In the meantime, how had the morning broken upon Dell-Delight? How upon
Luckenough? and how at Old Field Cottage?
At Dell-Delight the old man had expired just before the sun arose. The two physicians that had been summoned the night previous, but had been delayed by the storm, arrived in the morning only to see the patient die. Many inquiries1 were made and much conjecture2 formed as to the cause of Thurston Willcoxen's improper3 and unaccountable absence at such a juncture4. But Melchizedek, poor, faithful fellow, having followed his master's steps, did not appear, and no one else upon the premises5 could give any explanation relative to the movements of their young master. He had left the bedside of his dying relative at nine o'clock the night before, and he had not since returned—his saddle-horse was gone from the stable—that was all that could be ascertained6. Dr. Brightwell took his departure, to answer other pressing calls. But Dr. Weismann, seeing that there was no responsible person in charge, and having elsewhere no urgent demands upon his time and attention, kindly7 volunteered to stay and superintend affairs at Dell-Delight, until the reappearance of the young master.
At Old Field Cottage, Edith had sat up late the night before waiting for Marian; but, seeing that she did not return, had taken it for granted that she had remained all night with Miss Thornton, and so, without the least uneasiness at her prolonged absence, had retired8 to rest. And in the morning she arose with the same impression on her mind, gayly looking forward to Marian's return with the visitor, and the certain happy revelation she had promised.
She had breakfast over early, made the room very tidy, dressed Miriam in her holiday clothes, put on her own Sunday gown, and sat down to wait for Marian and the visitor. The morning passed slowly, in momentary9 expectation of an arrival.
It was near eleven o'clock when she looked up and saw Colonel Thornton's carriage approaching the cottage.
"There! I said so! I knew Marian had remained with Miss Thornton, and that they would bring her home this morning. I suppose Colonel Thornton and his sister are both with her! And now for the revelation! I wonder what it is," said Edith, smiling to herself, as she arose and stroked down her dress, and smoothed her ringlets, preparatory to meeting her guests.
By this time the carriage had drawn10 up before the cottage gate. Edith went out just in time to see the door opened, and Miss Thornton alight. The lady was alone—that Edith saw at the first glance.
"What can be the meaning of this?" she asked herself, as she went forward to welcome her visitor.
But Miss Thornton was very pale and tremulous, and she acted altogether strangely.
"How do you do, Miss Thornton? I am very glad to see you," said Edith, cordially offering her hand.
But the lady seized it, and drew her forcibly towards the door, saying in a husky voice:
"Come in—come in!"
Full of surprise, Edith followed her.
"Sit down," she continued, sinking into a chair, and pointing to a vacant one by her side.
Edith took the seat, and waited in wonder for her further speech.
"Where? Why, I believed her to be at your house!" answered Edith, in surprise and vague fear.
"Good heaven!" exclaimed the lady, growing very pale, and trembling in every limb. Edith started up in alarm.
"Miss Thornton, what do you mean? For mercy's sake, tell me, has anything happened?"
"I do not know—I am not sure—I trust not—tell me! when did you see her last? When did she leave home? this morning?"
"No! last evening, about sundown."
"And she has not returned? You have not seen her since?"
"No!"
"Did she tell you where she was going?"
"No!"
"Did she promise to come back? and when?"
"She promised to return before dark! She did not do so! I judged the storm had detained her, and that she was with you, and I felt easy."
"Miss Thornton! for Heaven's sake! tell me what has occurred!"
"Oh, Edith!"
"In mercy, explain yourself—Marian! what of Marian?"
"Oh, God, sustain you, Edith! what can I say to you? my own heart is lacerated!"
"Marian! Marian! oh! what has happened to Marian! Oh! where is Marian?"
"I had hoped to find her here after all! else I had not found courage to come!"
"Miss Thornton, this is cruel—"
"Ah! poor Edith! what you required to be told is far more cruel. Oh,
"I have fortitude for anything but suspense14. Oh, Heaven, Miss Thornton, relieve this suspense, or I shall suffocate15!"
"Edith! Edith!" said the lady, going up and putting her arms around the
fragile form of the young widow, as to shield and support her. "Oh,
Edith! I heard a report this morning—and it may be but a report—I pray
Heaven, that it is no more—"
"Oh, go on! what was it?"
"That, that last evening on the beach during the storm, Marian
Mayfield—" Miss Thornton's voice choked.
"Oh, speak; for mercy speak! What of Marian?"
"Murdered! Oh, God!" cried Edith, as her over-strained nerves relaxed, and she sank in the arms of Miss Thornton.
At Luckenough that morning, the remains20 of the unfortunate Dr. Grimshaw were laid out preparatory to burial. Jacquelina, in a bewildered stupor21 of remorse22, wandered vaguely23 from room to room, seeking rest and finding none. "I have caused a fellow creature's death!" That was the envenomed thought that corroded24 her heart's centre. From her bosom25, too, peace had fled. It was near noon when the news of Marian's fate reached Luckenough, and overwhelmed the family with consternation26 and grief.
But Jacquelina! the effect of the tragic27 tale on her was nearly fatal. She understood the catastrophe28, as no one else could! She knew who struck the fatal blow, and when and why, and under what mistake it was struck! She felt that another crime, another death lay heavy on her soul! It was too much! oh! it was too much! No human heart nor brain could sustain the crushing burden, and the poor lost elf fell into convulsions that threatened soon to terminate in death. There was no raving29, no talking; in all her frenzy30, the fatal secret weighing on her bosom did not then transpire31.
Before the day was out the whole county was in an uproar32. Never had any event of the neighborhood created so high an excitement or so profound a sympathy. Great horror and amazement33 filled every bosom. A county meeting spontaneously convened34, and handbills were printed, large rewards offered, and every means taken to secure the discovery of the criminal. In the deep, absorbing sympathy for Marian's fate, the sudden death of Professor Grimshaw, and the reasonably-to-be-expected demise35 of old Mr. Cloudesley Willcoxen, passed nearly unnoticed, and were soon forgotten. Among the most zealous37 in the pursuit of the unknown murderer was Thurston Willcoxen; but the ghastly pallor of his countenance38, the wildness of his eyes, and the distraction39 of his manner, often varied40 by fits of deep and sullen41 despair, excited the surprise and conjecture of all who looked upon him.
Days passed and still no light was thrown upon the mystery. About a fortnight after the catastrophe, however, information was brought to the neighborhood that the corpse42 of a woman, answering to the description of Marian, had been washed ashore43 some miles down the coast, but had been interred44 by the fishermen, the day after its discovery. Many gentlemen hurried down to the spot, and further investigation45 confirmed the general opinion that the body was that of the martyred girl.
Three weeks after this, Edith lay upon her deathbed. Her delicate frame never recovered this last great shock. A few days before her death she called Miriam to her bedside. The child approached; she was sadly altered within the last few weeks; incessant46 weeping had dimmed her splendid eyes, and paled her brilliant cheeks.
"Sit down upon the bed by me, my daughter," said Edith.
The child climbed up and took the indicated seat. Something of that long-smothered fire, which had once braved the fury of the British soldiers, kindled47 in the dying woman's eyes.
"Miriam, you are nearly nine years old in time, and much older than that in thought and feeling. Miriam, your mother has not many days to live; but in dying, she leaves you a sacred trust to be fulfilled. My child, do you follow and understand me?"
"Yes, mamma."
"Do not weep; tears are vain and idle. There was an injured queen once whose tears were turned to sparks of fire. So I would have yours to turn! She came among us a young stranger girl, without fortune or position, or any of the usual stepping-stones to social consideration. Yet see what influence, what power she soon obtained, and what reforms and improvements she soon effected. The county is rich in the monuments of her young wisdom and angelic goodness. All are indebted to her; but none so deeply as you and I. All are bound to seek out and punish her destroyer; but none so strongly as you and I. Others have pursued the search for the murderer with great zeal36 for a while; we must make that search the one great object of our lives. Upon us devolve the right and the duty to avenge48 her death by bringing her destroyer to the scaffold. Miriam, do you hear—do you hear and understand me?"
"Yes, mamma; yes."
"Child, listen to me! I have a clue to Marian's murderer!"
Miriam started, and attended breathlessly.
"My love, it was no poor waterman or fugitive49 negro, tempted50 by want or cupidity52. It was a gentleman, Miriam."
"A gentleman?"
"Yes; one that she must have become acquainted with during her visit to Washington three years ago. Oh, I remember her unaccountable distress in the months that followed that visit! His name, or his assumed name, was—attend, Miriam!—Thomas Truman."
"Thomas Truman!"
"Here," said Edith, taking a small packet of letters from under her pillow. "Here, Miriam, is a portion of her correspondence with this man, Thomas Truman—I found it in the secret drawer of her bureau. There are several notes entreating55 her to give him a meeting, on the beach, at Mossy Dell, and at other points. From the tenor56 of these notes, I am led to believe that she refused these meetings; and, more than that, from the style of one in particular I am induced to suppose that she might have been privately57 married to that man. Why he should have enticed58 her to that spot to destroy her life, I do not know. But this, at least, I know: that our dearest Marian has been basely assassinated59. I see reason to suppose the assassin to have been her lover, or her husband, and that his real or assumed name was Thomas Truman. These facts, and this little packet of notes and letters, are all that I have to offer as testimony60. But by following a slight clue, we are sometimes led to great discoveries."
"Why didn't you show them to the gentlemen, dear mamma? They might have found out something by them."
"I showed them to Thurston Willcoxen, who has been so energetic in the pursuit of the unknown murderer; but Thurston became so violently agitated that I thought he must have fallen. And he wished very much to retain those letters, but I would not permit them to be carried out of my sight. When he became calmer, however, he assured me that there could be no possible connection between the writer of these notes and the murderer of the unfortunate girl. I, however, think differently. I think there is a connection, and even an identity; and I think this packet may be the means of bringing the criminal to justice; and I leave it—a sacred trust—in your charge, Miriam. Guard it well; guard it as your only treasure, until it has served its destined61 purpose. And now, Miriam, do you know the nature of a vow62?"
"Yes, mamma."
"Do you understand its solemnity—its obligation, its inviolability?"
"I think I do, mamma."
"Do you know that in the performance of your vow, if necessary, no toil63, no privation, no suffering of mind or body, no dearest interest of your life, no strongest affection of your soul, but must be sacrificed; do you comprehend all this?"
"Yes, mamma; I knew it before, and I have read of Jeptha and his daughter."
"Now, Miriam, kneel down, fold your hands, and give them to me between my own. Look into my eyes. I want you to make a vow to God and to your dying mother, to avenge the death of Marian. Will you bind64 your soul by such an obligation?"
The child was magnetized by the thrilling eyes that gazed deep into her own. She answered:
"Yes, mamma."
"You vow in the sight of God and all his holy angels, that, as you hope for salvation65, you will devote your life with all your faculties66 of mind and body, to the discovery and punishment of Marian's murderer; and also that you will live a maiden67 until you become and avenger68."
"I vow."
"Swear that no afterthoughts shall tempt51 you to falter69; that happen what may in the changing years, you will not hesitate; that though your interests and affections should intervene, you will not suffer them to retard70 you in your purpose; that no effort, no sacrifice, no privation, no suffering of mind or body shall be spared, if needful, to the accomplishment71 of your vow."
"I swear."
"You will do it! You are certain to discover the murderer, and clear up the mystery."
The mental excitement that had carried Edith through this scene subsided72, and left her very weak, so that when Thurston Willcoxen soon after called to see her, she was unable to receive him.
The next morning, however, Thurston repeated his visit, and was brought to the bedside of the invalid73.
Thurston was frightfully changed, the sufferings of the last month seemed to have made him old—his countenance was worn, his voice hollow, and his manner abstracted and uncertain.
"Edith," he asked, as he took the chair near her head, "do you feel stronger this morning?"
"Yes—I always do in the forenoon"
"Do you feel well enough to talk of Miriam and her future?"
"Oh, yes."
"What do you propose to do with her?"
"I shall leave her to Aunt Henrietta—she will never let the child want."
"But Mrs. Waugh is quite an old lady now. Jacquelina is insane, the commodore and Mrs. L'Oiseau scarcely competent to take care of themselves—and Luckenough a sad, unpromising home for a little girl."
"I know it—oh! I know it; why do you speak of it, since I can do no otherwise?"
"To point out how you may do otherwise, dear Edith. It would have been cruel to mention it else."
"Edith, you have known me from my boyhood. You know what I am. Will you leave your orphan75 daughter to me? You look at me in wonder; but listen, dear Edith, and then decide. Marian—dear martyred saint! loved that child as her own. And I loved Marian—loved her as I had never dreamed it possible for heart to love—I cannot speak of this! it deprives me of reason," he said, suddenly covering his eyes with his hands, while a spasm76 agitated his worn face. In a few minutes he resumed.
"Look at me, Edith! the death of Marian has brought me to what you see! My youth has melted away like a morning mist. I have not an object in life except to carry out purposes which were dear to her benevolent77 heart, and which her sudden death has left incomplete. I have not an affection in the world except that which comes through her. I should love this child dearly, and cherish her devotedly78 for Marian's sake. I shall never change my bachelor life—but I should like to legally adopt little Miriam. I should give her the best educational advantages, and make her the co-heir with my young brother, Paul Douglass, of all I possess. Say, Edith, can you trust your child to me?" He spoke79 earnestly, fervently80, taking her hand and pressing it, and gazing pleadingly into her eyes.
"So you loved Marian—I even judged so when I saw you labor81 hardest of all for the apprehension82 of the criminal. Oh, many loved her as much as you! Colonel Thornton, Dr. Weismann, Judge Gordon, Mr. Barnwell, all adored her! Ah! she was worthy83 of it."
"No more of that, dear Edith, it will overcome us both; but tell me if you will give me your little girl?"
"Dear Thurston, your proposal is as strange and unusual as it is generous. I thank you most sincerely, but you must give me time to look at it and think of it. You are sincere, you are in earnest, you mean all you say. I see that in your face; but I must reflect and take counsel upon such an important step. Go now, dear Thurston, and return to me at this hour to-morrow morning."
Thurston pressed her hand and departed.
The same day Edith had a visit from Mrs. Waugh, Miss Thornton and other friends. And after consulting with them upon the proposal that had been made her, she decided84 to leave Miriam in the joint85 guardianship86 of Mrs. Waugh and Thurston Willcoxen.
And this decision was made known to Thurston when he called the next morning.
A few days after this Edith passed to the world of spirits. And Thurston took the orphan child to his own heart and home.
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收听单词发音
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1
inquiries
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| n.调查( inquiry的名词复数 )；疑问；探究；打听 | |
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conjecture
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| n./v.推测，猜测 | |
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improper
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| adj.不适当的，不合适的，不正确的，不合礼仪的 | |
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juncture
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| n.时刻，关键时刻，紧要关头 | |
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premises
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| n.建筑物，房屋 | |
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6
ascertained
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| v.弄清，确定，查明( ascertain的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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7
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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8
retired
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| adj.隐退的，退休的，退役的 | |
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momentary
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| adj.片刻的，瞬息的；短暂的 | |
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10
drawn
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| v.拖，拉，拔出；adj.憔悴的，紧张的 | |
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agitated
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| adj.被鼓动的，不安的 | |
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distress
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| n.苦恼，痛苦，不舒适；不幸；vt.使悲痛 | |
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fortitude
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| n.坚忍不拔；刚毅 | |
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14
suspense
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| n.（对可能发生的事）紧张感，担心，挂虑 | |
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15
suffocate
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| vt.使窒息，使缺氧，阻碍；vi.窒息，窒息而亡，阻碍发展 | |
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16
waylaid
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| v.拦截，拦路( waylay的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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17
frenzied
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| a.激怒的；疯狂的 | |
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18
shriek
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| v./n.尖叫，叫喊 | |
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19
resounded
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| v.（指声音等）回荡于某处( resound的过去式和过去分词 )；产生回响；（指某处）回荡着声音 | |
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20
remains
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| n.剩余物，残留物；遗体，遗迹 | |
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stupor
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| v.昏迷；不省人事 | |
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22
remorse
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| n.痛恨，悔恨，自责 | |
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23
vaguely
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| adv.含糊地，暖昧地 | |
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24
corroded
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| 已被腐蚀的 | |
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bosom
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| n.胸，胸部；胸怀；内心；adj.亲密的 | |
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consternation
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| n.大为吃惊，惊骇 | |
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tragic
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| adj.悲剧的，悲剧性的，悲惨的 | |
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catastrophe
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| n.大灾难，大祸 | |
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29
raving
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| adj.说胡话的；疯狂的，怒吼的；非常漂亮的；令人醉心[痴心]的v.胡言乱语(rave的现在分词)n.胡话；疯话adv.胡言乱语地；疯狂地 | |
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30
frenzy
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| n.疯狂，狂热，极度的激动 | |
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31
transpire
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| v.(使)蒸发，(使)排出 ；泄露，公开 | |
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32
uproar
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| n.骚动，喧嚣，鼎沸 | |
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amazement
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| n.惊奇，惊讶 | |
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34
convened
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| 召开( convene的过去式 )； 召集； （为正式会议而）聚集； 集合 | |
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35
demise
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| n.死亡；v.让渡，遗赠，转让 | |
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36
zeal
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| n.热心，热情，热忱 | |
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zealous
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| adj.狂热的，热心的 | |
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38
countenance
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| n.脸色，面容；面部表情；vt.支持，赞同 | |
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distraction
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| n.精神涣散，精神不集中，消遣，娱乐 | |
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varied
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| adj.多样的，多变化的 | |
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sullen
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| adj.愠怒的，闷闷不乐的，(天气等)阴沉的 | |
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42
corpse
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| n.尸体，死尸 | |
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ashore
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| adv.在(向)岸上，上岸 | |
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interred
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| v.埋，葬( inter的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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investigation
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| n.调查，调查研究 | |
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46
incessant
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| adj.不停的，连续的 | |
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47
kindled
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| （使某物）燃烧，着火( kindle的过去式和过去分词 )； 激起（感情等）； 发亮，放光 | |
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48
avenge
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| v.为...复仇，为...报仇 | |
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49
fugitive
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| adj.逃亡的，易逝的；n.逃犯，逃亡者 | |
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50
tempted
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| v.怂恿（某人）干不正当的事；冒…的险（tempt的过去分词） | |
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51
tempt
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| vt.引诱，勾引，吸引，引起…的兴趣 | |
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52
cupidity
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| n.贪心，贪财 | |
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53
gallows
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| n.绞刑架，绞台 | |
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54
shuddered
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| v.战栗( shudder的过去式和过去分词 )；发抖；（机器、车辆等）突然震动；颤动 | |
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55
entreating
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| 恳求，乞求( entreat的现在分词 ) | |
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56
tenor
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| n.男高音（歌手），次中音（乐器），要旨，大意 | |
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57
privately
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| adv.以私人的身份，悄悄地，私下地 | |
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58
enticed
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| 诱惑，怂恿( entice的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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59
assassinated
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| v.暗杀( assassinate的过去式和过去分词 )；中伤；诋毁；破坏 | |
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60
testimony
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| n.证词；见证，证明 | |
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61
destined
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| adj.命中注定的；(for)以…为目的地的 | |
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62
vow
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| n.誓(言)，誓约；v.起誓，立誓 | |
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63
toil
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| vi.辛劳工作，艰难地行动；n.苦工，难事 | |
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64
bind
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| vt.捆，包扎；装订；约束；使凝固；vi.变硬 | |
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65
salvation
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| n.（尤指基督）救世，超度，拯救，解困 | |
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faculties
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| n.能力( faculty的名词复数 )；全体教职员；技巧；院 | |
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maiden
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| n.少女，处女；adj.未婚的，纯洁的，无经验的 | |
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68
avenger
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| n. 复仇者 | |
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69
falter
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| vi.(嗓音)颤抖，结巴地说；犹豫；蹒跚 | |
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70
retard
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| n.阻止，延迟；vt.妨碍，延迟，使减速 | |
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71
accomplishment
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| n.完成，成就，（pl.）造诣，技能 | |
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72
subsided
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| v.（土地）下陷（因在地下采矿）( subside的过去式和过去分词 )；减弱；下降至较低或正常水平；一下子坐在椅子等上 | |
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73
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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74
inquiry
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| n.打听，询问，调查，查问 | |
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75
orphan
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| n.孤儿；adj.无父母的 | |
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76
spasm
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| n.痉挛，抽搐；一阵发作 | |
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77
benevolent
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| adj.仁慈的，乐善好施的 | |
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devotedly
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| 专心地； 恩爱地； 忠实地； 一心一意地 | |
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79
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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80
fervently
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| adv.热烈地，热情地，强烈地 | |
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81
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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82
apprehension
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| n.理解，领悟；逮捕，拘捕；忧虑 | |
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83
worthy
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| adj.(of)值得的，配得上的；有价值的 | |
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84
decided
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| adj.决定了的，坚决的；明显的，明确的 | |
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85
joint
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| adj.联合的，共同的；n.关节，接合处；v.连接，贴合 | |
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guardianship
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| n. 监护, 保护, 守护 | |
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