In the year 1775, there stood upon the borders of Epping Forest, at a distance of about twelve miles from London — measuring from the Standard in Cornhill,’ or rather from the spot on or near to which the Standard used to be in days of yore — a house of public entertainment called the Maypole; which fact was demonstrated to all such travellers as could neither read nor write (and at that time a vast number both of travellers and stay-at-homes were in this condition) by the emblem1 reared on the roadside over against the house, which, if not of those goodly proportions that Maypoles were wont2 to present in olden times, was a fair young ash, thirty feet in height, and straight as any arrow that ever English yeoman drew.
The Maypole — by which term from henceforth is meant the house, and not its sign — the Maypole was an old building, with more gable ends than a lazy man would care to count on a sunny day; huge zig-zag chimneys, out of which it seemed as though even smoke could not choose but come in more than naturally fantastic shapes, imparted to it in its tortuous3 progress; and vast stables, gloomy, ruinous, and empty. The place was said to have been built in the days of King Henry the Eighth; and there was a legend, not only that Queen Elizabeth had slept there one night while upon a hunting excursion, to wit, in a certain oak-panelled room with a deep bay window, but that next morning, while standing4 on a mounting block before the door with one foot in the stirrup, the virgin5 monarch6 had then and there boxed and cuffed7 an unlucky page for some neglect of duty. The matter-of-fact and doubtful folks, of whom there were a few among the Maypole customers, as unluckily there always are in every little community, were inclined to look upon this tradition as rather apocryphal8; but, whenever the landlord of that ancient hostelry appealed to the mounting block itself as evidence, and triumphantly9 pointed10 out that there it stood in the same place to that very day, the doubters never failed to be put down by a large majority, and all true believers exulted11 as in a victory.
Whether these, and many other stories of the like nature, were true or untrue, the Maypole was really an old house, a very old house, perhaps as old as it claimed to be, and perhaps older, which will sometimes happen with houses of an uncertain, as with ladies of a certain, age. Its windows were old diamond-pane lattices, its floors were sunken and uneven12, its ceilings blackened by the hand of time, and heavy with massive beams. Over the doorway13 was an ancient porch, quaintly14 and grotesquely15 carved; and here on summer evenings the more favoured customers smoked and drank — ay, and sang many a good song too, sometimes — reposing16 on two grim-looking high-backed settles, which, like the twin dragons of some fairy tale, guarded the entrance to the mansion17.
In the chimneys of the disused rooms, swallows had built their nests for many a long year, and from earliest spring to latest autumn whole colonies of sparrows chirped18 and twittered in the eaves. There were more pigeons about the dreary19 stable-yard and out-buildings than anybody but the landlord could reckon up. The wheeling and circling flights of runts, fantails, tumblers, and pouters, were perhaps not quite consistent with the grave and sober character of the building, but the monotonous20 cooing, which never ceased to be raised by some among them all day long, suited it exactly, and seemed to lull22 it to rest. With its overhanging stories, drowsy23 little panes24 of glass, and front bulging25 out and projecting over the pathway, the old house looked as if it were nodding in its sleep. Indeed, it needed no very great stretch of fancy to detect in it other resemblances to humanity. The bricks of which it was built had originally been a deep dark red, but had grown yellow and discoloured like an old man’s skin; the sturdy timbers had decayed like teeth; and here and there the ivy26, like a warm garment to comfort it in its age, wrapt its green leaves closely round the time-worn walls.
It was a hale and hearty27 age though, still: and in the summer or autumn evenings, when the glow of the setting sun fell upon the oak and chestnut28 trees of the adjacent forest, the old house, partaking of its lustre29, seemed their fit companion, and to have many good years of life in him yet.
The evening with which we have to do, was neither a summer nor an autumn one, but the twilight30 of a day in March, when the wind howled dismally31 among the bare branches of the trees, and rumbling32 in the wide chimneys and driving the rain against the windows of the Maypole Inn, gave such of its frequenters as chanced to be there at the moment an undeniable reason for prolonging their stay, and caused the landlord to prophesy33 that the night would certainly clear at eleven o’clock precisely,— which by a remarkable34 coincidence was the hour at which he always closed his house.
The name of him upon whom the spirit of prophecy thus descended35 was John Willet, a burly, large-headed man with a fat face, which betokened36 profound obstinacy37 and slowness of apprehension38, combined with a very strong reliance upon his own merits. It was John Willet’s ordinary boast in his more placid39 moods that if he were slow he was sure; which assertion could, in one sense at least, be by no means gainsaid40, seeing that he was in everything unquestionably the reverse of fast, and withal one of the most dogged and positive fellows in existence — always sure that what he thought or said or did was right, and holding it as a thing quite settled and ordained41 by the laws of nature and Providence42, that anybody who said or did or thought otherwise must be inevitably43 and of necessity wrong.
Mr Willet walked slowly up to the window, flattened44 his fat nose against the cold glass, and shading his eyes that his sight might not be affected45 by the ruddy glow of the fire, looked abroad. Then he walked slowly back to his old seat in the chimney-corner, and, composing himself in it with a slight shiver, such as a man might give way to and so acquire an additional relish46 for the warm blaze, said, looking round upon his guests:
‘It’ll clear at eleven o’clock. No sooner and no later. Not before and not arterwards.’
‘How do you make out that?’ said a little man in the opposite corner. ‘The moon is past the full, and she rises at nine.’
John looked sedately47 and solemnly at his questioner until he had brought his mind to bear upon the whole of his observation, and then made answer, in a tone which seemed to imply that the moon was peculiarly his business and nobody else’s:
‘Never you mind about the moon. Don’t you trouble yourself about her. You let the moon alone, and I’ll let you alone.’
‘No offence I hope?’ said the little man.
Again John waited leisurely48 until the observation had thoroughly49 penetrated50 to his brain, and then replying, ‘No offence as YET,’ applied51 a light to his pipe and smoked in placid silence; now and then casting a sidelong look at a man wrapped in a loose riding-coat with huge cuffs52 ornamented53 with tarnished54 silver lace and large metal buttons, who sat apart from the regular frequenters of the house, and wearing a hat flapped over his face, which was still further shaded by the hand on which his forehead rested, looked unsociable enough.
There was another guest, who sat, booted and spurred, at some distance from the fire also, and whose thoughts — to judge from his folded arms and knitted brows, and from the untasted liquor before him — were occupied with other matters than the topics under discussion or the persons who discussed them. This was a young man of about eight-and-twenty, rather above the middle height, and though of somewhat slight figure, gracefully55 and strongly made. He wore his own dark hair, and was accoutred in a riding dress, which together with his large boots (resembling in shape and fashion those worn by our Life Guardsmen at the present day), showed indisputable traces of the bad condition of the roads. But travel-stained though he was, he was well and even richly attired56, and without being overdressed looked a gallant57 gentleman.
Lying upon the table beside him, as he had carelessly thrown them down, were a heavy riding-whip and a slouched hat, the latter worn no doubt as being best suited to the inclemency58 of the weather. There, too, were a pair of pistols in a holster-case, and a short riding-cloak. Little of his face was visible, except the long dark lashes59 which concealed61 his downcast eyes, but an air of careless ease and natural gracefulness62 of demeanour pervaded63 the figure, and seemed to comprehend even those slight accessories, which were all handsome, and in good keeping.
Towards this young gentleman the eyes of Mr Willet wandered but once, and then as if in mute inquiry64 whether he had observed his silent neighbour. It was plain that John and the young gentleman had often met before. Finding that his look was not returned, or indeed observed by the person to whom it was addressed, John gradually concentrated the whole power of his eyes into one focus, and brought it to bear upon the man in the flapped hat, at whom he came to stare in course of time with an intensity65 so remarkable, that it affected his fireside cronies, who all, as with one accord, took their pipes from their lips, and stared with open mouths at the stranger likewise.
The sturdy landlord had a large pair of dull fish-like eyes, and the little man who had hazarded the remark about the moon (and who was the parish-clerk and bell-ringer of Chigwell, a village hard by) had little round black shiny eyes like beads67; moreover this little man wore at the knees of his rusty68 black breeches, and on his rusty black coat, and all down his long flapped waistcoat, little queer buttons like nothing except his eyes; but so like them, that as they twinkled and glistened69 in the light of the fire, which shone too in his bright shoe-buckles, he seemed all eyes from head to foot, and to be gazing with every one of them at the unknown customer. No wonder that a man should grow restless under such an inspection70 as this, to say nothing of the eyes belonging to short Tom Cobb the general chandler and post-office keeper, and long Phil Parkes the ranger66, both of whom, infected by the example of their companions, regarded him of the flapped hat no less attentively71.
The stranger became restless; perhaps from being exposed to this raking fire of eyes, perhaps from the nature of his previous meditations72 — most probably from the latter cause, for as he changed his position and looked hastily round, he started to find himself the object of such keen regard, and darted73 an angry and suspicious glance at the fireside group. It had the effect of immediately diverting all eyes to the chimney, except those of John Willet, who finding himself as it were, caught in the fact, and not being (as has been already observed) of a very ready nature, remained staring at his guest in a particularly awkward and disconcerted manner.
‘Well?’ said the stranger.
Well. There was not much in well. It was not a long speech. ‘I thought you gave an order,’ said the landlord, after a pause of two or three minutes for consideration.
The stranger took off his hat, and disclosed the hard features of a man of sixty or thereabouts, much weatherbeaten and worn by time, and the naturally harsh expression of which was not improved by a dark handkerchief which was bound tightly round his head, and, while it served the purpose of a wig74, shaded his forehead, and almost hid his eyebrows75. If it were intended to conceal60 or divert attention from a deep gash76, now healed into an ugly seam, which when it was first inflicted77 must have laid bare his cheekbone, the object was but indifferently attained78, for it could scarcely fail to be noted79 at a glance. His complexion80 was of a cadaverous hue81, and he had a grizzly82 jagged beard of some three weeks’ date. Such was the figure (very meanly and poorly clad) that now rose from the seat, and stalking across the room sat down in a corner of the chimney, which the politeness or fears of the little clerk very readily assigned to him.
‘A highwayman!’ whispered Tom Cobb to Parkes the ranger.
‘Do you suppose highwaymen don’t dress handsomer than that?’ replied Parkes. ‘It’s a better business than you think for, Tom, and highwaymen don’t need or use to be shabby, take my word for it.’
Meanwhile the subject of their speculations83 had done due honour to the house by calling for some drink, which was promptly84 supplied by the landlord’s son Joe, a broad-shouldered strapping85 young fellow of twenty, whom it pleased his father still to consider a little boy, and to treat accordingly. Stretching out his hands to warm them by the blazing fire, the man turned his head towards the company, and after running his eye sharply over them, said in a voice well suited to his appearance:
‘What house is that which stands a mile or so from here?’
‘Public-house?’ said the landlord, with his usual deliberation.
‘Public-house, father!’ exclaimed Joe, ‘where’s the public-house within a mile or so of the Maypole? He means the great house — the Warren — naturally and of course. The old red brick house, sir, that stands in its own grounds —?’
‘Aye,’ said the stranger.
‘And that fifteen or twenty years ago stood in a park five times as broad, which with other and richer property has bit by bit changed hands and dwindled86 away — more’s the pity!’ pursued the young man.
‘Maybe,’ was the reply. ‘But my question related to the owner. What it has been I don’t care to know, and what it is I can see for myself.’
The heir-apparent to the Maypole pressed his finger on his lips, and glancing at the young gentleman already noticed, who had changed his attitude when the house was first mentioned, replied in a lower tone:
‘The owner’s name is Haredale, Mr Geoffrey Haredale, and’— again he glanced in the same direction as before —‘and a worthy87 gentleman too — hem21!’
Paying as little regard to this admonitory cough, as to the significant gesture that had preceded it, the stranger pursued his questioning.
‘I turned out of my way coming here, and took the footpath88 that crosses the grounds. Who was the young lady that I saw entering a carriage? His daughter?’
‘Why, how should I know, honest man?’ replied Joe, contriving89 in the course of some arrangements about the hearth90, to advance close to his questioner and pluck him by the sleeve, ‘I didn’t see the young lady, you know. Whew! There’s the wind again — AND rain — well it IS a night!’
Rough weather indeed!’ observed the strange man.
‘You’re used to it?’ said Joe, catching91 at anything which seemed to promise a diversion of the subject.
‘Pretty well,’ returned the other. ‘About the young lady — has Mr Haredale a daughter?’
‘No, no,’ said the young fellow fretfully, ‘he’s a single gentleman — he’s — be quiet, can’t you, man? Don’t you see this talk is not relished93 yonder?’
Regardless of this whispered remonstrance94, and affecting not to hear it, his tormentor95 provokingly continued:
‘Single men have had daughters before now. Perhaps she may be his daughter, though he is not married.’
‘What do you mean?’ said Joe, adding in an undertone as he approached him again, ‘You’ll come in for it presently, I know you will!’
‘I mean no harm’— returned the traveller boldly, ‘and have said none that I know of. I ask a few questions — as any stranger may, and not unnaturally96 — about the inmates97 of a remarkable house in a neighbourhood which is new to me, and you are as aghast and disturbed as if I were talking treason against King George. Perhaps you can tell me why, sir, for (as I say) I am a stranger, and this is Greek to me?’
The latter observation was addressed to the obvious cause of Joe Willet’s discomposure, who had risen and was adjusting his riding-cloak preparatory to sallying abroad. Briefly98 replying that he could give him no information, the young man beckoned99 to Joe, and handing him a piece of money in payment of his reckoning, hurried out attended by young Willet himself, who taking up a candle followed to light him to the house-door.
While Joe was absent on this errand, the elder Willet and his three companions continued to smoke with profound gravity, and in a deep silence, each having his eyes fixed100 on a huge copper101 boiler102 that was suspended over the fire. After some time John Willet slowly shook his head, and thereupon his friends slowly shook theirs; but no man withdrew his eyes from the boiler, or altered the solemn expression of his countenance103 in the slightest degree.
At length Joe returned — very talkative and conciliatory, as though with a strong presentiment104 that he was going to be found fault with.
‘Such a thing as love is!’ he said, drawing a chair near the fire, and looking round for sympathy. ‘He has set off to walk to London,— all the way to London. His nag105 gone lame106 in riding out here this blessed afternoon, and comfortably littered down in our stable at this minute; and he giving up a good hot supper and our best bed, because Miss Haredale has gone to a masquerade up in town, and he has set his heart upon seeing her! I don’t think I could persuade myself to do that, beautiful as she is,— but then I’m not in love (at least I don’t think I am) and that’s the whole difference.’
‘He is in love then?’ said the stranger.
‘Rather,’ replied Joe. ‘He’ll never be more in love, and may very easily be less.’
‘Silence, sir!’ cried his father.
‘What a chap you are, Joe!’ said Long Parkes.
‘Such a inconsiderate lad!’ murmured Tom Cobb.
‘Putting himself forward and wringing108 the very nose off his own father’s face!’ exclaimed the parish-clerk, metaphorically109.
‘What HAVE I done?’ reasoned poor Joe.
‘Silence, sir!’ returned his father, ‘what do you mean by talking, when you see people that are more than two or three times your age, sitting still and silent and not dreaming of saying a word?’
‘Why that’s the proper time for me to talk, isn’t it?’ said Joe rebelliously110.
‘The proper time, sir!’ retorted his father, ‘the proper time’s no time.’
‘Ah to be sure!’ muttered Parkes, nodding gravely to the other two who nodded likewise, observing under their breaths that that was the point.
‘The proper time’s no time, sir,’ repeated John Willet; ‘when I was your age I never talked, I never wanted to talk. I listened and improved myself that’s what I did.’
‘And you’d find your father rather a tough customer in argeyment, Joe, if anybody was to try and tackle him,’ said Parkes.
‘For the matter o’ that, Phil!’ observed Mr Willet, blowing a long, thin, spiral cloud of smoke out of the corner of his mouth, and staring at it abstractedly as it floated away; ‘For the matter o’ that, Phil, argeyment is a gift of Natur. If Natur has gifted a man with powers of argeyment, a man has a right to make the best of ’em, and has not a right to stand on false delicacy111, and deny that he is so gifted; for that is a turning of his back on Natur, a flouting112 of her, a slighting of her precious caskets, and a proving of one’s self to be a swine that isn’t worth her scattering113 pearls before.’
The landlord pausing here for a very long time, Mr Parkes naturally concluded that he had brought his discourse114 to an end; and therefore, turning to the young man with some austerity, exclaimed:
‘You hear what your father says, Joe? You wouldn’t much like to tackle him in argeyment, I’m thinking, sir.’
‘IF,’ said John Willet, turning his eyes from the ceiling to the face of his interrupter, and uttering the monosyllable in capitals, to apprise115 him that he had put in his oar116, as the vulgar say, with unbecoming and irreverent haste; ‘IF, sir, Natur has fixed upon me the gift of argeyment, why should I not own to it, and rather glory in the same? Yes, sir, I AM a tough customer that way. You are right, sir. My toughness has been proved, sir, in this room many and many a time, as I think you know; and if you don’t know,’ added John, putting his pipe in his mouth again, ‘so much the better, for I an’t proud and am not going to tell you.’
A general murmur107 from his three cronies, and a general shaking of heads at the copper boiler, assured John Willet that they had had good experience of his powers and needed no further evidence to assure them of his superiority. John smoked with a little more dignity and surveyed them in silence.
‘It’s all very fine talking,’ muttered Joe, who had been fidgeting in his chair with divers92 uneasy gestures. ‘But if you mean to tell me that I’m never to open my lips —’
‘Silence, sir!’ roared his father. ‘No, you never are. When your opinion’s wanted, you give it. When you’re spoke117 to, you speak. When your opinion’s not wanted and you’re not spoke to, don’t you give an opinion and don’t you speak. The world’s undergone a nice alteration118 since my time, certainly. My belief is that there an’t any boys left — that there isn’t such a thing as a boy — that there’s nothing now between a male baby and a man — and that all the boys went out with his blessed Majesty119 King George the Second.’
‘That’s a very true observation, always excepting the young princes,’ said the parish-clerk, who, as the representative of church and state in that company, held himself bound to the nicest loyalty120. ‘If it’s godly and righteous for boys, being of the ages of boys, to behave themselves like boys, then the young princes must be boys and cannot be otherwise.’
‘Did you ever hear tell of mermaids122, sir?’ said Mr Willet.
‘Certainly I have,’ replied the clerk.
‘Very good,’ said Mr Willet. ‘According to the constitution of mermaids, so much of a mermaid121 as is not a woman must be a fish. According to the constitution of young princes, so much of a young prince (if anything) as is not actually an angel, must be godly and righteous. Therefore if it’s becoming and godly and righteous in the young princes (as it is at their ages) that they should be boys, they are and must be boys, and cannot by possibility be anything else.’
This elucidation123 of a knotty124 point being received with such marks of approval as to put John Willet into a good humour, he contented125 himself with repeating to his son his command of silence, and addressing the stranger, said:
‘If you had asked your questions of a grown-up person — of me or any of these gentlemen — you’d have had some satisfaction, and wouldn’t have wasted breath. Miss Haredale is Mr Geoffrey Haredale’s niece.’
‘Is her father alive?’ said the man, carelessly.
‘No,’ rejoined the landlord, ‘he is not alive, and he is not dead —’
‘Not dead!’ cried the other.
‘Not dead in a common sort of way,’ said the landlord.
The cronies nodded to each other, and Mr Parkes remarked in an undertone, shaking his head meanwhile as who should say, ‘let no man contradict me, for I won’t believe him,’ that John Willet was in amazing force to-night, and fit to tackle a Chief Justice.
The stranger suffered a short pause to elapse, and then asked abruptly126, ‘What do you mean?’
‘More than you think for, friend,’ returned John Willet. ‘Perhaps there’s more meaning in them words than you suspect.’
‘Perhaps there is,’ said the strange man, gruffly; ‘but what the devil do you speak in such mysteries for? You tell me, first, that a man is not alive, nor yet dead — then, that he’s not dead in a common sort of way — then, that you mean a great deal more than I think for. To tell you the truth, you may do that easily; for so far as I can make out, you mean nothing. What DO you mean, I ask again?’
‘That,’ returned the landlord, a little brought down from his dignity by the stranger’s surliness, ‘is a Maypole story, and has been any time these four-and-twenty years. That story is Solomon Daisy’s story. It belongs to the house; and nobody but Solomon Daisy has ever told it under this roof, or ever shall — that’s more.’
The man glanced at the parish-clerk, whose air of consciousness and importance plainly betokened him to be the person referred to, and, observing that he had taken his pipe from his lips, after a very long whiff to keep it alight, and was evidently about to tell his story without further solicitation127, gathered his large coat about him, and shrinking further back was almost lost in the gloom of the spacious128 chimney-corner, except when the flame, struggling from under a great faggot, whose weight almost crushed it for the time, shot upward with a strong and sudden glare, and illumining his figure for a moment, seemed afterwards to cast it into deeper obscurity than before.
By this flickering129 light, which made the old room, with its heavy timbers and panelled walls, look as if it were built of polished ebony — the wind roaring and howling without, now rattling130 the latch131 and creaking the hinges of the stout132 oaken door, and now driving at the casement133 as though it would beat it in — by this light, and under circumstances so auspicious134, Solomon Daisy began his tale:
‘It was Mr Reuben Haredale, Mr Geoffrey’s elder brother —’
Here he came to a dead stop, and made so long a pause that even John Willet grew impatient and asked why he did not proceed.
‘Cobb,’ said Solomon Daisy, dropping his voice and appealing to the post-office keeper; ‘what day of the month is this?’
‘The nineteenth.’
‘Of March,’ said the clerk, bending forward, ‘the nineteenth of March; that’s very strange.’
In a low voice they all acquiesced135, and Solomon went on:
‘It was Mr Reuben Haredale, Mr Geoffrey’s elder brother, that twenty-two years ago was the owner of the Warren, which, as Joe has said — not that you remember it, Joe, for a boy like you can’t do that, but because you have often heard me say so — was then a much larger and better place, and a much more valuable property than it is now. His lady was lately dead, and he was left with one child — the Miss Haredale you have been inquiring about — who was then scarcely a year old.’
Although the speaker addressed himself to the man who had shown so much curiosity about this same family, and made a pause here as if expecting some exclamation136 of surprise or encouragement, the latter made no remark, nor gave any indication that he heard or was interested in what was said. Solomon therefore turned to his old companions, whose noses were brightly illuminated137 by the deep red glow from the bowls of their pipes; assured, by long experience, of their attention, and resolved to show his sense of such indecent behaviour.
‘Mr Haredale,’ said Solomon, turning his back upon the strange man, ‘left this place when his lady died, feeling it lonely like, and went up to London, where he stopped some months; but finding that place as lonely as this — as I suppose and have always heard say — he suddenly came back again with his little girl to the Warren, bringing with him besides, that day, only two women servants, and his steward138, and a gardener.’
Mr Daisy stopped to take a whiff at his pipe, which was going out, and then proceeded — at first in a snuffling tone, occasioned by keen enjoyment139 of the tobacco and strong pulling at the pipe, and afterwards with increasing distinctness:
‘— Bringing with him two women servants, and his steward, and a gardener. The rest stopped behind up in London, and were to follow next day. It happened that that night, an old gentleman who lived at Chigwell Row, and had long been poorly, deceased, and an order came to me at half after twelve o’clock at night to go and toll140 the passing-bell.’
There was a movement in the little group of listeners, sufficiently141 indicative of the strong repugnance142 any one of them would have felt to have turned out at such a time upon such an errand. The clerk felt and understood it, and pursued his theme accordingly.
‘It WAS a dreary thing, especially as the grave-digger was laid up in his bed, from long working in a damp soil and sitting down to take his dinner on cold tombstones, and I was consequently under obligation to go alone, for it was too late to hope to get any other companion. However, I wasn’t unprepared for it; as the old gentleman had often made it a request that the bell should be tolled143 as soon as possible after the breath was out of his body, and he had been expected to go for some days. I put as good a face upon it as I could, and muffling144 myself up (for it was mortal cold), started out with a lighted lantern in one hand and the key of the church in the other.’
At this point of the narrative145, the dress of the strange man rustled146 as if he had turned himself to hear more distinctly. Slightly pointing over his shoulder, Solomon elevated his eyebrows and nodded a silent inquiry to Joe whether this was the case. Joe shaded his eyes with his hand and peered into the corner, but could make out nothing, and so shook his head.
‘It was just such a night as this; blowing a hurricane, raining heavily, and very dark — I often think now, darker than I ever saw it before or since; that may be my fancy, but the houses were all close shut and the folks in doors, and perhaps there is only one other man who knows how dark it really was. I got into the church, chained the door back so that it should keep ajar — for, to tell the truth, I didn’t like to be shut in there alone — and putting my lantern on the stone seat in the little corner where the bell-rope is, sat down beside it to trim the candle.
‘I sat down to trim the candle, and when I had done so I could not persuade myself to get up again, and go about my work. I don’t know how it was, but I thought of all the ghost stories I had ever heard, even those that I had heard when I was a boy at school, and had forgotten long ago; and they didn’t come into my mind one after another, but all crowding at once, like. I recollected147 one story there was in the village, how that on a certain night in the year (it might be that very night for anything I knew), all the dead people came out of the ground and sat at the heads of their own graves till morning. This made me think how many people I had known, were buried between the church-door and the churchyard gate, and what a dreadful thing it would be to have to pass among them and know them again, so earthy and unlike themselves. I had known all the niches148 and arches in the church from a child; still, I couldn’t persuade myself that those were their natural shadows which I saw on the pavement, but felt sure there were some ugly figures hiding among ’em and peeping out. Thinking on in this way, I began to think of the old gentleman who was just dead, and I could have sworn, as I looked up the dark chancel, that I saw him in his usual place, wrapping his shroud149 about him and shivering as if he felt it cold. All this time I sat listening and listening, and hardly dared to breathe. At length I started up and took the bell-rope in my hands. At that minute there rang — not that bell, for I had hardly touched the rope — but another!
‘I heard the ringing of another bell, and a deep bell too, plainly. It was only for an instant, and even then the wind carried the sound away, but I heard it. I listened for a long time, but it rang no more. I had heard of corpse150 candles, and at last I persuaded myself that this must be a corpse bell tolling151 of itself at midnight for the dead. I tolled my bell — how, or how long, I don’t know — and ran home to bed as fast as I could touch the ground.
‘I was up early next morning after a restless night, and told the story to my neighbours. Some were serious and some made light of it; I don’t think anybody believed it real. But, that morning, Mr Reuben Haredale was found murdered in his bedchamber; and in his hand was a piece of the cord attached to an alarm-bell outside the roof, which hung in his room and had been cut asunder152, no doubt by the murderer, when he seized it.
‘That was the bell I heard.
‘A bureau was found opened, and a cash-box, which Mr Haredale had brought down that day, and was supposed to contain a large sum of money, was gone. The steward and gardener were both missing and both suspected for a long time, but they were never found, though hunted far and wide. And far enough they might have looked for poor Mr Rudge the steward, whose body — scarcely to be recognised by his clothes and the watch and ring he wore — was found, months afterwards, at the bottom of a piece of water in the grounds, with a deep gash in the breast where he had been stabbed with a knife. He was only partly dressed; and people all agreed that he had been sitting up reading in his own room, where there were many traces of blood, and was suddenly fallen upon and killed before his master.
Everybody now knew that the gardener must be the murderer, and though he has never been heard of from that day to this, he will be, mark my words. The crime was committed this day two-and-twenty years — on the nineteenth of March, one thousand seven hundred and fifty-three. On the nineteenth of March in some year — no matter when — I know it, I am sure of it, for we have always, in some strange way or other, been brought back to the subject on that day ever since — on the nineteenth of March in some year, sooner or later, that man will be discovered.’
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| adj.习惯于；v.习惯；n.习惯 | |
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3
tortuous
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| adj.弯弯曲曲的，蜿蜒的 | |
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4
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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5
virgin
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| n.处女，未婚女子；adj.未经使用的；未经开发的 | |
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6
monarch
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| n.帝王，君主，最高统治者 | |
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7
cuffed
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| v.掌打，拳打( cuff的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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8
apocryphal
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| adj.假冒的，虚假的 | |
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9
triumphantly
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| ad.得意洋洋地；得胜地；成功地 | |
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10
pointed
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| adj.尖的，直截了当的 | |
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11
exulted
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| 狂喜，欢跃( exult的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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12
uneven
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| adj.不平坦的，不规则的，不均匀的 | |
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13
doorway
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| n.门口，(喻)入门；门路，途径 | |
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14
quaintly
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| adv.古怪离奇地 | |
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15
grotesquely
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| adv. 奇异地,荒诞地 | |
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16
reposing
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| v.将（手臂等）靠在某人（某物）上( repose的现在分词 ) | |
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17
mansion
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| n.大厦，大楼；宅第 | |
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18
chirped
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| 鸟叫，虫鸣( chirp的过去式 ) | |
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19
dreary
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| adj.令人沮丧的，沉闷的，单调乏味的 | |
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20
monotonous
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| adj.单调的，一成不变的，使人厌倦的 | |
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21
hem
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| n.贴边，镶边；vt.缝贴边；(in)包围，限制 | |
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22
lull
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| v.使安静，使入睡，缓和，哄骗；n.暂停，间歇 | |
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23
drowsy
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| adj.昏昏欲睡的，令人发困的 | |
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24
panes
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| 窗玻璃( pane的名词复数 ) | |
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25
bulging
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| 膨胀； 凸出（部）； 打气； 折皱 | |
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26
ivy
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| n.常青藤，常春藤 | |
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27
hearty
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| adj.热情友好的；衷心的；尽情的，纵情的 | |
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28
chestnut
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| n.栗树，栗子 | |
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29
lustre
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| n.光亮，光泽；荣誉 | |
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30
twilight
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| n.暮光，黄昏；暮年，晚期，衰落时期 | |
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31
dismally
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| adv.阴暗地，沉闷地 | |
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32
rumbling
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| n. 隆隆声, 辘辘声 adj. 隆隆响的 动词rumble的现在分词 | |
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33
prophesy
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| v.预言；预示 | |
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34
remarkable
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| adj.显著的，异常的，非凡的，值得注意的 | |
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35
descended
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| a.为...后裔的，出身于...的 | |
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36
betokened
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| v.预示，表示( betoken的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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37
obstinacy
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| n.顽固；（病痛等）难治 | |
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38
apprehension
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| n.理解，领悟；逮捕，拘捕；忧虑 | |
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39
placid
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| adj.安静的，平和的 | |
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40
gainsaid
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| v.否认，反驳( gainsay的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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41
ordained
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| v.任命（某人）为牧师( ordain的过去式和过去分词 )；授予（某人）圣职；（上帝、法律等）命令；判定 | |
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42
providence
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| n.深谋远虑，天道，天意；远见；节约；上帝 | |
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43
inevitably
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| adv.不可避免地；必然发生地 | |
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44
flattened
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| [医]（水）平扁的，弄平的 | |
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45
affected
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| adj.不自然的，假装的 | |
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46
relish
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| n.滋味，享受，爱好，调味品；vt.加调味料，享受，品味；vi.有滋味 | |
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47
sedately
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| adv.镇静地，安详地 | |
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48
leisurely
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| adj.悠闲的；从容的，慢慢的 | |
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49
thoroughly
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| adv.完全地，彻底地，十足地 | |
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50
penetrated
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| adj. 击穿的，鞭辟入里的 动词penetrate的过去式和过去分词形式 | |
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51
applied
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| adj.应用的；v.应用，适用 | |
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52
cuffs
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| n.袖口( cuff的名词复数 )v.掌打，拳打( cuff的第三人称单数 ) | |
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53
ornamented
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| adj.花式字体的v.装饰，点缀，美化( ornament的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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54
tarnished
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| （通常指金属）（使）失去光泽，（使）变灰暗( tarnish的过去式和过去分词 )； 玷污，败坏 | |
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55
gracefully
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| ad.大大方方地；优美地 | |
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56
attired
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| adj.穿着整齐的v.使穿上衣服，使穿上盛装( attire的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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57
gallant
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| adj.英勇的，豪侠的；(向女人)献殷勤的 | |
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58
inclemency
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| n.险恶，严酷 | |
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59
lashes
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| n.鞭挞( lash的名词复数 )；鞭子；突然猛烈的一击；急速挥动v.鞭打( lash的第三人称单数 )；煽动；紧系；怒斥 | |
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60
conceal
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| v.隐藏，隐瞒，隐蔽 | |
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61
concealed
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| a.隐藏的，隐蔽的 | |
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62
gracefulness
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63
pervaded
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| v.遍及，弥漫( pervade的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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64
inquiry
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| n.打听，询问，调查，查问 | |
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65
intensity
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| n.强烈，剧烈；强度；烈度 | |
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66
ranger
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| n.国家公园管理员，护林员；骑兵巡逻队员 | |
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67
beads
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| n.（空心）小珠子( bead的名词复数 )；水珠；珠子项链 | |
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68
rusty
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| adj.生锈的；锈色的；荒废了的 | |
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69
glistened
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| v.湿物闪耀，闪亮( glisten的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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70
inspection
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| n.检查，审查，检阅 | |
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71
attentively
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| adv.聚精会神地；周到地；谛；凝神 | |
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72
meditations
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| 默想( meditation的名词复数 )； 默念； 沉思； 冥想 | |
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73
darted
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| v.投掷，投射( dart的过去式和过去分词 )；向前冲，飞奔 | |
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74
wig
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| n.假发 | |
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75
eyebrows
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| 眉毛( eyebrow的名词复数 ) | |
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76
gash
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| v.深切，划开；n.(深长的)切(伤)口；裂缝 | |
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77
inflicted
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| 把…强加给，使承受，遭受( inflict的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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78
attained
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| （通常经过努力）实现( attain的过去式和过去分词 )； 达到； 获得； 达到（某年龄、水平、状况） | |
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79
noted
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| adj.著名的，知名的 | |
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80
complexion
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| n.肤色；情况，局面；气质，性格 | |
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81
hue
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| n.色度；色调；样子 | |
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82
grizzly
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| adj.略为灰色的，呈灰色的；n.灰色大熊 | |
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83
speculations
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| n.投机买卖( speculation的名词复数 )；思考；投机活动；推断 | |
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84
promptly
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| adv.及时地，敏捷地 | |
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85
strapping
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| adj. 魁伟的, 身材高大健壮的 n. 皮绳或皮带的材料, 裹伤胶带, 皮鞭 动词strap的现在分词形式 | |
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86
dwindled
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| v.逐渐变少或变小( dwindle的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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87
worthy
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| adj.(of)值得的，配得上的；有价值的 | |
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88
footpath
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| n.小路，人行道 | |
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89
contriving
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| （不顾困难地）促成某事( contrive的现在分词 )； 巧妙地策划，精巧地制造（如机器）； 设法做到 | |
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90
hearth
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| n.壁炉炉床，壁炉地面 | |
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91
catching
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| adj.易传染的，有魅力的，迷人的，接住 | |
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92
divers
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| adj.不同的；种种的 | |
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93
relished
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| v.欣赏( relish的过去式和过去分词 )；从…获得乐趣；渴望 | |
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94
remonstrance
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| n抗议，抱怨 | |
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95
tormentor
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| n. 使苦痛之人, 使苦恼之物, 侧幕 =tormenter | |
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96
unnaturally
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| adv.违反习俗地；不自然地；勉强地；不近人情地 | |
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97
inmates
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| n.囚犯( inmate的名词复数 ) | |
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98
briefly
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| adv.简单地，简短地 | |
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99
beckoned
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| v.（用头或手的动作）示意，召唤( beckon的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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100
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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101
copper
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| n.铜；铜币；铜器；adj.铜(制)的；(紫)铜色的 | |
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102
boiler
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| n.锅炉；煮器(壶，锅等) | |
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103
countenance
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| n.脸色，面容；面部表情；vt.支持，赞同 | |
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104
presentiment
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| n.预感，预觉 | |
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105
nag
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| v.(对…)不停地唠叨；n.爱唠叨的人 | |
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106
lame
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| adj.跛的，(辩解、论据等)无说服力的 | |
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107
murmur
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| n.低语，低声的怨言；v.低语，低声而言 | |
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108
wringing
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| 淋湿的，湿透的 | |
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109
metaphorically
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| adv. 用比喻地 | |
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110
rebelliously
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| adv.造反地，难以控制地 | |
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111
delicacy
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| n.精致，细微，微妙，精良；美味，佳肴 | |
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112
flouting
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| v.藐视，轻视( flout的现在分词 ) | |
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113
scattering
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| n.[物]散射；散乱，分散；在媒介质中的散播adj.散乱的；分散在不同范围的；广泛扩散的；（选票）数量分散的v.散射(scatter的ing形式)；散布；驱散 | |
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114
discourse
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| n.论文，演说；谈话；话语；vi.讲述，著述 | |
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115
apprise
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| vt.通知，告知 | |
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116
oar
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| n.桨，橹，划手；v.划行 | |
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117
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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118
alteration
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| n.变更，改变；蚀变 | |
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119
majesty
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| n.雄伟，壮丽，庄严，威严；最高权威，王权 | |
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120
loyalty
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| n.忠诚，忠心 | |
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121
mermaid
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| n.美人鱼 | |
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122
mermaids
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| n.（传说中的）美人鱼( mermaid的名词复数 ) | |
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123
elucidation
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| n.说明，阐明 | |
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124
knotty
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| adj.有结的，多节的，多瘤的，棘手的 | |
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125
contented
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| adj.满意的，安心的，知足的 | |
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126
abruptly
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| adv.突然地，出其不意地 | |
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127
solicitation
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| n.诱惑；揽货；恳切地要求；游说 | |
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128
spacious
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| adj.广阔的，宽敞的 | |
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129
flickering
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| adj.闪烁的，摇曳的，一闪一闪的 | |
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130
rattling
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| adj. 格格作响的, 活泼的, 很好的 adv. 极其, 很, 非常 动词rattle的现在分词 | |
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131
latch
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| n.门闩，窗闩；弹簧锁 | |
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133
casement
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| n.竖铰链窗；窗扉 | |
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134
auspicious
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| adj.吉利的；幸运的，吉兆的 | |
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135
acquiesced
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| v.默认，默许( acquiesce的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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136
exclamation
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| n.感叹号，惊呼，惊叹词 | |
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137
illuminated
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| adj.被照明的；受启迪的 | |
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138
steward
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| n.乘务员，服务员；看管人；膳食管理员 | |
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139
enjoyment
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| n.乐趣；享有；享用 | |
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140
toll
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| n.过路(桥)费；损失，伤亡人数；v.敲(钟) | |
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141
sufficiently
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| adv.足够地，充分地 | |
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142
repugnance
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| n.嫌恶 | |
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143
tolled
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| 鸣钟（toll的过去式与过去分词形式） | |
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144
muffling
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| v.压抑，捂住( muffle的现在分词 )；用厚厚的衣帽包着（自己） | |
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145
narrative
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| n.叙述，故事；adj.叙事的，故事体的 | |
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146
rustled
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| v.发出沙沙的声音( rustle的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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147
recollected
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| adj.冷静的；镇定的；被回忆起的；沉思默想的v.记起，想起( recollect的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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148
niches
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| 壁龛( niche的名词复数 )； 合适的位置[工作等]； （产品的）商机； 生态位（一个生物所占据的生境的最小单位） | |
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149
shroud
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| n.裹尸布，寿衣；罩，幕；vt.覆盖，隐藏 | |
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150
corpse
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| n.尸体，死尸 | |
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151
tolling
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| [财]来料加工 | |
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152
asunder
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| adj.分离的，化为碎片 | |
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