Another month had passed, and the end of August had nearly come, when Mr Haredale stood alone in the mail-coach office at Bristol. Although but a few weeks had intervened since his conversation with Edward Chester and his niece, in the locksmith’s house, and he had made no change, in the mean time, in his accustomed style of dress, his appearance was greatly altered. He looked much older, and more care-worn. Agitation1 and anxiety of mind scatter2 wrinkles and grey hairs with no unsparing hand; but deeper traces follow on the silent uprooting3 of old habits, and severing4 of dear, familiar ties. The affections may not be so easily wounded as the passions, but their hurts are deeper, and more lasting5. He was now a solitary6 man, and the heart within him was dreary7 and lonesome.
He was not the less alone for having spent so many years in seclusion8 and retirement9. This was no better preparation than a round of social cheerfulness: perhaps it even increased the keenness of his sensibility. He had been so dependent upon her for companionship and love; she had come to be so much a part and parcel of his existence; they had had so many cares and thoughts in common, which no one else had shared; that losing her was beginning life anew, and being required to summon up the hope and elasticity10 of youth, amid the doubts, distrusts, and weakened energies of age.
The effort he had made to part from her with seeming cheerfulness and hope — and they had parted only yesterday — left him the more depressed11. With these feelings, he was about to revisit London for the last time, and look once more upon the walls of their old home, before turning his back upon it, for ever.
The journey was a very different one, in those days, from what the present generation find it; but it came to an end, as the longest journey will, and he stood again in the streets of the metropolis12. He lay at the inn where the coach stopped, and resolved, before he went to bed, that he would make his arrival known to no one; would spend but another night in London; and would spare himself the pang13 of parting, even with the honest locksmith.
Such conditions of the mind as that to which he was a prey14 when he lay down to rest, are favourable15 to the growth of disordered fancies, and uneasy visions. He knew this, even in the horror with which he started from his first sleep, and threw up the window to dispel16 it by the presence of some object, beyond the room, which had not been, as it were, the witness of his dream. But it was not a new terror of the night; it had been present to him before, in many shapes; it had haunted him in bygone times, and visited his pillow again and again. If it had been but an ugly object, a childish spectre, haunting his sleep, its return, in its old form, might have awakened17 a momentary18 sensation of fear, which, almost in the act of waking, would have passed away. This disquiet19, however, lingered about him, and would yield to nothing. When he closed his eyes again, he felt it hovering20 near; as he slowly sunk into a slumber21, he was conscious of its gathering22 strength and purpose, and gradually assuming its recent shape; when he sprang up from his bed, the same phantom23 vanished from his heated brain, and left him filled with a dread24 against which reason and waking thought were powerless.
The sun was up, before he could shake it off. He rose late, but not refreshed, and remained within doors all that day. He had a fancy for paying his last visit to the old spot in the evening, for he had been accustomed to walk there at that season, and desired to see it under the aspect that was most familiar to him. At such an hour as would afford him time to reach it a little before sunset, he left the inn, and turned into the busy street.
He had not gone far, and was thoughtfully making his way among the noisy crowd, when he felt a hand upon his shoulder, and, turning, recognised one of the waiters from the inn, who begged his pardon, but he had left his sword behind him.
‘Why have you brought it to me?’ he asked, stretching out his hand, and yet not taking it from the man, but looking at him in a disturbed and agitated25 manner.
The man was sorry to have disobliged him, and would carry it back again. The gentleman had said that he was going a little way into the country, and that he might not return until late. The roads were not very safe for single travellers after dark; and, since the riots, gentlemen had been more careful than ever, not to trust themselves unarmed in lonely places. ‘We thought you were a stranger, sir,’ he added, ‘and that you might believe our roads to be better than they are; but perhaps you know them well, and carry fire-arms —’
He took the sword, and putting it up at his side, thanked the man, and resumed his walk.
It was long remembered that he did this in a manner so strange, and with such a trembling hand, that the messenger stood looking after his retreating figure, doubtful whether he ought not to follow, and watch him. It was long remembered that he had been heard pacing his bedroom in the dead of the night; that the attendants had mentioned to each other in the morning, how fevered and how pale he looked; and that when this man went back to the inn, he told a fellow-servant that what he had observed in this short interview lay very heavy on his mind, and that he feared the gentleman intended to destroy himself, and would never come back alive.
With a half-consciousness that his manner had attracted the man’s attention (remembering the expression of his face when they parted), Mr Haredale quickened his steps; and arriving at a stand of coaches, bargained with the driver of the best to carry him so far on his road as the point where the footway struck across the fields, and to await his return at a house of entertainment which was within a stone’s-throw of that place. Arriving there in due course, he alighted and pursued his way on foot.
He passed so near the Maypole, that he could see its smoke rising from among the trees, while a flock of pigeons — some of its old inhabitants, doubtless — sailed gaily26 home to roost, between him and the unclouded sky. ‘The old house will brighten up now,’ he said, as he looked towards it, ‘and there will be a merry fireside beneath its ivied roof. It is some comfort to know that everything will not be blighted27 hereabouts. I shall be glad to have one picture of life and cheerfulness to turn to, in my mind!’
He resumed his walk, and bent28 his steps towards the Warren. It was a clear, calm, silent evening, with hardly a breath of wind to stir the leaves, or any sound to break the stillness of the time, but drowsy29 sheep-bells tinkling30 in the distance, and, at intervals31, the far-off lowing of cattle, or bark of village dogs. The sky was radiant with the softened32 glory of sunset; and on the earth, and in the air, a deep repose33 prevailed. At such an hour, he arrived at the deserted34 mansion35 which had been his home so long, and looked for the last time upon its blackened walls.
The ashes of the commonest fire are melancholy36 things, for in them there is an image of death and ruin,— of something that has been bright, and is but dull, cold, dreary dust,— with which our nature forces us to sympathise. How much more sad the crumbled37 embers of a home: the casting down of that great altar, where the worst among us sometimes perform the worship of the heart; and where the best have offered up such sacrifices, and done such deeds of heroism38, as, chronicled, would put the proudest temples of old Time, with all their vaunting annals, to the blush!
He roused himself from a long train of meditation39, and walked slowly round the house. It was by this time almost dark.
He had nearly made the circuit of the building, when he uttered a half-suppressed exclamation40, started, and stood still. Reclining, in an easy attitude, with his back against a tree, and contemplating41 the ruin with an expression of pleasure,— a pleasure so keen that it overcame his habitual42 indolence and command of feature, and displayed itself utterly43 free from all restraint or reserve,— before him, on his own ground, and triumphing then, as he had triumphed in every misfortune and disappointment of his life, stood the man whose presence, of all mankind, in any place, and least of all in that, he could the least endure.
Although his blood so rose against this man, and his wrath44 so stirred within him, that he could have struck him dead, he put such fierce constraint45 upon himself that he passed him without a word or look. Yes, and he would have gone on, and not turned, though to resist the Devil who poured such hot temptation in his brain, required an effort scarcely to be achieved, if this man had not himself summoned him to stop: and that, with an assumed compassion47 in his voice which drove him well-nigh mad, and in an instant routed all the self-command it had been anguish48 — acute, poignant49 anguish — to sustain.
All consideration, reflection, mercy, forbearance; everything by which a goaded50 man can curb51 his rage and passion; fled from him as he turned back. And yet he said, slowly and quite calmly — far more calmly than he had ever spoken to him before:
‘Why have you called to me?’
‘To remark,’ said Sir John Chester with his wonted composure, ‘what an odd chance it is, that we should meet here!’
‘It IS a strange chance.’
‘Strange? The most remarkable53 and singular thing in the world. I never ride in the evening; I have not done so for years. The whim54 seized me, quite unaccountably, in the middle of last night.— How very picturesque55 this is!’— He pointed56, as he spoke52, to the dismantled57 house, and raised his glass to his eye.
‘You praise your own work very freely.’
Sir John let fall his glass; inclined his face towards him with an air of the most courteous58 inquiry59; and slightly shook his head as though he were remarking to himself, ‘I fear this animal is going mad!’
‘I say you praise your own work very freely,’ repeated Mr Haredale.
‘Work!’ echoed Sir John, looking smilingly round. ‘Mine!— I beg your pardon, I really beg your pardon —’
‘Why, you see,’ said Mr Haredale, ‘those walls. You see those tottering60 gables. You see on every side where fire and smoke have raged. You see the destruction that has been wanton here. Do you not?’
‘My good friend,’ returned the knight61, gently checking his impatience62 with his hand, ‘of course I do. I see everything you speak of, when you stand aside, and do not interpose yourself between the view and me. I am very sorry for you. If I had not had the pleasure to meet you here, I think I should have written to tell you so. But you don’t bear it as well as I had expected — excuse me — no, you don’t indeed.’
He pulled out his snuff-box, and addressing him with the superior air of a man who, by reason of his higher nature, has a right to read a moral lesson to another, continued:
‘For you are a philosopher, you know — one of that stern and rigid63 school who are far above the weaknesses of mankind in general. You are removed, a long way, from the frailties64 of the crowd. You contemplate65 them from a height, and rail at them with a most impressive bitterness. I have heard you.’
—‘And shall again,’ said Mr Haredale.
‘Thank you,’ returned the other. ‘Shall we walk as we talk? The damp falls rather heavily. Well,— as you please. But I grieve to say that I can spare you only a very few moments.’
‘I would,’ said Mr Haredale, ‘you had spared me none. I would, with all my soul, you had been in Paradise (if such a monstrous66 lie could be enacted), rather than here to-night.’
‘Nay,’ returned the other —‘really — you do yourself injustice67. You are a rough companion, but I would not go so far to avoid you.’
‘Listen to me,’ said Mr Haredale. ‘Listen to me.’
‘While you rail?’ inquired Sir John.
‘While I deliver your infamy68. You urged and stimulated69 to do your work a fit agent, but one who in his nature — in the very essence of his being — is a traitor70, and who has been false to you (despite the sympathy you two should have together) as he has been to all others. With hints, and looks, and crafty71 words, which told again are nothing, you set on Gashford to this work — this work before us now. With these same hints, and looks, and crafty words, which told again are nothing, you urged him on to gratify the deadly hate he owes me — I have earned it, I thank Heaven — by the abduction and dishonour72 of my niece. You did. I see denial in your looks,’ he cried, abruptly73 pointing in his face, and stepping back, ‘and denial is a lie!’
He had his hand upon his sword; but the knight, with a contemptuous smile, replied to him as coldly as before.
‘You will take notice, sir — if you can discriminate74 sufficiently75 — that I have taken the trouble to deny nothing. Your discernment is hardly fine enough for the perusal76 of faces, not of a kind as coarse as your speech; nor has it ever been, that I remember; or, in one face that I could name, you would have read indifference77, not to say disgust, somewhat sooner than you did. I speak of a long time ago,— but you understand me.’
‘Disguise it as you will, you mean denial. Denial explicit78 or reserved, expressed or left to be inferred, is still a lie. You say you don’t deny. Do you admit?’
‘You yourself,’ returned Sir John, suffering the current of his speech to flow as smoothly79 as if it had been stemmed by no one word of interruption, ‘publicly proclaimed the character of the gentleman in question (I think it was in Westminster Hall) in terms which relieve me from the necessity of making any further allusion80 to him. You may have been warranted; you may not have been; I can’t say. Assuming the gentleman to be what you described, and to have made to you or any other person any statements that may have happened to suggest themselves to him, for the sake of his own security, or for the sake of money, or for his own amusement, or for any other consideration,— I have nothing to say of him, except that his extremely degrading situation appears to me to be shared with his employers. You are so very plain yourself, that you will excuse a little freedom in me, I am sure.’
‘Attend to me again, Sir John but once,’ cried Mr Haredale; ‘in your every look, and word, and gesture, you tell me this was not your act. I tell you that it was, and that you tampered81 with the man I speak of, and with your wretched son (whom God forgive!) to do this deed. You talk of degradation82 and character. You told me once that you had purchased the absence of the poor idiot and his mother, when (as I have discovered since, and then suspected) you had gone to tempt46 them, and had found them flown. To you I traced the insinuation that I alone reaped any harvest from my brother’s death; and all the foul83 attacks and whispered calumnies84 that followed in its train. In every action of my life, from that first hope which you converted into grief and desolation, you have stood, like an adverse85 fate, between me and peace. In all, you have ever been the same cold-blooded, hollow, false, unworthy villain86. For the second time, and for the last, I cast these charges in your teeth, and spurn87 you from me as I would a faithless dog!’
With that he raised his arm, and struck him on the breast so that he staggered. Sir John, the instant he recovered, drew his sword, threw away the scabbard and his hat, and running on his adversary88 made a desperate lunge at his heart, which, but that his guard was quick and true, would have stretched him dead upon the grass.
In the act of striking him, the torrent89 of his opponent’s rage had reached a stop. He parried his rapid thrusts, without returning them, and called to him, with a frantic90 kind of terror in his face, to keep back.
‘Not to-night! not to-night!’ he cried. ‘In God’s name, not tonight!’
Seeing that he lowered his weapon, and that he would not thrust in turn, Sir John lowered his.
‘Not to-night!’ his adversary cried. ‘Be warned in time!’
‘You told me — it must have been in a sort of inspiration —’ said Sir John, quite deliberately91, though now he dropped his mask, and showed his hatred92 in his face, ‘that this was the last time. Be assured it is! Did you believe our last meeting was forgotten? Did you believe that your every word and look was not to be accounted for, and was not well remembered? Do you believe that I have waited your time, or you mine? What kind of man is he who entered, with all his sickening cant93 of honesty and truth, into a bond with me to prevent a marriage he affected94 to dislike, and when I had redeemed95 my part to the spirit and the letter, skulked96 from his, and brought the match about in his own time, to rid himself of a burden he had grown tired of, and cast a spurious lustre97 on his house?’
‘I have acted,’ cried Mr Haredale, ‘with honour and in good faith. I do so now. Do not force me to renew this duel98 to-night!’
‘You said my “wretched” son, I think?’ said Sir John, with a smile. ‘Poor fool! The dupe of such a shallow knave99 — trapped into marriage by such an uncle and by such a niece — he well deserves your pity. But he is no longer a son of mine: you are welcome to the prize your craft has made, sir.’
‘Once more,’ cried his opponent, wildly stamping on the ground, ‘although you tear me from my better angel, I implore100 you not to come within the reach of my sword to-night. Oh! why were you here at all! Why have we met! To-morrow would have cast us far apart for ever!’
‘That being the case,’ returned Sir John, without the least emotion, ‘it is very fortunate we have met to-night. Haredale, I have always despised you, as you know, but I have given you credit for a species of brute101 courage. For the honour of my judgment102, which I had thought a good one, I am sorry to find you a coward.’
Not another word was spoken on either side. They crossed swords, though it was now quite dusk, and attacked each other fiercely. They were well matched, and each was thoroughly103 skilled in the management of his weapon.
After a few seconds they grew hotter and more furious, and pressing on each other inflicted104 and received several slight wounds. It was directly after receiving one of these in his arm, that Mr Haredale, making a keener thrust as he felt the warm blood spirting out, plunged105 his sword through his opponent’s body to the hilt.
Their eyes met, and were on each other as he drew it out. He put his arm about the dying man, who repulsed106 him, feebly, and dropped upon the turf. Raising himself upon his hands, he gazed at him for an instant, with scorn and hatred in his look; but, seeming to remember, even then, that this expression would distort his features after death, he tried to smile, and, faintly moving his right hand, as if to hide his bloody107 linen108 in his vest, fell back dead — the phantom of last night.
收听单词发音 |
1
agitation
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| n.搅动；搅拌；鼓动，煽动 | |
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scatter
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| vt.撒，驱散，散开；散布/播；vi.分散，消散 | |
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uprooting
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| n.倒根，挖除伐根v.把（某物）连根拔起( uproot的现在分词 )；根除；赶走；把…赶出家园 | |
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severing
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| v.切断，断绝( sever的现在分词 )；断，裂 | |
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lasting
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| adj.永久的，永恒的；vbl.持续，维持 | |
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solitary
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| adj.孤独的，独立的，荒凉的；n.隐士 | |
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dreary
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| adj.令人沮丧的，沉闷的，单调乏味的 | |
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seclusion
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| n.隐遁，隔离 | |
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retirement
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| n.退休，退职 | |
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elasticity
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| n.弹性，伸缩力 | |
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depressed
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| adj.沮丧的，抑郁的，不景气的，萧条的 | |
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metropolis
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| n.首府；大城市 | |
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pang
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| n.剧痛，悲痛，苦闷 | |
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prey
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| n.被掠食者，牺牲者，掠食；v.捕食，掠夺，折磨 | |
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favourable
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| adj.赞成的，称赞的，有利的，良好的，顺利的 | |
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dispel
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| vt.驱走，驱散，消除 | |
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awakened
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| v.（使）醒( awaken的过去式和过去分词 )；（使）觉醒；弄醒；（使）意识到 | |
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momentary
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| adj.片刻的，瞬息的；短暂的 | |
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disquiet
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| n.担心，焦虑 | |
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hovering
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| 鸟( hover的现在分词 )； 靠近（某事物）； （人）徘徊； 犹豫 | |
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slumber
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| n.睡眠，沉睡状态 | |
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gathering
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| n.集会，聚会，聚集 | |
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phantom
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| n.幻影，虚位，幽灵；adj.错觉的，幻影的，幽灵的 | |
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dread
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| vt.担忧，忧虑；惧怕，不敢；n.担忧，畏惧 | |
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agitated
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| adj.被鼓动的，不安的 | |
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gaily
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| adv.欢乐地，高兴地 | |
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blighted
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| adj.枯萎的，摧毁的 | |
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bent
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| n.爱好，癖好；adj.弯的；决心的，一心的 | |
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drowsy
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| adj.昏昏欲睡的，令人发困的 | |
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tinkling
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| n.丁当作响声 | |
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intervals
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| n.[军事]间隔( interval的名词复数 )；间隔时间；[数学]区间；（戏剧、电影或音乐会的）幕间休息 | |
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softened
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| （使）变软( soften的过去式和过去分词 )； 缓解打击； 缓和； 安慰 | |
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repose
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| v.(使)休息；n.安息 | |
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deserted
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| adj.荒芜的，荒废的，无人的，被遗弃的 | |
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mansion
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| n.大厦，大楼；宅第 | |
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melancholy
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| n.忧郁，愁思；adj.令人感伤（沮丧）的，忧郁的 | |
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crumbled
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| （把…）弄碎， （使）碎成细屑( crumble的过去式和过去分词 )； 衰落； 坍塌； 损坏 | |
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heroism
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| n.大无畏精神，英勇 | |
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meditation
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| n.熟虑，（尤指宗教的）默想，沉思，（pl.）冥想录 | |
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exclamation
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| n.感叹号，惊呼，惊叹词 | |
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contemplating
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| 深思，细想，仔细考虑( contemplate的现在分词 )； 注视，凝视； 考虑接受（发生某事的可能性）； 深思熟虑，沉思，苦思冥想 | |
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habitual
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| adj.习惯性的；通常的，惯常的 | |
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utterly
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| adv.完全地，绝对地 | |
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wrath
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| n.愤怒，愤慨，暴怒 | |
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constraint
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| n.(on)约束，限制；限制(或约束)性的事物 | |
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tempt
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| vt.引诱，勾引，吸引，引起…的兴趣 | |
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compassion
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| n.同情，怜悯 | |
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anguish
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| n.(尤指心灵上的)极度痛苦，烦恼 | |
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poignant
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| adj.令人痛苦的，辛酸的，惨痛的 | |
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goaded
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| v.刺激( goad的过去式和过去分词 )；激励；（用尖棒）驱赶；驱使（或怂恿、刺激）某人 | |
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curb
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| n.场外证券市场，场外交易；vt.制止，抑制 | |
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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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remarkable
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| adj.显著的，异常的，非凡的，值得注意的 | |
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whim
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| n.一时的兴致，突然的念头；奇想，幻想 | |
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55
picturesque
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| adj.美丽如画的，（语言）生动的，绘声绘色的 | |
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pointed
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| adj.尖的，直截了当的 | |
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dismantled
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| 拆开( dismantle的过去式和过去分词 )； 拆卸； 废除； 取消 | |
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courteous
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| adj.彬彬有礼的，客气的 | |
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inquiry
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| n.打听，询问，调查，查问 | |
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tottering
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| adj.蹒跚的，动摇的v.走得或动得不稳( totter的现在分词 )；踉跄；蹒跚；摇摇欲坠 | |
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knight
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| n.骑士，武士；爵士 | |
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impatience
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| n.不耐烦，急躁 | |
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rigid
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| adj.严格的，死板的；刚硬的，僵硬的 | |
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frailties
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| n.脆弱( frailty的名词复数 )；虚弱；（性格或行为上的）弱点；缺点 | |
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contemplate
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| vt.盘算，计议；周密考虑；注视，凝视 | |
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monstrous
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| adj.巨大的；恐怖的；可耻的，丢脸的 | |
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injustice
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| n.非正义，不公正，不公平，侵犯（别人的）权利 | |
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infamy
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| n.声名狼藉，出丑，恶行 | |
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stimulated
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| a.刺激的 | |
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traitor
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| n.叛徒，卖国贼 | |
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crafty
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| adj.狡猾的，诡诈的 | |
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dishonour
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| n./vt.拒付（支票、汇票、票据等）；vt.凌辱，使丢脸；n.不名誉，耻辱，不光彩 | |
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abruptly
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| adv.突然地，出其不意地 | |
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discriminate
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| v.区别，辨别，区分；有区别地对待 | |
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sufficiently
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| adv.足够地，充分地 | |
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perusal
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| n.细读，熟读；目测 | |
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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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explicit
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| adj.详述的，明确的；坦率的；显然的 | |
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smoothly
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| adv.平滑地，顺利地，流利地，流畅地 | |
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allusion
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| n.暗示，间接提示 | |
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tampered
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| v.窜改( tamper的过去式 )；篡改；（用不正当手段）影响；瞎摆弄 | |
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degradation
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| n.降级；低落；退化；陵削；降解；衰变 | |
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foul
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| adj.污秽的；邪恶的；v.弄脏；妨害；犯规；n.犯规 | |
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calumnies
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| n.诬蔑，诽谤，中伤（的话）( calumny的名词复数 ) | |
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adverse
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| adj.不利的；有害的；敌对的，不友好的 | |
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villain
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| n.反派演员，反面人物；恶棍；问题的起因 | |
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spurn
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| v.拒绝，摈弃；n.轻视的拒绝；踢开 | |
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adversary
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| adj.敌手，对手 | |
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torrent
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| n.激流，洪流；爆发，(话语等的)连发 | |
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frantic
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| adj.狂乱的，错乱的，激昂的 | |
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deliberately
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| adv.审慎地；蓄意地；故意地 | |
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hatred
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| n.憎恶，憎恨，仇恨 | |
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cant
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| n.斜穿，黑话，猛扔 | |
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affected
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| adj.不自然的，假装的 | |
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redeemed
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| adj. 可赎回的，可救赎的 动词redeem的过去式和过去分词形式 | |
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skulked
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| v.潜伏，偷偷摸摸地走动，鬼鬼祟祟地活动( skulk的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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lustre
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| n.光亮，光泽；荣誉 | |
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duel
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| n./v.决斗；(双方的)斗争 | |
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99
knave
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| n.流氓；（纸牌中的）杰克 | |
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100
implore
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| vt.乞求，恳求，哀求 | |
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101
brute
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| n.野兽，兽性 | |
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102
judgment
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| n.审判；判断力，识别力，看法，意见 | |
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103
thoroughly
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| adv.完全地，彻底地，十足地 | |
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104
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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105
plunged
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| v.颠簸( plunge的过去式和过去分词 )；暴跌；骤降；突降 | |
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106
repulsed
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| v.击退( repulse的过去式和过去分词 )；驳斥；拒绝 | |
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107
bloody
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| adj.非常的的；流血的；残忍的；adv.很；vt.血染 | |
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108
linen
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| n.亚麻布，亚麻线，亚麻制品；adj.亚麻布制的，亚麻的 | |
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