So at last shall come old age,
How else should we retire apart
—Browning.
Oh, for the touch of a vanished hand,
And the sound of a voice that is still!
—Tennyson.
It was a lovely morning in May, when Tudor Hereward sat, wrapped in his gray silk dressing-gown, reclining in his resting-chair, on the front piazza3 at Cloud Cliffs.
He had had a hard fight with death, and had barely come out of it with his life.
Physicians and friends alike ascribed his illness to nervous shock upon a system already run down under the long-continued pressure of work and worry.
By his side, on a stand covered with white damask, stood a basket of luscious5 strawberries in a nest of their own leaves; also a vase of fragrant6 spring 4flowers—hyacinths, tulips, jonquils, daffodils, violets and heart’s-ease. Yet he neither touched nor tasted flowers or fruit.
Before him stretched the green lawn, shaded by acacia trees in full bloom, which filled the air with their rich aroma7.
Farther on, the woods swept around the grounds, a semi-circular wall of living verdure.
Beyond them stood the cliffs, opal-tinted in the sunlight, misty8 where their heads were vailed by the soft white clouds which gave them their name.
It was a lovely morning in a lovely scene. A morning and a scene that ministered to every sense, yet it was more than a mere material paradise, for its many delights combined to fill the soul with peace, joy and thankfulness, and so to raise it
“From Nature up to Nature’s God.”
Especially to a convalescent, coming for the first time out of his sick-room, must such a scene of summer glory have brought a delicious sense of new life in fresh and keen enjoyment10, making him think that even of this material world it might be said, to some less favored people of some other planet: “Eye hath not seen, nor ear heard, nor hath it entered into the heart of man the things that God hath prepared for them that love Him.”
But this was not the case with Tudor Hereward. To his sick soul, as to the diseased mind of another, the beauty of the earth and the glory of the heavens were but
for all the pleasure he could take in them.
His wife Lilith was gone—dead—murdered.
5This was to him the death-knell of nature. His mental suffering was not now sharp. He was much too weak to feel acutely. His sorrow had settled into a dull despair—a cold and lifeless misery12.
Lilith was gone.
If she had passed away peacefully in her bed, attended by friends, sustained by religion, though he must have mourned for her, he could have borne his loss; or if, as had been at first supposed, she had accidentally fallen into the creek13, and met a sudden, painless death, still, though he must have suffered much more, yet he could have endured the blow; but she had been butchered—cruelly butchered by some night-prowling ruffian, whose identity was neither known nor suspected, and whose motive14 for the monstrous15 crime could not even be imagined.
Lilith had been slain16, and the blackness of darkness had settled upon the soul of him who felt that he had driven her forth17 that bitter winter night to meet her awful fate.
Yes, the blackness of darkness seemed to have fallen like the clods of the grave upon his dead and buried soul. In other deaths the body only dies; the soul lives on. In his case it seemed the soul that died, while the poor weak body lived on.
He had not been deserted19 in his misery and despair. As soon as the news of the discovered murder at Cliff Creek had flown over the country, spreading horror everywhere, friends and neighbors had flocked to the house, with profound sorrow for the murdered wife and sympathy for the awfully20 bereaved21 husband, and earnest proffers22 of assistance in any manner in which their services could be made available.
And when it became known that Mr. Hereward himself had been suddenly stricken down by dangerous illness, the ladies of the neighborhood, skilful23 6nurses all, carefully trained to their duties as their mothers before them had been—and as all the mistresses of large plantations25 necessarily were—came in turn to stop at the Cliffs, and to take care of the desolate26 master.
The Rev27. Mr. Cave, his old pastor28, had come every day to visit him, and as soon as his condition warranted, to administer religious consolation29.
Every one mourned for Lilith, every one sympathized with Hereward, and served him in every possible way. They “pulled him through,” as the doctor phrased it, though it was but the shadow of the man they raised.
And even now that he was convalescent he was not left to himself.
Mrs. Jab Jordon was now the volunteer housekeeper30 and nurse, as she had been for the week past, and as she meant to be for the week to come, and her fine health and good spirits and judicious32 management were as beneficial to the stricken man as anything could be under these adverse33 circumstances.
It was her hand that had arranged his reclining-chair on the piazza, and placed the stand of fruit and flowers by its side. It was her will that had kindly34 forced him out of the gloom of his sick-chamber into the sunshine and fresh, fragrant air of that lovely May morning. It was her precaution that still kept from him the loads of well-meaning letters of condolence that he could not have borne to read as yet.
And even now the good woman was upstairs superintending Cely and Mandy in the work of preparing a new room for the patient, who was not to be taken back to the old sick-chamber, which was dismantled35 and, with all its windows open, turned out, so to speak, to all the airs of spring.
It was a little surprising to all who knew old Nancy, the colored housekeeper who had so long ruled 7supreme at Cloud Cliffs, that she was not jealous of this invasion of the house by the ladies of the neighborhood. But in fact, Nancy was grateful for their presence and their help.
“’Sides w’ich,” as she confided36 to Cassy, the cook, “dis ain’t no time fer no po’ mortil to stan’ on deir dignity. De ’sponsibility ob de case is too mons’ous; let alone my heart bein’ broke long ob po’ dear Miss Lilif goin’ to glory de drefful way she did! an’ me fit for nuffin’. It would be flyin’—’deed it’s de trufe—flyin’.”
So Nancy put herself under the orders of Mrs. Jordon, as she had done under her predecessors37.
The pale convalescent, sitting in his resting-chair, gazed with languid eyes over the lovely lawn, with its fragrant blossoming trees, and its parterres of flowers in sunny spots, on to the encircling woods filled with birds and bird songs, and beyond to the opal-tinted, mist-vailed cliffs, and to the deep blue sky above them all; yet seemed to take in nothing of the brightness and the beauty.
At length his listless, wandering eyes perceived a figure, at strange variance38 with the bright summer scene.
Creeping around from the rear grounds, emerging from a side grove39 of acacia trees, winding40 between parterres of hyacinths, tulips, daffodils, and other spring flowers, came a very aged41 woman, small, black, withered42, poorly clad in an old brown linsey gown, with a red handkerchief tied over her head and under her chin, and leaning on a cane43, she drew slowly near the piazza, climbed the two or three steps and stood bobbing, but trembling with infirmity, before the invalid44 master.
“Well, Aunt Adah, I am pleased to see you abroad once more,” said Hereward, kindly.
“Young marster, I t’ank yer, sah. An’ I is t’ankful! 8Oh, my Hebbenly Lord, how t’ankful I is in my heart to fine yer sittin’ out yere!” earnestly responded the woman, reverently45 raising her eyes and trembling through all her frame.
“Sit down, Aunt Adah. You are not able to stand,” said Hereward, kindly, stretching out his emaciated46 hand to reach and draw a chair up to the weary old woman.
“I t’anks yer, young marster, I t’anks yer werry much, an’ I will sit down in yer p’esence, since yer’s so ’siderate as to ’mit me so to do; fer I is weak, young marster—I is weak. I has been yere a many times to see yer, young marster, but dey wouldn’ leabe me do it, no dey wouldn’, an’ I ’spects dey was right. Yer wa’n’t well ’nuff to be ’sturbed,” said the old creature, as she lowered herself slowly and carefully into the chair, for all her joints47 were stiff with extreme age.
“You were very kind to come to inquire after me so often,” said Hereward, gently.
“An’ w’y wouldn’ I come? An’ how should ebber I hear ob yer ’dout comin’ myse’f to ’quire? It’d be long ’nuff fo’ any ob dese t’oughtless niggers yere come ’cross de crik to fetch me any news! Me, as has been a savint ob de Tudors for ’mos’ a hund’ed years an’ is by fur de ol’est savint on de plantation24! ’Deed it’s de trufe, young marster. I was ninety-nine years old las’ Can’lemas Day,” continued the old woman, stooping to lay her cane on the floor.
Hereward smiled faintly. He knew from old farm records that Aunt Adah was even older than, with the strange pride of her race in extreme longevity48, she claimed to be; and that for the last few years she had steadily49 called herself ninety-nine years old last Candlemas Day, sticking at that imposing50 number and seeming to forget that every year increased it; honestly to forget, for old Adah would have been perfectly51 9delighted if any one had opened her eyes and explained to her that she might truly lay claim to a hundred and seven years.
“Yes, honey, fai’ful!” assented53 the old creature. “Dat’s me, fai’ful!—fai’ful froo fick an’ fin31, froo good ’port and ebil ’port, fai’ful fer ninety-nine years las’ Can’lemas Day! I didn’t ’mancipate de plantashun to go off to Cong’ess like so many ob dem riff-raff, lowlife brack niggers did! No, sah! Aunt Adah Mungummerry had too much ’spect fer herse’f, let alone ’spect fer de ole famberly ob de Tudors, to ’grace herse’f dat way! ’Sides w’ich, young marster, to tell de bressed trufe, I wouldn’ ’a’ lef’ my log-house in de piney woods ’cross de crik, wid my good pine-knot fire in de winter time, an’ my cool spring ob water outside de do’, no, not fer all de Cong’ess in de whole worl’! ’Deed, ’fo’ de law, it’s de trufe!”
And, inasmuch as Aunt Adah had been long past labor54 and was living as a pensioner55 on the family at the time of the emancipation56, any stranger hearing her boast might have thought that policy and not principle was the secret of her fidelity57 to native soil and friends. But such was not the case. At no age would she have left the home and the family to whom she was so strongly attached.
“Would you like a glass of wine, Aunt Adah?” inquired the young man, reaching his thin hand to a silver call-bell that stood upon the stand near him.
“No, honey; no, chile, not yit; not jis yit! I’d like a tumbler ob good b’andy toddy, bimeby, but not yit, caze I’s got somefin on my min’,” replied the old creature, so very solemnly that Hereward withdrew his hand from the bell, lifted his head and looked at her.
10“Something on your mind, Aunt Adah?” he inquired.
“Yes, young marster, somefin werry sarous on my min’,” repeated the aged woman.
“What is it, Adah? Speak out, my good soul. Don’t be afraid!” said Hereward, kindly.
“I ain’t afeard, young marster! ’Tain’t dat! But it is somefin berry heabby on to my min’, as been wantin’ to get offen my min’ by tellin’ ob you; an’ dat’s wot fetch me yere mos’ ebbery day since yer’s been sick; on’y dey wouldn’ leabe me see yer, no way, and I ’spects dey was yight. But I sees yer now, young marse, an’ I wants to tell yer.”
“Very well, Aunt Adah, tell me what it is now,” said Hereward, in an encouraging tone.
“Young marse, it is a solemn secret, beknown on’y to me an’ one udder gran’ wilyan! But I was boun’ not to tell anybody on dis worl’ ’fo’ I could tell yo’ fuss. Dough60, indeed, it ought fo’ to be tole long ago, on’y it wasn’ in my power to tell it at de yight time, caze I was all alone in my house, laid up long ob de rheumatiz, an’ didn’ know wot was gwine on yere at dis place; an’ w’en I did come to fine out, it were too late fer dem, an’ I come to tell yer, but yer was too ill to be ’sturbed, an’ dey wouldn’ let me see yer, an’ I ’spects dey was yight; but I was ’termined to keep dat solemn secret in my own heart, an’ not to tell nobody wot I knowed to make a stracshun in de place, till yo’ got well so I could tell yo’ fuss, an’ let yer do wot yer t’ought bes’.”
“Yes, yes; but what—what is it that you have to tell me?” demanded Hereward, becoming more impressed by the words and manner of the woman.
His excitement alarmed the poor creature, who pulled herself up suddenly, saying:
“Hole on now, Adah Mungummerry! Hole on, 11ole lady! Yer’s a rushin’ ob it on too rapid on to a sick man. Hole up, now!” she said, talking to herself, as is the habit of the extremely aged.
“Tell me at once what you have to tell,” said Hereward, with a sudden terrible suspicion that her communication might concern the murder of his young wife.
“Well, dear young marster, but yer mus’ have patience and ’pose yerse’f, sah! ’Deed yer mus’, young marse, or yer’ll make yerse’f wuss, an’ wot would Mrs. Jab an’ de udders say to me ef I made yer wuss? I’s gwine to tell yer, young marse, w’ich I come yere fo’ dat puppose; but I mus’ tell yer werry graduately—so as not to make yer no wuss. Well, now, le’s see—le’ me see, now. Le’ me be cautious. Sort o’ break de news little by little. Young marse, yer know dat mornin’ wot yer come to my cabin to ’quire ’bout Miss Lilif?”
“Yes,” breathed the young man, beginning to tremble with anxiety in his extreme weakness.
“Well, young marse, as I telled you dat mornin’ I ’peats now. She hadn’ been dere, nor likewise nigh de place dat bressed night, as w’y should she come, w’en—listen now, young marse! w’y should she come w’en it warn’t ne’sary; caze she had sent Nancy long ob dat po’ misfortunit young gal61, to fetch me money, an’ close, an’ wittels, an’ drink, an’ ebbery singerly fing as heart could wish.”
“So you told me before,” said Hereward, impatiently.
“So I did, my dear young marse, an’ I ax yer pardon fer tellin’ ob yo’ ag’in; but I does it to make yer ax yerse’f w’y should Miss Lilif do such a unne’sary fing as to come to my cabin dat cole night for nuffin? No, young marse! She didn’ come to no cabin dat night.”
“No, young marse! An’ dis is wot I war tryin’ to come at, soft an’ grad’al, not to s’prise yer too sudden. Now listen, dear marse, an’ year wot I tell yer, ’caze it’s de bressed trufe—Miss Lilif nebber come to de cabin dat night, nor likewise she nebber started to come, neider!” solemnly declared the old woman.
Hereward sprang up, stared at the earnest speaker and then fell back faint and trembling.
“’Pose yerse’f, dear young marse; dere ain’t nuffin to ’stress yer, but quite deffrint,” soothingly63 murmured old Adah.
“What—what do you mean? She certainly did go to the creek, because—because——” faltered64 the speaker, but his voice broke down in silence.
“Caze dere was a body foun’ dere? Dat wot yer were gwine to say, young marse?”
“Yes,” breathed Hereward.
“Yes, so dere was, Marse Tudor, so dere was. But dat body wa’n’t dear Miss Lilif’s!”
Hereward, trembling as if stricken with palsy, and with his hands clutching the arms of his chair, bent65 forward and stared at the speaker.
“It’s de trufe, as I s’pect to stan’ ’fo’ my Hebbenly Judge at de las’ day, Marse Tudor! Dat body war not Miss Lilif’s, as I could hab edified66 to de Cow’s Jury, ef I had a knowed wot was gwine on yere an’ could a come up ’fo’ it. ’Stead of w’ich I war laid up long ob de rheumatiz at home, an’ no one came nigh me to tell nuffin.”
“Not—not—Lilith’s——” muttered Hereward, falling back in his chair quite overcome.
Old Adah, in her well-meaning, blundering manner, had tried to “break the news,” but had not succeeded. She was alarmed at the looks of the young man.
13“Le’ me yun in de house an’ fetch yer a glass of wine, Marse Tudor! Please, sah!” she pleaded.
“No, no, no, do not move!—I want nothing—I want nobody to come. What did you say?—It was not——”
“No, Marse Tudor, it war not hern, no mo’ an it war your’n or mine,” impressively replied old Adah.
“But—it was identified as such by—by——”
“By de long, curly brack ha’r, so I years, an’ by de gown, an’ de unnerclose wid her name on ’em, an’ de putty little F’ench boots wid her name on de inside. Wa’n’t dat wot yer war gwine to say, Marse Tudor?”
“Yes.”
“Well, dat were all jes’ so. De booful ha’r war like Miss Lilif’s, shuah nuff, an’ de warm casher gown, an’ de unnerclose, an’ de pooty F’ench boots war all Miss Lilif’s. But dat war jes’ all dere war ob Miss Lilif’s. It wa’n’t hern.”
“Adah! what is this you are telling me, and what reason have you for saying what you do?” demanded Hereward, with a great effort.
“’Caze I knows all about it, young marse, an’ I knows whose ’mains dey war as war foun’ in de crik.”
“Whose, in the name of Heaven, were they?”
“Dey war doze67 ob dat po’, des’late young creeter wot war murdered by her man, an’ t’rowed inter18 de crik dat same night, as I could a testimonied at de Cow’s Quest, ef I had been sent for or eben ef I had known wot war gwine on yere at de time. But no one t’ought ob sendin’ for me, a ole ’oman cripple up wid de rheumatiz an’ not able to creep no furder dan to fill my bucket at de spring outside de do’! ’Deed, I nebber heerd nuffin ’tall ’bout wot happen till it war too late to edify68 de Cow’s Jury. Soon as I did year it, I creeped up yere to tell yer wot I knowed; but yer war too ill to be ’sturbed—so dey said, an’ 14I ’spect as dey war yight. So I ’solved to keep de secret till yer war able for to year it; ’caze I didn’t want to make no mo’ stracshun in de neighborhood wid no mo’ news till I could ’vise long ob you ’bout it, sah. An’ so I come up yere two or three times ebbery week, but dey wouldn’ leabe me come to yer—no dey wouldn’! I’s moughty t’ankful as I has cotch yer to-day, Marse Tudor.”
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1
decrepit
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| adj.衰老的，破旧的 | |
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hoarded
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| v.积蓄并储藏（某物）( hoard的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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piazza
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| n.广场；走廊 | |
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mere
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| adj.纯粹的；仅仅，只不过 | |
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luscious
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| adj.美味的；芬芳的；肉感的，引与性欲的 | |
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fragrant
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| adj.芬香的，馥郁的，愉快的 | |
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aroma
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| n.香气，芬芳，芳香 | |
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misty
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| adj.雾蒙蒙的，有雾的 | |
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rapture
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| n.狂喜；全神贯注；着迷；v.使狂喜 | |
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enjoyment
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| n.乐趣；享有；享用 | |
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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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12
misery
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| n.痛苦，苦恼，苦难；悲惨的境遇，贫苦 | |
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creek
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| n.小溪，小河，小湾 | |
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motive
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| n.动机，目的；adv.发动的，运动的 | |
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monstrous
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| adj.巨大的；恐怖的；可耻的，丢脸的 | |
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slain
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| 杀死，宰杀，杀戮( slay的过去分词 )； (slay的过去分词) | |
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forth
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| adv.向前；向外，往外 | |
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inter
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| v.埋葬 | |
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deserted
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| adj.荒芜的，荒废的，无人的，被遗弃的 | |
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awfully
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| adv.可怕地，非常地，极端地 | |
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bereaved
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| adj.刚刚丧失亲人的v.使失去（希望、生命等）( bereave的过去式和过去分词)；（尤指死亡）使丧失（亲人、朋友等）；使孤寂；抢走（财物） | |
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proffers
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| v.提供，贡献，提出( proffer的第三人称单数 ) | |
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skilful
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| (=skillful)adj.灵巧的，熟练的 | |
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plantation
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| n.种植园，大农场 | |
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plantations
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| n.种植园，大农场( plantation的名词复数 ) | |
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desolate
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| adj.荒凉的，荒芜的；孤独的，凄凉的；v.使荒芜，使孤寂 | |
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rev
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| v.发动机旋转，加快速度 | |
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pastor
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| n.牧师，牧人 | |
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consolation
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| n.安慰，慰问 | |
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housekeeper
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| n.管理家务的主妇，女管家 | |
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fin
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| n.鳍；(飞机的)安定翼 | |
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judicious
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| adj.明智的，明断的，能作出明智决定的 | |
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adverse
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| adj.不利的；有害的；敌对的，不友好的 | |
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kindly
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| adj.和蔼的，温和的，爽快的；adv.温和地，亲切地 | |
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dismantled
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| 拆开( dismantle的过去式和过去分词 )； 拆卸； 废除； 取消 | |
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confided
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| v.吐露（秘密，心事等）( confide的过去式和过去分词 )；（向某人）吐露（隐私、秘密等） | |
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predecessors
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| n.前任( predecessor的名词复数 )；前辈；（被取代的）原有事物；前身 | |
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variance
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| n.矛盾，不同 | |
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grove
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| n.林子，小树林，园林 | |
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winding
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| n.绕，缠，绕组，线圈 | |
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aged
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| adj.年老的，陈年的 | |
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42
withered
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| adj. 枯萎的，干瘪的，（人身体的部分器官）因病萎缩的或未发育良好的 动词wither的过去式和过去分词形式 | |
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43
cane
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| n.手杖，细长的茎，藤条；v.以杖击，以藤编制的 | |
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44
invalid
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| n.病人，伤残人；adj.有病的，伤残的；无效的 | |
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45
reverently
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| adv.虔诚地 | |
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46
emaciated
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| adj.衰弱的，消瘦的 | |
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47
joints
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| 接头( joint的名词复数 )； 关节； 公共场所（尤指价格低廉的饮食和娱乐场所） （非正式）； 一块烤肉 （英式英语） | |
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48
longevity
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| n.长命；长寿 | |
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49
steadily
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| adv.稳定地；不变地；持续地 | |
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50
imposing
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| adj.使人难忘的，壮丽的，堂皇的，雄伟的 | |
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51
perfectly
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| adv.完美地，无可非议地，彻底地 | |
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52
follower
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| n.跟随者；随员；门徒；信徒 | |
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53
assented
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| 同意，赞成( assent的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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54
labor
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| n.劳动，努力，工作，劳工；分娩；vi.劳动，努力，苦干；vt.详细分析；麻烦 | |
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55
pensioner
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| n.领养老金的人 | |
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56
emancipation
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| n.（从束缚、支配下）解放 | |
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57
fidelity
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| n.忠诚，忠实；精确 | |
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58
bondage
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| n.奴役，束缚 | |
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59
emancipate
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| v.解放，解除 | |
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60
dough
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| n.生面团；钱，现款 | |
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61
gal
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| n.姑娘，少女 | |
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62
anguish
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| n.(尤指心灵上的)极度痛苦，烦恼 | |
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63
soothingly
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| adv.抚慰地，安慰地；镇痛地 | |
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64
faltered
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| （嗓音）颤抖( falter的过去式和过去分词 )； 支吾其词； 蹒跚； 摇晃 | |
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65
bent
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| n.爱好，癖好；adj.弯的；决心的，一心的 | |
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66
edified
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| v.开导，启发( edify的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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67
doze
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| v.打瞌睡；n.打盹，假寐 | |
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68
edify
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| v.陶冶；教化；启发 | |
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