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| 痛苦的 | |
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pensive
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| a.沉思的,哀思的,忧沉的 | |
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admiration
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| n.钦佩，赞美，羡慕 | |
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seclusion
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| n.隐遁，隔离 | |
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exultation
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| n.狂喜，得意 | |
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sitting-room
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| n.（BrE）客厅，起居室 | |
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dread
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| vt.担忧，忧虑；惧怕，不敢；n.担忧，畏惧 | |
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consigned
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| v.把…置于（令人不快的境地）( consign的过去式和过去分词 )；把…托付给；把…托人代售；丟弃 | |
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meandering
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| 蜿蜒的河流，漫步，聊天 | |
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depressed
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| adj.沮丧的，抑郁的，不景气的，萧条的 | |
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surmounted
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| 战胜( surmount的过去式和过去分词 )； 克服（困难）； 居于…之上； 在…顶上 | |
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determined
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| adj.坚定的；有决心的 | |
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inclination
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| n.倾斜；点头；弯腰；斜坡；倾度；倾向；爱好 | |
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paternal
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| adj.父亲的，像父亲的，父系的，父方的 | |
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morose
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| adj.脾气坏的，不高兴的 | |
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emaciated
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| adj.衰弱的，消瘦的 | |
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stolid
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| adj.无动于衷的，感情麻木的 | |
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indifference
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| n.不感兴趣，不关心，冷淡，不在乎 | |
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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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misery
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| n.痛苦，苦恼，苦难；悲惨的境遇，贫苦 | |
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conceal
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| v.隐藏，隐瞒，隐蔽 | |
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sneering
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| 嘲笑的，轻蔑的 | |
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41
sneer
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| v.轻蔑；嘲笑；n.嘲笑，讥讽的言语 | |
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42
thereby
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| adv.因此，从而 | |
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pang
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| n.剧痛，悲痛，苦闷 | |
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44
bent
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| n.爱好，癖好；adj.弯的；决心的，一心的 | |
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45
sufficiently
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| adv.足够地，充分地 | |
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46
triumphant
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| adj.胜利的，成功的；狂欢的，喜悦的 | |
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47
consequential
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| adj.作为结果的，间接的；重要的 | |
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48
obsequiously
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49
salute
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| vi.行礼，致意，问候，放礼炮；vt.向…致意，迎接，赞扬；n.招呼，敬礼，礼炮 | |
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consolation
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| n.安慰，慰问 | |
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deference
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| n.尊重，顺从；敬意 | |
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mighty
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| adj.强有力的；巨大的 | |
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bequests
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| n.遗赠( bequest的名词复数 )；遗产，遗赠物 | |
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alas
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| int.唉(表示悲伤、忧愁、恐惧等) | |
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idiotic
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| adj.白痴的 | |
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housekeeper
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| n.管理家务的主妇，女管家 | |
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sonorous
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| adj.响亮的，回响的；adv.圆润低沉地；感人地；n.感人，堂皇 | |
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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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codicil
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| n.遗嘱的附录 | |
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rigid
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| adj.严格的，死板的；刚硬的，僵硬的 | |
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courteously
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| adv.有礼貌地，亲切地 | |
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thoroughly
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| adv.完全地，彻底地，十足地 | |
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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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haughtily
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| adv. 傲慢地, 高傲地 | |
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reviling
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| v.辱骂，痛斥( revile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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lasting
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| adj.永久的，永恒的；vbl.持续，维持 | |
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stony
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| adj.石头的，多石头的，冷酷的，无情的 | |
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discreet
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| adj.(言行)谨慎的；慎重的；有判断力的 | |
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expressively
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| ad.表示(某事物)地；表达地 | |
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stilted
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| adj.虚饰的；夸张的 | |
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delicacy
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| n.精致，细微，微妙，精良；美味，佳肴 | |
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agitated
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| adj.被鼓动的，不安的 | |
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resolutely
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| adj.坚决地，果断地 | |
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abrupt
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| adj.突然的，意外的；唐突的，鲁莽的 | |
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afterward
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| adv.后来；以后 | |
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blotted
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| 涂污( blot的过去式和过去分词 )； （用吸墨纸）吸干 | |
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condemned
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| adj. 被责难的, 被宣告有罪的 动词condemn的过去式和过去分词 | |
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groan
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| vi./n.呻吟，抱怨；(发出)呻吟般的声音 | |
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humbled
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| adj. 卑下的，谦逊的，粗陋的 vt. 使 ... 卑下，贬低 | |
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emblem
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| n.象征，标志；徽章 | |
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withering
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| 使人畏缩的，使人害羞的，使人难堪的 | |
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consigns
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| v.把…置于（令人不快的境地）( consign的第三人称单数 )；把…托付给；把…托人代售；丟弃 | |
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dispersed
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| adj. 被驱散的, 被分散的, 散布的 | |
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deliberately
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| adv.审慎地；蓄意地；故意地 | |
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bestow
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| v.把…赠与，把…授予；花费 | |
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vehemently
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| adv. 热烈地 | |
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inflict
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| vt.(on)把…强加给，使遭受，使承担 | |
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humiliation
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| n.羞辱 | |
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crave
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| vt.渴望得到，迫切需要，恳求，请求 | |
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heeds
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| n.留心，注意，听从( heed的名词复数 )v.听某人的劝告，听从( heed的第三人称单数 ) | |
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loathe
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| v.厌恶，嫌恶 | |
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waylay
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| v.埋伏，伏击 | |
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hesitation
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| n.犹豫，踌躇 | |
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sweeping
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| adj.范围广大的，一扫无遗的 | |
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torrent
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| n.激流，洪流；爆发，(话语等的)连发 | |
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quell
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| v.压制，平息，减轻 | |
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detested
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| v.憎恶，嫌恶，痛恨( detest的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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