It was some minutes past seven that evening when the lawyer left, and he had not been gone a quarter of an hour before a hired gig drove up to the door containing Philip, who had got back from town in the worst of bad tempers, and, as no conveyance1 was waiting for him, had been forced to post over from Roxham. Apparently2 his father had been expecting his arrival, for the moment the servant opened the door he appeared from his study, and addressed him in a tone that was as near to being jovial3 as he ever went.
“Hallo, Philip, back again, are you? Been up to town, I suppose, and driven over in the ‘George’ gig? That’s lucky; I wanted to speak to you. Come in here, there’s a good fellow, I want to speak to you.”
“Why is he so infernally genial4?” reflected Philip. “Timeo Danaos et dona ferentes;” then aloud, “All right, father; but if it is all the same to you, I should like to get some dinner first.”
“Dinner! why, I have had none yet; I have been too busy. I shall not keep you long; we will dine together presently.”
Philip was surprised, and glanced at him suspiciously. His habits were extremely regular; why had he had no dinner?
Meanwhile his father led the way into the study, muttering below his breath —
“One more chance — his last chance.”
A wood fire was burning brightly on the hearth5, for the evening was chilly6, and some sherry and glasses stood upon the table.
“Take a glass of wine, Philip; I am going to have one; it is a good thing to begin a conversation on. What says the Psalmist: ‘Wine that maketh glad the heart of man, and oil to make him a cheerful countenance7’— a cheerful countenance! Ho, ho! my old limbs are tired; I am going to sit down — going to sit down.”
He seated himself in a well-worn leather arm-chair by the side of the fire so that his back was towards the dying daylight. But the brightness of the flames threw the clear-cut features into strong relief against the gloom, and by it Philip could see that the withered8 cheeks were flushed. Somehow the whole strongly defined scene made him feel uncanny and restless.
“Cold for the first of May, isn’t it, lad? The world is very cold at eighty-two. Eighty-two, a great age, yet it seems but the other day that I used to sit in this very chair and dandle you upon my knee, and make this repeater strike for you. And yet that is twenty years since, and I have lived through four twenties and two years. A great age, a cold world!”
“Ain’t you well?” asked his son, brusquely, but not unkindly.
“Well; ah, yes! thank you, Philip, I never felt better, my memory is so good, I can see things I have forgotten seventy years or more. Dear, dear, it was behind that bookcase in a hole in the board that I used to hide my flint and steel which I used for making little fires at the foot of Caresfoot’s Staff. There is a mark on the bark now. I was mischievous9 as a little lad, and thought that the old tree would make a fine blaze. I was audacious, too, and delighted to hide the things in my father’s study under the very nose of authority. Ay, and other memories come upon me as I think. It was here upon this very table that they stood my mother’s coffin10. I was standing11 where you are now when I wrenched12 open the half-fastened shell to kiss her once more before they screwed her down for ever. I wonder would you do as much for me? I loved my mother, and that was fifty years ago. I wonder shall we meet again? That was on the first of May, a long-gone first of May. They threw branches of blackthorn bloom upon her coffin. Odd, very odd! But business, lad, business — what was it? Ah! I know,” and his manner changed in a second and became hard and stern. “About Maria, have you come to a decision?”
Philip moved restlessly on his chair, poked13 the logs to a brighter blaze, and threw on a handful of pine chips from a basket by his side before he answered. Then he said —
“No, I have not.”
“Your reluctance14 is very strange, Philip, I cannot understand it. I suppose that you are not already married, are you, Philip?”
There was a lurid15 calm about the old man’s face as he asked this question that was very dreadful in its intensity16. Under the shadow of his thick black eyebrows17, gleams of light glinted and flickered18 in the expanded pupils, as before the outburst of a tempest the forked lightning flickers19 in the belly20 of the cloud. His voice too was constrained21 and harsh.
Owing to the position of his father’s head, Philip could not see this play of feature, but he heard the voice and thought that it meant mischief22. He had but a second to decide between confession23 and the lie that leaped to his lips. An inward conviction told him that his father was not long for this world, was it worth while to face his anger when matters might yet be kept dark till the end? The tone of the voice — ah! how he mistook its meaning — deceived him. It was not, he thought, possible that his father could know anything. Had he possessed24 a little more knowledge of the world, he might have judged differently.
“Married, no, indeed; what put that idea into your head?” And he laughed outright25.
Presently he became aware that his father had risen and was approaching towards him. Another moment and a hand of iron was laid upon his shoulder, the awful eyes blazed into his face and seemed to pierce him through and through, and a voice that he could not have recognized hissed26 into his ear —
“You unutterable liar27, you everlasting28 hound, your wife is at this moment in this house.”
Philip sprang up with an exclamation29 of rage and cursed Hilda aloud.
“No,” went on his father, standing before him, his tall frame swaying backwards30 and forwards with excitement; “no, do not curse her, she, like your other poor dupe, is an honest woman; on yourself be the damnation, you living fraud, you outcast from all honour, who have brought shame and reproach upon our honest name, on you be it; may every curse attend you, and may remorse31 torture you. Listen: you lied to me, you lied to your wife, trebly did you lie to the unfortunate girl you have deceived; but, if you will not speak it, for once hear the truth, and remember that you have to deal with one so relentless32, that fools, mistaking justice for oppression, call him ‘devil.’ I, ‘Devil Caresfoot,’ tell you that I will disinherit you of every stick, stone, and stiver that the law allows me, and start you in the enjoyment33 of the rest with my bitterest curse. This I will do now whilst I am alive; when I am dead, by Heaven, I will haunt you if I can.”
Here he stopped for want of breath, and stood for a moment in the full light of the cheery blaze, one hand raised above his head as though to strike, and, presenting with his glittering eyes and working features, so terrible a spectacle of rage that his son recoiled34 involuntarily before him.
But fury begets35 fury as love begets love, and in another second Philip felt his own wicked temper boil up within him. He clenched36 his teeth and stood firm.
“Do your worst,” he said; “I hate you; I wish to God that you were dead.”
Hardly had these dreadful words left his lips when a change came over the old man’s face; it seemed to stiffen37, and putting one hand to his heart he staggered back into his chair, pointing and making signs as he fell towards a little cupboard in the angle of the wall. His son at once guessed what had happened; his father had got one of the attacks of the heart to which he was subject, and was motioning to him to bring the medicine which he had before shown him, and which alone could save him in these seizures38. Actuated by a common impulse of humanity, Philip for the moment forgot their quarrel, and stepped with all speed to fetch it. As it happened, there stood beneath this cupboard a table, and on this table lay the document which his father had been reading that afternoon before the arrival of Mr. Bellamy. It was his will, and, as is usual in the case of such deeds, the date was endorsed39 upon the back. All this Philip saw at a single glance, and he also saw that the will was dated some years back, and therefore one under which he would inherit, doubtless the same that his father had some months before offered to show him.
It flashed through his mind that his father had got it out in order to burn it; and this idea was followed by another that for a moment stilled his heart.
“If he should die now he cannot destroy it! If he does not take the medicine he will die.”
Thought flies fast in moments of emergency. Philip, too, was a man of determined40 mind where his own interests were concerned, and his blood was heated and his reason blinded by fury and terror. He was not long in settling on his course of action. Taking the bottle from the cupboard, he poured out its contents into one of the wine-glasses that stood upon the table, and coming up to his father with it addressed him. He knew that these attacks, although they were of a nature to cause intense pain, did not rob the sufferer of his senses. The old man, though he lay before him gasping41 with agony, was quite in a condition to understand him.
“Listen to me,” he said, in a slow, distinct voice. “Just now you said that you would disinherit me. This medicine will save your life, and if I let it fall you will die, and there is no more in the house. Swear before God that you will not carry out your threat, and I will give it to you. Lift up your hand to show me that you swear.”
Silence followed, only broken by the gasps42 of the dying man.
“If you will not swear, I will pour it out before your eyes.”
Again there was silence; but this time the old man made an effort to rise and ring the bell.
His son threw him roughly back.
“For the last time,” he said, in a hoarse43 whisper, “will you swear?”
A struggle passed over his father’s face, now nearly black with pain; and presently from the distended44 lips, that did not seem to move, there burst a single word — destined45 to echo for ever in his son’s ears —
“Murderer!”
It was his last. He sank back, groaned46, and died; and at the same moment the flame from the pine-chips flickered itself away, and of a sudden the room grew nearly dark. Philip stood for awhile aghast at his own handiwork, and watched the dull light glance on the dead white of his father’s brow. He was benumbed by terror at what he had done, and in that awful second of realization47 would have given his own life to have it undone48.
Presently, however, the instinct of self-preservation came to his aid. He lit a candle, and taking some of the medicine in the glass, smeared49 it over the dead man’s chin and coat, and then broke the glass on the floor by his side — thus making it appear that he had died whilst attempting to swallow the medicine.
Next he raised a loud outcry, and violently rang the bell. In a minute the room was full of startled servants, one of whom was instantly despatched for Mr. Caley, the doctor. Meanwhile, after a vain attempt to restore animation50, the study-table was cleared and the corpse51 laid on it, as its mother’s had been on that day fifty years before.
Then came a dreadful hush52, and the shadow of death came down upon the house and brooded over it. The men-servants moved to and fro with muffled53 feet, and the women wept, for in a way they had all loved the imperious old man, and the last change had come very suddenly. Philip’s brain burned; he was consumed by the desire of action. Suddenly he bethought him of his wife upstairs: after what he had just passed through, no scene with her could disturb him — it would, he even felt, be welcome. He went up to the room where she was, and entered. It was evident that she had been told of what had happened, as both she and Pigott, who was undressing her — for she was wearied out — were weeping. She did not appear surprised at his appearance; the shock of the old man’s death extinguished all surprise. It was he who broke the silence.
“He is dead,” he said.
“Yes, I have heard.”
“If you are at liberty for a few minutes, I wish to talk to you,” he said savagely54.
“I, too,” she answered, “have something to say, but I am too weary and upset to say it now. I will see you tomorrow.”
He turned and went without answering, and Pigott noticed that no kiss or word of endearment55 passed between them, and that the tone of their words was cold.
Soon after Philip got downstairs the doctor came. Philip met him in the hall and accompanied him into the study, where the body was. He made a rapid examination, more as a matter of form than anything else, for his first glance had told him that life was extinct.
“Quite dead,” he said sorrowfully; “my old friend gone at last. One of a fine sort too; a just man for all his temper. They called him ‘devil,’ and he was fierce when he was younger, but if I never meet a worse devil than he was I shall do well. He was very kind to me once — very. How did he go?— in pain, I fear.”
“We were talking together, when suddenly he was seized with the attack. I got the medicine as quick as I could and tried to get it down his throat, but he could not swallow, and in the hurry the glass was knocked by a jerk of his head right out of my hands. Next second he was dead.”
“Very quick — quicker than I should have expected. Did he say anything?”
“No.”
Now, just as Philip delivered himself of this last lie, a curious incident happened, or rather an incident that is apt to seem curious to a person who has just told a lie. The corpse distinctly moved its right hand — the same that had been clasped over the old man’s head as he denounced his son.
“Good God!” said Philip, turning pale as death, “what’s that?” and even the doctor started a little, and cast a keen look at the dead face.
“Nothing,” he said. “I have seen that happen before where there has been considerable tension of the muscles before death; it is only their final slackening, that is all. Come, will you ring the bell? They had better come and take it upstairs.”
This sad task had just been performed, and Mr. Caley was about to take his leave, when Pigott came down and whispered something into his ear that evidently caused him the most lively astonishment56. Drawing Philip aside, he said —
“The housekeeper57 asks me to come up and see ‘Mrs. Philip Caresfoot,’ whom she thinks is going to be confined. Does she mean your wife?”
“Yes,” answered Philip sullenly58, “she does. It is a long story, and I am too upset to tell it you now. It will soon be all over the country I suppose.”
The old doctor whistled, but judged it advisable not to put any more questions, when suddenly an idea seemed to strike him.
“You said you were talking to your father when the fit took him; was it about your marriage?”
“Yes.”
“When did he first know of it?”
“To-day, I believe.”
“Ah, thank you;” and he followed Pigott upstairs.
That night, exactly at twelve o’clock, another little lamp floated out on the waters of life: Angela was born.
收听单词发音 |
1
conveyance
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| n.(不动产等的)转让，让与；转让证书；传送；运送；表达；（正）运输工具 | |
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apparently
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| adv.显然地；表面上，似乎 | |
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jovial
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| adj.快乐的，好交际的 | |
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genial
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| adj.亲切的，和蔼的，愉快的，脾气好的 | |
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hearth
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| n.壁炉炉床，壁炉地面 | |
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chilly
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| adj.凉快的，寒冷的 | |
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countenance
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| n.脸色，面容；面部表情；vt.支持，赞同 | |
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withered
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| adj. 枯萎的，干瘪的，（人身体的部分器官）因病萎缩的或未发育良好的 动词wither的过去式和过去分词形式 | |
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mischievous
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| adj.调皮的，恶作剧的，有害的，伤人的 | |
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coffin
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| n.棺材，灵柩 | |
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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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wrenched
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| v.（猛力地）扭( wrench的过去式和过去分词 )；扭伤；使感到痛苦；使悲痛 | |
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poked
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| v.伸出( poke的过去式和过去分词 )；戳出；拨弄；与（某人）性交 | |
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reluctance
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| n.厌恶，讨厌，勉强，不情愿 | |
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lurid
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| adj.可怕的；血红的；苍白的 | |
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intensity
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| n.强烈，剧烈；强度；烈度 | |
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eyebrows
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| 眉毛( eyebrow的名词复数 ) | |
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flickered
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| （通常指灯光）闪烁，摇曳( flicker的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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flickers
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| 电影制片业； （通常指灯光）闪烁，摇曳( flicker的名词复数 ) | |
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belly
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| n.肚子，腹部；(像肚子一样)鼓起的部分，膛 | |
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constrained
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| adj.束缚的,节制的 | |
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mischief
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| n.损害，伤害，危害；恶作剧，捣蛋，胡闹 | |
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confession
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| n.自白，供认，承认 | |
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possessed
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| adj.疯狂的；拥有的，占有的 | |
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outright
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| adv.坦率地；彻底地；立即；adj.无疑的；彻底的 | |
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hissed
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| 发嘶嘶声( hiss的过去式和过去分词 )； 发嘘声表示反对 | |
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liar
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| n.说谎的人 | |
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everlasting
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| adj.永恒的，持久的，无止境的 | |
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exclamation
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| n.感叹号，惊呼，惊叹词 | |
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backwards
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| adv.往回地，向原处，倒，相反，前后倒置地 | |
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remorse
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| n.痛恨，悔恨，自责 | |
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relentless
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| adj.残酷的，不留情的，无怜悯心的 | |
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enjoyment
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| n.乐趣；享有；享用 | |
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recoiled
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| v.畏缩( recoil的过去式和过去分词 )；退缩；报应；返回 | |
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begets
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| v.为…之生父( beget的第三人称单数 )；产生，引起 | |
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clenched
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| v.紧握，抓紧，咬紧( clench的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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stiffen
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| v.(使)硬，(使)变挺，(使)变僵硬 | |
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seizures
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| n.起获( seizure的名词复数 )；没收；充公；起获的赃物 | |
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endorsed
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| vt.& vi.endorse的过去式或过去分词形式v.赞同( endorse的过去式和过去分词 )；在（尤指支票的）背面签字；在（文件的）背面写评论；在广告上说本人使用并赞同某产品 | |
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determined
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| adj.坚定的；有决心的 | |
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gasping
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| adj. 气喘的, 痉挛的 动词gasp的现在分词 | |
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gasps
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| v.喘气( gasp的第三人称单数 )；喘息；倒抽气；很想要 | |
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43
hoarse
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| adj.嘶哑的，沙哑的 | |
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distended
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| v.（使）膨胀，肿胀( distend的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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destined
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| adj.命中注定的；(for)以…为目的地的 | |
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46
groaned
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| v.呻吟( groan的过去式和过去分词 )；发牢骚；抱怨；受苦 | |
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realization
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| n.实现；认识到，深刻了解 | |
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48
undone
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| a.未做完的，未完成的 | |
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49
smeared
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| 弄脏； 玷污； 涂抹； 擦上 | |
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50
animation
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| n.活泼，兴奋，卡通片／动画片的制作 | |
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51
corpse
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| n.尸体，死尸 | |
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52
hush
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| int.嘘，别出声；n.沉默，静寂；v.使安静 | |
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53
muffled
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| adj.（声音）被隔的；听不太清的；（衣服）裹严的；蒙住的v.压抑，捂住( muffle的过去式和过去分词 )；用厚厚的衣帽包着（自己） | |
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54
savagely
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| adv. 野蛮地，残酷地 | |
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55
endearment
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| n.表示亲爱的行为 | |
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56
astonishment
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| n.惊奇，惊异 | |
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housekeeper
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| n.管理家务的主妇，女管家 | |
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sullenly
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| 不高兴地，绷着脸，忧郁地 | |
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