CAMILLA, for some time, bestowed1 no thought upon what she was doing, nor whither she was going. A scene so dreadful as that she now quitted, and a character of such utter unworthiness as that with which her sister for life was tied, absorbed her faculties2, and nearly broke her heart.
When she stopt, however, at Bagshot, for fresh horses, the obligation of giving directions to others, made her think of herself; and, bewildered with uncertainty3 whether the step she took were right or wrong, she regretted she had not, at least, desired to stay till the answer arrived from Etherington. Yet her journey had the sanction of Eugenia’s concurrence4; and Eugenia seemed to her oracular.
When she came upon the cross road leading from Winchester to Cleves, and felt her quick approach to the spot so loved yet dreaded5, the horses seemed to her to fly. Twenty times she called out to the driver not to hurry; who as often assured her the bad roads prevented any haste; she wanted to form some appropriate plan and speech for every emergence6; but she could suggest none for any. She was now at the feet of her Mother, now kissing the hands of her Father, now embraced again by her fond uncle; and now rejected by them all. But while her fancy was at work alternately to soothe7 and to torture her, the park lodge8 met her eyes, with still no resolution taken.
Vehemently9 she stopt the chaise. To drive in through the park would call a general attention, and she wished, ere her arrival were announced, to consult alone with Lavinia. She resolved, therefore, to get out of the carriage, and run by a private path, to a small door at the back of the house, whence she could glide10 to the chamber11 commonly appropriated to her sister.
She told the postillion to wait, and alighting, walked quick and fearfully towards the lodge.
She passed through the park-gate for foot passengers without notice from the porter. It was twilight12. She saw no one; and rejoiced in the general vacancy13. Trembling, but with celerity, she ‘skimmed,’ like her celebrated14 name-sake, the turf; and annoyed only by the shadows of the trees, which all, as first they caught her eye, seemed the precursors15 of the approach of Mrs. Tyrold, speedily reached the mansion16: but when she came to the little door by which she meant to enter, she found it fastened.
To the front door she durst not go, from the numerous chances by which she might surprise some of the family in the hall: and to present herself at the servant’s gate would have an appearance degrading and clandestine17.
She recollected18, at last, the sash-door of a bow-window belonging to a room that was never occupied but in summer. Thither19 she went, and knowing the spring by which it could be opened on the outside, let herself into the house.
With steps not to be heard, and scarce breathing, she got thence into a long stone passage, whence she meant to mount the back stairs.
She was relieved by not meeting anyone in the way, though surprised to hear no foot-steps about the house, and no voices from any of the apartments.
Cautiously she went on, looking round at every step, to avoid any sudden encounter; but when she came to the bed-chamber gallery, she saw that the door of the room of Sir Hugh, by which she must necessarily pass, was wide open.
It was possible he might be in it: she had not courage to pass; her sight, thus unprepared, after so many heavy evils, might be too affecting for his weak frame. She turned short round, and entered a large apartment at the head of the stairs, called the billiard-room, where she resolved to wait and watch ere she ventured any further.
Its aspect was to the front of the house; she stole gently to a window, whence she thought the melancholy20 of her own mind pervaded21 the park. None of her uncle’s horses were in sight; no one was passing to and fro; and she looked vainly even for the house-dog who ordinarily patrolled before the mansion.
She ventured to bend forwarder, to take a view of the side wings; these, however, presented not any sight more exhilarating nor more animated22. Nothing was in motion, no one was visible, not even a fire blazed chearfulness.
She next strove to catch a glance of the windows belonging to the chamber of Eugenia; but her sigh, though sad, was without surprise to see their shutters23 shut. Those of Indiana were closed also. ‘How mournfully,’ cried she, ‘is all changed! what of virtues24 are gone with Eugenia! What of beauty with Indiana! The one so constantly interesting! The other looking always so lovely!’–
But deeper still was her sigh, since mingled25 with self-reproach, to perceive her own chamber also shut up. ‘Alas!’ she cried, ‘my poor uncle considers us all as dead to him!’ She durst not lean sufficiently26 forward to examine the drawing-room, in which she concluded the family assembled; but she observed, with wonder, that even the library was not open, though it was still too light for candles; and Dr. Orkborne who usually sat there, from the forgetfulness of application, was the last to demand them.
The fear of discovery was now combated by an anxiety to see some one,-any one,-and she returned to the passage. All there was still quiet, and she hazarded gliding27 past the open door, though without daring to look into the room; but when she came to the chamber of Lavinia, which she softly entered, all was dark, and it was evidently not in present use.
This was truly distressful28. She concluded her sister was returned to Etherington, and knew not to whom to apply for counsel or mediation29. She no longer, however, feared meeting her parents, who certainly had not made her sister quit Cleves without themselves; and, after a little hesitation30, relying upon the ever sure lenity of her uncle, she determined31 to cast herself upon his kindness: but first to send in a short note, to avoid giving him any surprise.
She returned down the gallery, meaning to apply for pen and ink to the first person she could find: she could only, she knew, meet with a friend; unless, by ill fortune, she should encounter Miss Margland, the way to whose apartment she sedulously32 shunned33.
No longer, however, quite to cautious, she stopt near the chamber of Sir Hugh, and convinced by the stillness it was empty, could not resist stepping into the apartment.
It looked despoiled34 and forsaken35. Nothing was in its wonted order; his favourite guns hung not over the chimney-piece; the corners of the room were emptied of his sticks; his great chair was in a new place; no cushions for his dogs were near the fire; the bedstead was naked.
She now felt petrified36; she sunk on the floor, to ejaculate a prayer for his safety, but knew not how to rise again, for terrour; nor which way next to turn, nor what even to conjecture37.
Thus she remained, till suspense38 grew worse than and she forced herself from the room to seek some explanation. It was possible the whole family residence might be changed to the back front of the house. She descended39 the stairs with almost equal apprehension40 of meeting any one or seeing no one. The stone passage was now nearly dark. It was always the first part of the house that was lighted, as its windows were small and high: but no preparations were now making for that purpose. She wen to the house-keeper’s room, which was at the foot of the stairs she had descended. The door was shut, and she could not open it. She tried repeatedly, but vainly, to be heard by soft taps and whisperings; no one answered.
Amazed, confounded, she turned slowly another away; not a soul was in sight, not a sound within hearing. Every thing looked desolate41, all the family seemed to be vanished.
Insensibly, yet irresistibly42, she now moved on towards the drawing-room. The door was shut. She hesitated whether or not to attempt it. She listened. She hoped to catch the voice of her uncle: but all was inviolably still.
This was the only place of assembling in the evening; but her uncle might have dropt asleep, and she would not hazard startling him with her presence. She would sooner go to the hall at once, and be announced in the common way by a servant.
But what was her astonishment43 in coming to the hall, to find neither servant, light nor fire? and the marble pavement covered with trunks, packing mats, straw, ropes, and boxes? Terrified and astonished, she thought herself walking in her sleep. She could combine no ideas, either good or bad, to account for such a scene, and she looked at it bewildered and incredulous.
After a long hesitation, spent in wonder rather than thought, she at length determined to enter the breakfast parlour, and ring the bell: when the distant sound of a carriage, that was just entering the park, made her shut herself into the room, hastily, but silently.
It advanced rapidly; she trembled; it was surely, she thought, her Mother.
When it drove up to the portico44, and she heard the house-bell ring, she instinctively45 barred her door; but finding no one approach to the call, while the bell was impatiently re-rung, her strong emotions of expectation were taking her again into the hall: but as her hand was upon the lock of the door, a light glimmered46 through the key hole. She heard some step advancing, and precipitately47 drew back.
The hall-door was now opened, and a man enquired48 for a young lady just come from Alresford.
‘There’s no young lady here at all,’ was the answer, in the voice of Jacob.
Finding it only her own driver, she ventured out; crying ‘O Jacob! where is my dear uncle?’
Jacob was, at first, incapable49 of all answer, through surprise at her strange appearance; but then said, ‘O Miss Camilla! you’ll go nigh to break your good heart when you knows it all! But how you’ve got into the house is what I can’t guess; but I wish, for my poor master’s sake, it had been before now!’
Horrour crept through every vein50 of Camilla, in the explanation she awaited of this fearful mystery. She motioned to the driver to stay, returned back to the parlour, and beckoned51, for she could not speak, to Jacob to follow her.
When he came, and, shutting the door, was beginning a diffuse52 lamentation53, eagerness to avert54 lengthened55 suspense recovered her voice, and she passionately56 exclaimed: ‘Jacob! in two words, where is my uncle?–Is he well?’
‘Why, yes, Miss Camilla, considering–’ he began; but Camilla, whose fears had been fatal, interrupted him with fervent57 thanksgiving, till she was called back from joy by the following words:
‘He’s gone away Miss Camilla! gone Lord knows where! given up all his grand house-keeping, turned off almost all his poor servants, left this fine place, to have it let to whoever will hire it, and is going to live, he says, in some poor little lodging58, till he can scrape together wherewithal to pay off every thing for your papa.’
A thunder-bolt that had instantly destroyed her, would gratefully have been received, in preference to this speech, by Camilla, who, casting up her hands and eyes, exclaimed: ‘Then am I the most detestable, as well as the most wretched of human beings! My Father I have imprisoned59!-my Uncle I have turned from his house and home! and for thee, O my Mother!-this is the reception I have prepared!’
Jacob tried to console her; but his account was only added torture.
The very instant he told her, that his master had received the news of the arrest of Mr. Tyrold, he determined upon this violent plan; and though the so speedy release, through the generosity60 of Mr. Westwyn, had exceedingly calmed his first emotions, he would not change his purpose, and protested he would never indulge himself in peace nor comfort more, till he had cleared off their joint61 debts; of which he attributed the whole fault to himself, from having lived up to the very verge62 of his yearly income, when he ought, he said, considering there were so many young people, to have always kept a few odd sums at hand for accidents. ‘We all did what we could,’ continued Jacob, ‘to put him off from such a thing, but all to no purpose; but if you’d been here, Miss Camilla, you’d have done more with him than all of us put together; but he called Miss Lavinia and all of us up to him, and said to us, I won’t have nobody tell this to my poor little girl, meaning you, Miss Camilla, till I’ve got somewhere settled and comfortable; because of her kind heart, says he.’
Tenderness so partial, at so suffering an instant, almost killed Camilla. ‘O Jacob,’ she cried, ‘where is now my dear generous uncle? I will follow him in this chaise (rushing out as she spoke63) I will be his servant, his nurse, and attend him from morning to night!’
She hurried into the carriage as she spoke, and bade him give directions to the postillion. But when she heard he was, at present, only at Etherington, whence he was seeking a new abode64, her head drooped65, and she burst into tears.
Jacob remained, he said, alone, to take care of all the things, and to shew the place to such as might come.
Miss Margland had been at the house about three hours ago; and had met Sir Hugh, who had come over, to give directions about what he would have packed up; and he had read a letter from Miss Indy that was, and had forgiven her; but he was sore vexed66 Miss Margland had come without Miss Camilla; only she said Miss Camilla was at Mrs. Bellamy’s , and she did not call, because she thought it would be better to go back again, and see more about Miss Indy, and so bring Miss Camilla next time; so she wheedled67 his master to spare the chaise again, and let her go off directly to settle every thing to Miss Indy’s mind.
Camilla now repented68 she had not returned to Mrs. Berlinton’s , there, notwithstanding all objections, to have waited her recall; since there her parents still believed her, and thence, under the protection of Miss Margland, would in all probability summon her. To present herself, after this barbarous aggravation69 of the calamities70 she had caused, undemanded and unforgiven at Etherington, she thought impossible. She enquired if, by passing the night at Cleves, she might have any chance of seeing her uncle the next day. Jacob answered, no; but that Mr. Tyrold himself, with a gentleman from Winchester, who thought of hiring the house, were to be there early in the morning to take a survey of the premises71.
A meeting, thus circumstanced, with her Father, at a moment when he came upon so direful a business, as parting with a place of which she had herself occasioned the desertion, seemed to her insupportable: and she resolved to return immediately to Belfont, to see there if her answer from Lavinia contained any new directions; and if not, to again go to London, and await final commands; without listening ever more to any hopes, projects, or judgments72 of her own.
Beseeching73 the worthy74 Jacob to pardon her non-payment, with every kind assurance that her uncle should know all his goodness, she told the postillion to take her to Belfont.
He could go no further, he said, and that but a foot pace, than to Alresford. Jacob marvelled75, but blessed her, and Camilla, ejaculating, ‘Adieu, dear happy–Cleves!’ was driven out of the park.
收听单词发音 |
1
bestowed
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| 赠给，授予( bestow的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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faculties
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| n.能力( faculty的名词复数 )；全体教职员；技巧；院 | |
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uncertainty
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| n.易变，靠不住，不确知，不确定的事物 | |
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concurrence
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| n.同意；并发 | |
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dreaded
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| adj.令人畏惧的；害怕的v.害怕，恐惧，担心( dread的过去式和过去分词) | |
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emergence
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| n.浮现，显现，出现，（植物）突出体 | |
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soothe
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| v.安慰；使平静；使减轻；缓和；奉承 | |
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lodge
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| v.临时住宿，寄宿，寄存，容纳；n.传达室，小旅馆 | |
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vehemently
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| adv. 热烈地 | |
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glide
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| n./v.溜，滑行；(时间)消逝 | |
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chamber
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| n.房间，寝室；会议厅；议院；会所 | |
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twilight
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| n.暮光，黄昏；暮年，晚期，衰落时期 | |
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vacancy
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| n.（旅馆的）空位，空房，（职务的）空缺 | |
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celebrated
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| adj.有名的，声誉卓著的 | |
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precursors
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| n.先驱( precursor的名词复数 )；先行者；先兆；初期形式 | |
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mansion
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| n.大厦，大楼；宅第 | |
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clandestine
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| adj.秘密的，暗中从事的 | |
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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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thither
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| adv.向那里；adj.在那边的，对岸的 | |
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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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pervaded
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| v.遍及，弥漫( pervade的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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animated
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| adj.生气勃勃的，活跃的，愉快的 | |
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shutters
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| 百叶窗( shutter的名词复数 )； （照相机的）快门 | |
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virtues
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| 美德( virtue的名词复数 )； 德行； 优点； 长处 | |
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mingled
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| 混合，混入( mingle的过去式和过去分词 )； 混进，与…交往[联系] | |
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sufficiently
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| adv.足够地，充分地 | |
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gliding
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| v. 滑翔 adj. 滑动的 | |
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distressful
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| adj.苦难重重的，不幸的，使苦恼的 | |
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mediation
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| n.调解 | |
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hesitation
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| n.犹豫，踌躇 | |
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determined
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| adj.坚定的；有决心的 | |
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sedulously
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| ad.孜孜不倦地 | |
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shunned
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| v.避开，回避，避免( shun的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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despoiled
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| v.掠夺，抢劫( despoil的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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Forsaken
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| adj. 被遗忘的, 被抛弃的 动词forsake的过去分词 | |
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petrified
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| adj.惊呆的；目瞪口呆的v.使吓呆，使惊呆；变僵硬；使石化(petrify的过去式和过去分词) | |
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conjecture
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| n./v.推测，猜测 | |
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suspense
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| n.（对可能发生的事）紧张感，担心，挂虑 | |
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descended
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| a.为...后裔的，出身于...的 | |
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apprehension
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| n.理解，领悟；逮捕，拘捕；忧虑 | |
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desolate
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| adj.荒凉的，荒芜的；孤独的，凄凉的；v.使荒芜，使孤寂 | |
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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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astonishment
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| n.惊奇，惊异 | |
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portico
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| n.柱廊，门廊 | |
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instinctively
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| adv.本能地 | |
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glimmered
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| v.发闪光，发微光( glimmer的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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precipitately
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| adv.猛进地 | |
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48
enquired
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| 打听( enquire的过去式和过去分词 )； 询问； 问问题； 查问 | |
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49
incapable
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| adj.无能力的，不能做某事的 | |
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vein
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| n.血管，静脉；叶脉，纹理；情绪；vt.使成脉络 | |
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51
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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diffuse
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| v.扩散；传播；adj.冗长的；四散的，弥漫的 | |
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lamentation
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| n.悲叹，哀悼 | |
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avert
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| v.防止，避免；转移(目光、注意力等) | |
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lengthened
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| （时间或空间）延长，伸长( lengthen的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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passionately
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| ad.热烈地，激烈地 | |
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57
fervent
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| adj.热的，热烈的，热情的 | |
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58
lodging
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| n.寄宿，住所；(大学生的)校外宿舍 | |
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imprisoned
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| 下狱，监禁( imprison的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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generosity
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| n.大度，慷慨，慷慨的行为 | |
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61
joint
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| adj.联合的，共同的；n.关节，接合处；v.连接，贴合 | |
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verge
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| n.边，边缘；v.接近，濒临 | |
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63
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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abode
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| n.住处，住所 | |
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drooped
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| 弯曲或下垂，发蔫( droop的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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vexed
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| adj.争论不休的；（指问题等）棘手的；争论不休的问题；烦恼的v.使烦恼( vex的过去式和过去分词 )；使苦恼；使生气；详细讨论 | |
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wheedled
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| v.骗取（某物），哄骗（某人干某事）( wheedle的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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repented
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| 对（自己的所为）感到懊悔或忏悔( repent的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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69
aggravation
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| n.烦恼，恼火 | |
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70
calamities
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| n.灾祸，灾难( calamity的名词复数 )；不幸之事 | |
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71
premises
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| n.建筑物，房屋 | |
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72
judgments
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| 判断( judgment的名词复数 )； 鉴定； 评价； 审判 | |
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73
beseeching
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| adj.恳求似的v.恳求，乞求（某事物）( beseech的现在分词 ) | |
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74
worthy
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| adj.(of)值得的，配得上的；有价值的 | |
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75
marvelled
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| v.惊奇，对…感到惊奇( marvel的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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