Toward noon on the day of the twenty-first, Miss Milroy was loitering in the cottage garden — released from duty in the sick-room by an improvement in her mother’s health — when her attention was attracted by the sound of voices in the park. One of the voices she instantly recognized as Allan’s; the other was strange to her. She put aside the branches of a shrub1 near the garden palings, and, peeping through, saw Allan approaching the cottage gate, in company with a slim, dark, undersized man, who was talking and laughing excitably at the top of his voice. Miss Milroy ran indoors to warn her father of Mr. Armadale’s arrival, and to add that he was bringing with him a noisy stranger, who was, in all probability, the friend generally reported to be staying with the squire2 at the great house.
Had the major’s daughter guessed right? Was the squire’s loud-talking, loud-laughing companion the shy, sensitive Midwinter of other times? It was even so. In Allan’s presence, that morning, an extraordinary change had passed over the ordinarily quiet demeanor3 of Allan’s friend.
When Midwinter had first appeared in the breakfast-room, after putting aside Mr. Brock’s startling letter, Allan had been too much occupied to pay any special attention to him. The undecided difficulty of choosing the day for the audit5 dinner had pressed for a settlement once more, and had been fixed6 at last (under the butler’s advice) for Saturday, the twenty-eighth of the month. It was only on turning round to remind Midwinter of the ample space of time which the new arrangement allowed for mastering the steward’s books, that even Allan’s flighty attention had been arrested by a marked change in the face that confronted him. He had openly noticed the change in his usual blunt manner, and had been instantly silenced by a fretful, almost an angry, reply. The two had sat down together to breakfast without the usual cordiality, and the meal had proceeded gloomily, till Midwinter himself broke the silence by bursting into the strange outbreak of gayety which had revealed in Allan’s eyes a new side to the character of his friend.
As usual with most of Allan’s judgments7, here again the conclusion was wrong. It was no new side to Midwinter’s character that now presented itself — it was only a new aspect of the one ever-recurring struggle of Midwinter’s life.
Irritated by Allan’s discovery of the change in him, and dreading8 the next questions that Allan’s curiosity might put, Midwinter had roused himself to efface9, by main force, the impression which his own altered appearance had produced. It was one of those efforts which no men compass so resolutely10 as the men of his quick temper and his sensitive feminine organization. With his whole mind still possessed11 by the firm belief that the Fatality12 had taken one great step nearer to Allan and himself since the rector’s adventure in Kensington Gardens — with his face still betraying what he had suffered, under the renewed conviction that his father’s death-bed warning was now, in event after event, asserting its terrible claim to part him, at any sacrifice, from the one human creature whom he loved — with the fear still busy at his heart that the first mysterious vision of Allan’s Dream might be a vision realized, before the new day that now saw the two Armadales together was a day that had passed over their heads — with these triple bonds, wrought13 by his own superstition14, fettering15 him at that moment as they had never fettered16 him yet, he mercilessly spurred his resolution to the desperate effort of rivaling, in Allan’s presence, the gayety and good spirits of Allan himself.
He talked and laughed, and heaped his plate indiscriminately from every dish on the breakfast-table. He made noisily merry with jests that had no humor, and stories that had no point. He first astonished Allan, then amused him, then won his easily encouraged confidence on the subject of Miss Milroy. He shouted with laughter over the sudden development of Allan’s views on marriage, until the servants downstairs began to think that their master’s strange friend had gone mad. Lastly, he had accepted Allan’s proposal that he should be presented to the major’s daughter, and judge of her for himself, as readily, nay17, more readily than it would have been accepted by the least diffident man living. There the two now stood at the cottage gate — Midwinter’s voice rising louder and louder over Allan’s — Midwinter’s natural manner disguised (how madly and miserably18 none but he knew!) in a coarse masquerade of boldness — the outrageous19, the unendurable boldness of a shy man.
They were received in the parlor20 by the major’s daughter, pending21 the arrival of the major himself.
Allan attempted to present his friend in the usual form. To his astonishment22, Midwinter took the words flippantly out of his lips, and introduced himself to Miss Milroy with a confident look, a hard laugh, and a clumsy assumption of ease which presented him at his worst. His artificial spirits, lashed23 continuously into higher and higher effervescence since the morning, were now mounting hysterically25 beyond his own control. He looked and spoke26 with that terrible freedom of license27 which is the necessary consequence, when a diffident man has thrown off his reserve, of the very effort by which he has broken loose from his own restraints. He involved himself in a confused medley28 of apologies that were not wanted, and of compliments that might have overflattered the vanity of a savage29. He looked backward and forward from Miss Milroy to Allan, and declared jocosely30 that he understood now why his friend’s morning walks were always taken in the same direction. He asked her questions about her mother, and cut short the answers she gave him by remarks on the weather. In one breath, he said she must feel the day insufferably hot, and in another he protested that he quite envied her in her cool muslin dress.
The major came in.
Before he could say two words, Midwinter overwhelmed him with the same frenzy31 of familiarity, and the same feverish32 fluency33 of speech. He expressed his interest in Mrs. Milroy’s health in terms which would have been exaggerated on the lips of a friend of the family. He overflowed34 into a perfect flood of apologies for disturbing the major at his mechanical pursuits. He quoted Allan’s extravagant35 account of the clock, and expressed his own anxiety to see it in terms more extravagant still. He paraded his superficial book knowledge of the great clock at Strasbourg, with far-fetched jests on the extraordinary automaton36 figures which that clock puts in motion — on the procession of the Twelve Apostles, which walks out under the dial at noon, and on the toy cock, which crows at St. Peter’s appearance — and this before a man who had studied every wheel in that complex machinery37, and who had passed whole years of his life in trying to imitate it. “I hear you have outnumbered the Strasbourg apostles, and outcrowed the Strasbourg cock,” he exclaimed, with the tone and manner of a friend habitually38 privileged to waive39 all ceremony; “and I am dying, absolutely dying, major, to see your wonderful clock!”
Major Milroy had entered the room with his mind absorbed in his own mechanical contrivances as usual. But the sudden shock of Midwinter’s familiarity was violent enough to recall him instantly to himself, and to make him master again, for the time, of his social resources as a man of the world.
“Excuse me for interrupting you,” he said, stopping Midwinter for the moment, by a look of steady surprise. “I happen to have seen the clock at Strasbourg; and it sounds almost absurd in my ears (if you will pardon me for saying so) to put my little experiment in any light of comparison with that wonderful achievement. There is nothing else of the kind like it in the world!” He paused, to control his own mounting enthusiasm; the clock at Strasbourg was to Major Milroy what the name of Michael Angelo was to Sir Joshua Reynolds. “Mr. Armadale’s kindness has led him to exaggerate a little,” pursued the major, smiling at Allan, and passing over another attempt of Midwinter’s to seize on the talk, as if no such attempt had been made. “But as there does happen to be this one point of resemblance between the great clock abroad and the little clock at home, that they both show what they can do on the stroke of noon, and as it is close on twelve now, if you still wish to visit my workshop, Mr. Midwinter, the sooner I show you the way to it the better.” He opened the door, and apologized to Midwinter, with marked ceremony, for preceding him out of the room.
“What do you think of my friend?” whispered Allan, as he and Miss Milroy followed.
“Must I tell you the truth, Mr. Armadale?” she whispered back.
“Of course!”
“Then I don’t like him at all!”
“He’s the best and dearest fellow in the world, “ rejoined the outspoken40 Allan. “You’ll like him better when you know him better — I’m sure you will!”
Miss Milroy made a little grimace41, implying supreme42 indifference43 to Midwinter, and saucy44 surprise at Allan’s earnest advocacy of the merits of his friend. “Has he got nothing more interesting to say to me than that ,” she wondered, privately45, “after kissing my hand twice yesterday morning?”
They were all in the major’s workroom before Allan had the chance of trying a more attractive subject. There, on the top of a rough wooden case, which evidently contained the machinery, was the wonderful clock. The dial was crowned by a glass pedestal placed on rock-work in carved ebony; and on the top of the pedestal sat the inevitable46 figure of Time, with his everlasting47 scythe48 in his hand. Below the dial was a little platform, and at either end of it rose two miniature sentry49-boxes, with closed doors. Externally, this was all that appeared, until the magic moment came when the clock struck twelve noon.
It wanted then about three minutes to twelve; and Major Milroy seized the opportunity of explaining what the exhibition was to be, before the exhibition began.
“At the first words, his mind fell back again into its old absorption over the one employment of his life. He turned to Midwinter (who had persisted in talking all the way from the parlor, and who was talking still) without a trace left in his manner of the cool and cutting composure with which he had spoken but a few minutes before. The noisy, familiar man, who had been an ill-bred intruder in the parlor, became a privileged guest in the workshop, for there he possessed the all-atoning social advantage of being new to the performances of the wonderful clock.
“At the first stroke of twelve, Mr. Midwinter,” said the major, quite eagerly, “keep your eye on the figure of Time: he will move his scythe, and point it downward to the glass pedestal. You will next see a little printed card appear behind the glass, which will tell you the day of the month and the day of the week. At the last stroke of the clock, Time will lift his scythe again into its former position, and the chimes will ring a peal50. The peal will be succeeded by the playing of a tune51 — the favorite march of my old regiment52 — and then the final performance of the clock will follow. The sentry-boxes, which you may observe at each side, will both open at the same moment. In one of them you will see the sentinel appear; and from the other a corporal and two privates will march across the platform to relieve the guard, and will then disappear, leaving the new sentinel at his post. I must ask your kind allowances for this last part of the performance. The machinery is a little complicated, and there are defects in it which I am ashamed to say I have not yet succeeded in remedying as I could wish. Sometimes the figures go all wrong, and sometimes they go all right. I hope they may do their best on the occasion of your seeing them for the first time.”
As the major, posted near his clock, said the last words, his little audience of three, assembled at the opposite end of the room, saw the hour-hand and the minute-hand on the dial point together to twelve. The first stroke sounded, and Time, true to the signal, moved his scythe. The day of the month and the day of the week announced themselves in print through the glass pedestal next; Midwinter applauding their appearance with a noisy exaggeration of surprise, which Miss Milroy mistook for coarse sarcasm53 directed at her father’s pursuits, and which Allan (seeing that she was offended) attempted to moderate by touching54 the elbow of his friend. Meanwhile, the performances of the clock went on. At the last stroke of twelve, Time lifted his scythe again, the chimes rang, the march tune of the major’s old regiment followed; and the crowning exhibition of the relief of the guard announced itself in a preliminary trembling of the sentry-boxes, and a sudden disappearance55 of the major at the back of the clock.
The performance began with the opening of the sentry-box on the right-hand side of the platform, as punctually as could be desired; the door on the other side, however, was less tractable56 — it remained obstinately57 closed. Unaware58 of this hitch59 in the proceedings60, the corporal and his two privates appeared in their places in a state of perfect discipline, tottered61 out across the platform, all three trembling in every limb, dashed themselves headlong against the closed door on the other side, and failed in producing the smallest impression on the immovable sentry presumed to be within. An intermittent62 clicking, as of the major’s keys and tools at work, was heard in the machinery. The corporal and his two privates suddenly returned, backward, across the platform, and shut themselves up with a bang inside their own door. Exactly at the same moment, the other door opened for the first time, and the provoking sentry appeared with the utmost deliberation at his post, waiting to be relieved. He was allowed to wait. Nothing happened in the other box but an occasional knocking inside the door, as if the corporal and his privates were impatient to be let out. The clicking of the major’s tools was heard again among the machinery; the corporal and his party, suddenly restored to liberty, appeared in a violent hurry, and spun63 furiously across the platform. Quick as they were, however, the hitherto deliberate sentry on the other side now perversely64 showed himself to be quicker still. He disappeared like lightning into his own premises65, the door closed smartly after him, the corporal and his privates dashed themselves headlong against it for the second time, and the major, appearing again round the corner of the clock, asked his audience innocently “if they would be good enough to tell him whether anything had gone wrong?”
The fantastic absurdity66 of the exhibition, heightened by Major Milroy’s grave inquiry67 at the end of it, was so irresistibly68 ludicrous that the visitors shouted with laughter; and even Miss Milroy, with all her consideration for her father’s sensitive pride in his clock, could not restrain herself from joining in the merriment which the catastrophe69 of the puppets had provoked. But there are limits even to the license of laughter; and these limits were ere long so outrageously70 overstepped by one of the little party as to have the effect of almost instantly silencing the other two. The fever of Midwinter’s false spirits flamed out into sheer delirium71 as the performance of the puppets came to an end. His paroxysms of laughter followed each other with such convulsive violence that Miss Milroy started back from him in alarm, and even the patient major turned on him with a look which said plainly, Leave the room! Allan, wisely impulsive72 for once in his life, seized Midwinter by the arm, and dragged him out by main force into the garden, and thence into the park beyond.
“Good heavens! what has come to you!” he exclaimed, shrinking back from the tortured face before him, as he stopped and looked close at it for the first time.
For the moment, Midwinter was incapable73 of answering. The hysterical24 paroxysm was passing from one extreme to the other. He leaned against a tree, sobbing74 and gasping75 for breath, and stretched out his hand in mute entreaty76 to Allan to give him time.
“You had better not have nursed me through my fever,” he said, faintly, as soon as he could speak. “I’m mad and miserable77, Allan; I have never recovered it. Go back and ask them to forgive me; I am ashamed to go and ask them myself. I can’t tell how it happened; I can only ask your pardon and theirs.” He turned aside his head quickly so as to conceal78 his face. “Don’t stop here,” he said; “don’t look at me; I shall soon get over it.” Allan still hesitated, and begged hard to be allowed to take him back to the house. It was useless. “You break my heart with your kindness,” he burst out, passionately79. “For God’s sake, leave me by my self!”
Allan went back to she cottage, and pleaded there for indulgence to Midwinter, with an earnestness and simplicity80 which raised him immensely in the major’s estimation, but which totally failed to produce the same favorable impression on Miss Milroy. Little as she herself suspected it, she was fond enough of Allan already to be jealous of Allan’s friend.
“How excessively absurd!” she thought, pettishly81. “As if either papa or I considered such a person of the slightest consequence!”
“You will kindly82 suspend your opinion, won’t you, Major Milroy?” said Allan, in his hearty83 way, at parting.
“With the greatest pleasure! “ replied the major, cordially shaking hands.
“And you, too, Miss Milroy?” added Allan.
Miss Milroy made a mercilessly formal bow. “My opinion, Mr. Armadale, is not of the slightest consequence.”
Allan left the cottage, sorely puzzled to account for Miss Milroy’s sudden coolness toward him. His grand idea of conciliating the whole neighborhood by becoming a married man underwent some modification84 as he closed the garden gate behind him. The virtue85 called Prudence86 and the Squire of Thorpe Ambrose became personally acquainted with each other, on this occasion, for the first time; and Allan, entering headlong as usual on the high-road to moral improvement, actually decided4 on doing nothing in a hurry!
A man who is entering on a course of reformation ought, if virtue is its own reward, to be a man engaged in an essentially87 inspiriting pursuit. But virtue is not always its own reward; and the way that leads to reformation is remarkably88 ill-lighted for so respectable a thoroughfare. Allan seemed to have caught the infection of his friend’s despondency. As he walked home, he, too, began to doubt — in his widely different way, and for his widely different reasons — whether the life at Thorpe Ambrose was promising89 quite as fairly for the future as it had promised at first.
收听单词发音 |
1
shrub
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| n.灌木，灌木丛 | |
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squire
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| n.护卫, 侍从, 乡绅 | |
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demeanor
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| n.行为；风度 | |
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decided
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| adj.决定了的，坚决的；明显的，明确的 | |
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audit
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| v.审计；查帐；核对；旁听 | |
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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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judgments
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| 判断( judgment的名词复数 )； 鉴定； 评价； 审判 | |
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dreading
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| v.害怕，恐惧，担心( dread的现在分词 ) | |
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efface
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| v.擦掉，抹去 | |
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resolutely
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| adj.坚决地，果断地 | |
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possessed
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| adj.疯狂的；拥有的，占有的 | |
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fatality
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| n.不幸，灾祸，天命 | |
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wrought
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| v.引起；以…原料制作；运转；adj.制造的 | |
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superstition
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| n.迷信，迷信行为 | |
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fettering
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| v.给…上脚镣，束缚( fetter的现在分词 ) | |
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fettered
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| v.给…上脚镣，束缚( fetter的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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nay
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| adv.不；n.反对票，投反对票者 | |
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miserably
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| adv.痛苦地；悲惨地；糟糕地；极度地 | |
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outrageous
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| adj.无理的，令人不能容忍的 | |
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parlor
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| n.店铺，营业室；会客室，客厅 | |
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pending
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| prep.直到，等待…期间；adj.待定的；迫近的 | |
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astonishment
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| n.惊奇，惊异 | |
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lashed
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| adj.具睫毛的v.鞭打( lash的过去式和过去分词 )；煽动；紧系；怒斥 | |
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hysterical
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| adj.情绪异常激动的，歇斯底里般的 | |
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hysterically
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| ad. 歇斯底里地 | |
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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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license
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| n.执照，许可证，特许；v.许可，特许 | |
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medley
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| n.混合 | |
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savage
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| adj.野蛮的；凶恶的，残暴的；n.未开化的人 | |
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jocosely
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| adv.说玩笑地，诙谐地 | |
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frenzy
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| n.疯狂，狂热，极度的激动 | |
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feverish
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| adj.发烧的，狂热的，兴奋的 | |
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fluency
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| n.流畅，雄辩，善辩 | |
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overflowed
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| 溢出的 | |
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extravagant
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| adj.奢侈的；过分的；(言行等)放肆的 | |
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automaton
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| n.自动机器，机器人 | |
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machinery
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| n.(总称)机械，机器；机构 | |
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habitually
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| ad.习惯地，通常地 | |
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waive
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| vt.放弃，不坚持(规定、要求、权力等) | |
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outspoken
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| adj.直言无讳的，坦率的，坦白无隐的 | |
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grimace
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| v.做鬼脸，面部歪扭 | |
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supreme
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| adj.极度的，最重要的；至高的，最高的 | |
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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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saucy
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| adj.无礼的；俊俏的；活泼的 | |
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privately
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| adv.以私人的身份，悄悄地，私下地 | |
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inevitable
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| adj.不可避免的，必然发生的 | |
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everlasting
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| adj.永恒的，持久的，无止境的 | |
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scythe
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| n. 长柄的大镰刀，战车镰； v. 以大镰刀割 | |
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sentry
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| n.哨兵，警卫 | |
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peal
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| n.钟声；v.鸣响 | |
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tune
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| n.调子；和谐，协调；v.调音，调节，调整 | |
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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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sarcasm
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| n.讥讽，讽刺，嘲弄，反话 （adj.sarcastic） | |
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touching
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| adj.动人的，使人感伤的 | |
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disappearance
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| n.消失，消散，失踪 | |
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56
tractable
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| adj.易驾驭的；温顺的 | |
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obstinately
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| ad.固执地，顽固地 | |
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unaware
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| a.不知道的，未意识到的 | |
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hitch
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| v.免费搭(车旅行)；系住；急提；n.故障；急拉 | |
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proceedings
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| n.进程，过程，议程；诉讼(程序)；公报 | |
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tottered
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| v.走得或动得不稳( totter的过去式和过去分词 )；踉跄；蹒跚；摇摇欲坠 | |
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intermittent
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| adj.间歇的，断断续续的 | |
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spun
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| v.纺，杜撰，急转身 | |
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perversely
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| adv. 倔强地 | |
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premises
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| n.建筑物，房屋 | |
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absurdity
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| n.荒谬，愚蠢；谬论 | |
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inquiry
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| n.打听，询问，调查，查问 | |
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irresistibly
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| adv.无法抵抗地，不能自持地；极为诱惑人地 | |
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catastrophe
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| n.大灾难，大祸 | |
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outrageously
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| 凶残地； 肆无忌惮地； 令人不能容忍地； 不寻常地 | |
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delirium
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| n. 神智昏迷,说胡话;极度兴奋 | |
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impulsive
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| adj.冲动的，刺激的；有推动力的 | |
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incapable
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| adj.无能力的，不能做某事的 | |
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sobbing
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| <主方>Ⅰ adj.湿透的 | |
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gasping
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| adj. 气喘的, 痉挛的 动词gasp的现在分词 | |
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entreaty
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| n.恳求，哀求 | |
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miserable
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| adj.悲惨的，痛苦的；可怜的，糟糕的 | |
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conceal
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| v.隐藏，隐瞒，隐蔽 | |
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passionately
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| ad.热烈地，激烈地 | |
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simplicity
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| n.简单，简易；朴素；直率，单纯 | |
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pettishly
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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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hearty
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| adj.热情友好的；衷心的；尽情的，纵情的 | |
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modification
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| n.修改，改进，缓和，减轻 | |
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virtue
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| n.德行，美德；贞操；优点；功效，效力 | |
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prudence
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| n.谨慎，精明，节俭 | |
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87
essentially
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| adv.本质上，实质上，基本上 | |
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remarkably
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| ad.不同寻常地，相当地 | |
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promising
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| adj.有希望的，有前途的 | |
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