Go, my reader, if the day is dull, and you feel inclined to moralize — for whatever may be said to the contrary, there are less useful occupations — and look at your village churchyard. What do you see before you? A plot of enclosed ground backed by a grey old church, a number of tombstones more or less decrepit1, and a great quantity of little oblong mounds2 covered with rank grass. If you have any imagination, any power of thought, you will see more than that. First, with the instinctive3 selfishness of human nature, you will recognize your own future habitation; perhaps your eye will mark the identical spot where the body you love must lie through all seasons and weathers, through the slow centuries that will flit so fast for you, till the crash of doom4. It is good that you should think of that, although it makes you shudder5. The English churchyard takes the place of the Egyptian mummy at the feast, or the slave in the Roman conqueror’s car — it mocks your vigour6, and whispers of the end of beauty and strength.
Probably you need some such reminder7. But if, giving to the inevitable8 the sigh that is its due, you pursue the vein9 of thought, it may further occur to you that the plot before you is in a sense a summary of the aspirations10 of humanity. It marks the realization11 of human hopes, it is the crown of human ambitions, the grave of human failures. Here, too, is the end of the man, and here the birthplace of the angel or the demon12. It is his sure inheritance, one that he never solicits13 and never squanders14; and, last, it is the only certain resting-place of sleepless15, tired mortality.
Here it was that they brought Hilda, and the old squire16, and laid them side by side against the coffin17 of yeoman Caresfoot, whose fancy it had been to be buried in stone, and then, piling primroses18 and blackthorn blooms upon their graves, left them to their chilly19 sleep. Farewell to them, they have passed to where as yet we may not follow. Violent old man and proud and lovely woman, rest in peace, if peace be the portion of you both!
To return to the living. The news of the sudden decease of old Mr. Caresfoot; of the discovery of Philip’s secret marriage and the death of his wife; of the terms of the old man’s will, under which, Hilda being dead, and having only left a daughter behind her, George inherited all the unentailed portion of the property, with the curious provision that he was never to leave it back to Philip or his children; of the sudden departure of Miss Lee, and of many other things, that were some of them true and some of them false, following as they did upon the heels of the great dinner-party, and the announcement made thereat, threw the country-side into a state of indescribable ferment21. When this settled down, it left a strong and permanent residuum of public indignation and contempt directed against Philip, the more cordially, perhaps, because he was no longer a rich man. People very rarely express contempt or indignation against a rich man who happens to be their neighbour in the country, whatever he may have done. They keep their virtue22 for those who are impoverished23, or for their unfortunate relations. But for Philip it was felt that there was no excuse and no forgiveness; he had lost both his character and his money, and must therefore be cut, and from that day forward he was cut accordingly.
As for Philip himself, he was fortunately, as yet, ignorant of the kind intentions of his friends and neighbours, who had been so fond of him a week ago. He had enough upon his shoulders without that — for he had spoken no lie when he told Maria Lee that he was crushed by the dreadful and repeated blows that had fallen upon him, blows that had robbed him of everything that made life worth living, and given him in return nothing but an infant who could not inherit, and who was therefore only an incumbrance.
Who is it that says, “After all, let a bad man take what pains he may to push it down, a human soul is an awful, ghostly, unique possession for a bad man to have?” During the time that had elapsed between the death and burial of his father and wife, Philip had become thoroughly25 acquainted with the truth of this remark.
Do what he would, he could never for a single hour shake himself free from the recollection of his father’s death; whenever he shut his eyes, his uneasy mind continually conjured26 up the whole scene with uncanny distinctness; the gloomy room, the contorted face of the dying man, the red flicker27 of the firelight on the wall — all these things were burnt deep into the tablets of his memory. More and more did he recognize the fact that, even should he live long enough to bury the events of that hour beneath the debris28 of many years, the lapse24 of time would be insufficient29 to bring forgetfulness, and the recognition brought with it moral helplessness. He had, too, sufficient religious feeling to make him uneasy as to his future fate, and possessed30 a certain amount of imagination, which was at this time all directed towards that awful day when he and his dead father must settle their final accounts. Already, in the quiet nights, he would wake with a start, thinking that the inevitable time had come. Superstitious31 fears also would seize him with their clammy fingers, and he would shake and tremble at the fancied step of ghostly feet, and his blood would curdle32 in his veins33 as his mind hearkened to voices that were for ever still.
And, worst of all, what had been done, and could never be undone34, had been done in vain. These deadly torments35 must be endured, whilst the object for which they had been incurred36 had utterly37 escaped him. He had sold himself to the powers of evil for a price, and that price had not been paid. But the bond was good for all that.
And so he would brood, hour after hour, till he felt himself drawing near to madness. Sometimes by a strong effort he would succeed in tearing his mind away from the subject, but then its place was instantly filled by a proud form with reproachful eyes, and he would feel that there, too, death had put it out of his power to make atonement. Of those whom he had wronged Maria Lee alone survived, and she had left him in sorrow, more bitter than any anger. Truly, Philip Caresfoot was in melancholy38 case. Somewhere he had read that the wages of sin is death, but surely what he felt surpassed the bitterness of death. His evil-doing had not prospered39 with him. The snare40 he had set for his father had fallen back upon himself, and he was a crushed and ruined man.
It affords a curious insight into his character to reflect that all these piled-up calamities41, all this wreck42 and sudden death, did not bring him penitent43 on his knees before the Maker44 he had outraged45. The crimes he had committed, especially if unsuccessful, or the sorrows that had fallen upon him, would have sufficed to reduce nine-tenths of ordinary men to a condition of humble46 supplication47. For, generally speaking, irreligion, or rather forgetfulness of God, is a plant of no deep growth in the human heart, since its roots are turned by the rock of that innate48 knowledge of a higher Power that forms the foundation of every soul, and on which we are glad enough to set our feet when the storms of trouble and emergency threaten to destroy us. But with Philip this was not so. He never thought of repentance50. His was not the nature to fall down and say, “Lord, I have sinned, take Thou my burden from me.” Indeed, he was not so much sorry for the past as fearful for the future. It was not grief for wrong-doing that wrung51 his heart and broke his spirit, but rather his natural sorrow at losing the only creature he had ever deeply loved, chagrin52 at the shame of his position and the failure of his hopes, and the icy fingers of superstitious fears.
The crisis had come and passed: he had sinned against his Father in heaven and his father on earth, and he did not sorrow for his sin; his wife had left him, murmuring with her dying lips exhortations53 to repentance, and he did not soften54; shame and loss had fallen upon him, and he did not turn to God. But his pride was broken, all that remained to him of strength was his wickedness; the flood that had swept over him had purged55 away not the evil but the good, from the evil it only took its courage. Henceforth, if he sins at all, his will be no bold and hazardous56 villany which, whilst it excites horror, can almost compel respect, but rather the low and sordid57 crime, the safe and treacherous58 iniquity59.
Ajax no longer defies the lightning — he mutters curses on it beneath his breath.
On the evening of the double funeral — which Philip did not feel equal to attending, and at which George, in a most egregious60 hatband and with many sobs61 and tears, officiated as chief mourner — Mr. Fraser thought it would be a kind act on his part to go and offer such consolation62 to the bereaved63 man as lay within his power, if indeed he would accept it. Somewhat contrary to his expectation, he was, on arrival at the Abbey House, asked in without delay.
“I am glad to see a human face,” said Philip to the clergyman, as he entered the room; “this loneliness is intolerable. I am as much alone as though I lay stark64 in the churchyard like my poor wife.”
Mr. Fraser did not answer him immediately, so taken up was he in noticing the wonderful changes a week had wrought65 in his appearance. Not only did his countenance66 bear traces of the illness and exhaustion67 that might not unnaturally68 be expected in such a case of bereavement69, but it faithfully reflected the change that had taken place in his mental attitude. His eyes had lost the frank boldness that had made them very pleasing to some people, they looked scared; the mouth too was rendered conspicuous70 by the absence of the firm lines that once gave it character; indeed the man’s whole appearance was pitiful and almost abject71.
“I am afraid,” he said at length, in a tone of gentle compassion72, “that you must have suffered a great deal, Caresfoot.”
“Suffered! I have suffered the tortures of the damned! I still suffer them, I shall always suffer them.”
“I do not wish,” said the clergyman, with a little hesitation73, “to appear officious or to make a mockery of your grief by telling you that it is for your good; but I should fail in my duty if I did not point out to you that He who strikes the blow has the power to heal the wound, and that very often such things are for our ultimate benefit, either in this world or the next. Carry your troubles to Him, my dear fellow, acknowledge His hand, and, if you know in your heart of any way in which you have sinned, offer Him your hearty74 repentance; do this, and you will not be deserted75. Your life, that now seems to you nothing but ashes, may yet be both a happy and a useful one.”
Philip smiled bitterly as he answered —
“You talk to me of repentance — how can I repent49 when Providence76 has treated me so cruelly, robbing me at a single blow of my wife and my fortune? I know that I did wrong in concealing77 my marriage, but I was driven to it by fear of my father. Ah! if you had seen him as I saw him, you would have known that they were right to call him ‘Devil Caresfoot.’” He checked himself, and then went on —“He forced me into the engagement with Miss Lee, and announced it without my consent. Now I am ruined — everything is taken from me.”
“You have your little daughter, and all the entailed20 estate — at least, so I am told.”
“My little daughter!— I never want to see her face; she killed her mother. If it had been a boy, it would have been different, for then, at any rate, that accursed George would not have got my birthright. My little daughter, indeed! don’t enumerate78 her among my earthly blessings79.”
“It is rather sad to hear you talk like that of your child; but, at any rate, you are not left in want. You have one of the finest old places in the county, and a thousand a year, which to most men would be riches.”
“And which to me,” answered Philip, “is beggary. I should have had six, and I have got one. But look you here, Fraser, I swear before God ——”
“Hush! I cannot listen to such talk.”
“Well, then, before anything you like, that, while I live, I will never rest one single moment until I get my own back again. It may seem impossible, but I will find a way. For instance,” he added, as a thought struck him, “strangely enough, the will does not forbid me to buy the lands back. If I can get them no other way, I will buy them — do you hear?— I will buy them. I must have them again before I die.”
“How will you get the money?”
“The money — I will save it, make it, steal it, get it somehow. Oh! do not be afraid; I will get the money. It will take a few years, but I will get it somehow. It is not the want of a few thousands that will stop a determined80 man.”
“And suppose your cousin won’t sell?”
“I will find a way to make him sell — some bribe81, something. There, there,” and his enthusiasm and eagerness vanished in a moment, and the broken look came back upon his face. “It’s all nonsense; I am talking impossibilities — a little weak in my mind, I suppose. Forget it, there’s a good fellow; say nothing about it. And so you buried them? Ah, me! ah, me! And George did chief mourner. I suppose he blubbered freely; he always could blubber freely when he liked. I remember how he used to take folks in as a lad, and then laugh at them; that’s why they called him ‘Crocodile’ at school. Well, he’s my master now, and I’m his very humble servant; perhaps one day it will be the other way up again. What, must you go? If you knew how fearfully lonely I am, you would not go. My nerves have quite gone, and I fancy all sorts of things. I can think of nothing but those two graves out there in the dark. Have they sodded them over? Tell them to sod them over. It was kind of you to come and see me. You mustn’t pay any attention to my talk; I am not quite myself. Good night.”
Mr. Fraser was an extremely unsuspicious man, but somehow, as he picked his way to the vicarage to eat his solitary82 chop, he felt a doubt rising in his mind as to whether, his disclaimer notwithstanding, Philip had not sincerely meant all he said.
“He is shockingly changed,” he mused83, “and I am not sure that it is a change for the better. Poor fellow, he has a great deal to bear, and should be kindly84 judged. It is all so painful that I must try to divert my mind. Mrs. Brown, will you bring me a little chocolate-coloured book, that you will see on the table in my study, when you come back with the potatoes? It has Plato — P-l-a-t-o — printed on the back.”
收听单词发音 |
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decrepit
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| adj.衰老的，破旧的 | |
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mounds
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| 土堆，土丘( mound的名词复数 )； 一大堆 | |
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instinctive
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| adj.(出于)本能的；直觉的；(出于)天性的 | |
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doom
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| n.厄运，劫数；v.注定，命定 | |
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shudder
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| v.战粟，震动，剧烈地摇晃；n.战粟，抖动 | |
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vigour
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| （=vigor）n.智力，体力，精力 | |
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reminder
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| n.提醒物，纪念品；暗示，提示 | |
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inevitable
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| adj.不可避免的，必然发生的 | |
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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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aspirations
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| 强烈的愿望( aspiration的名词复数 )； 志向； 发送气音； 发 h 音 | |
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realization
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| n.实现；认识到，深刻了解 | |
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demon
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| n.魔鬼，恶魔 | |
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solicits
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| 恳请 | |
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squanders
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| v.（指钱，财产等）浪费，乱花( squander的第三人称单数 ) | |
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sleepless
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| adj.不睡眠的，睡不著的，不休息的 | |
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squire
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| n.护卫, 侍从, 乡绅 | |
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coffin
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| n.棺材，灵柩 | |
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primroses
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| n.报春花( primrose的名词复数 )；淡黄色；追求享乐（招至恶果） | |
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chilly
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| adj.凉快的，寒冷的 | |
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entailed
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| 使…成为必要( entail的过去式和过去分词 )； 需要； 限定继承； 使必需 | |
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ferment
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| vt.使发酵；n./vt.（使）激动，（使）动乱 | |
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virtue
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| n.德行，美德；贞操；优点；功效，效力 | |
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impoverished
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| adj.穷困的，无力的，用尽了的v.使（某人）贫穷( impoverish的过去式和过去分词 )；使（某物）贫瘠或恶化 | |
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lapse
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| n.过失，流逝，失效，抛弃信仰，间隔；vi.堕落，停止，失效，流逝；vt.使失效 | |
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thoroughly
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| adv.完全地，彻底地，十足地 | |
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conjured
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| 用魔术变出( conjure的过去式和过去分词 )； 祈求，恳求； 变戏法； （变魔术般地） 使…出现 | |
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flicker
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| vi./n.闪烁，摇曳，闪现 | |
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debris
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| n.瓦砾堆，废墟，碎片 | |
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insufficient
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| adj.(for，of)不足的，不够的 | |
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possessed
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| adj.疯狂的；拥有的，占有的 | |
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superstitious
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| adj.迷信的 | |
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curdle
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| v.使凝结，变稠 | |
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veins
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| n.纹理；矿脉( vein的名词复数 )；静脉；叶脉；纹理 | |
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undone
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| a.未做完的，未完成的 | |
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torments
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| （肉体或精神上的）折磨，痛苦( torment的名词复数 )； 造成痛苦的事物[人] | |
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incurred
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| [医]招致的，遭受的； incur的过去式 | |
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utterly
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| adv.完全地，绝对地 | |
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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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prospered
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| 成功，兴旺( prosper的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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snare
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| n.陷阱，诱惑，圈套；（去除息肉或者肿瘤的）勒除器；响弦，小军鼓；vt.以陷阱捕获，诱惑 | |
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calamities
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| n.灾祸，灾难( calamity的名词复数 )；不幸之事 | |
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wreck
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| n.失事，遇难；沉船；vt.(船等)失事，遇难 | |
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penitent
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| adj.后悔的；n.后悔者；忏悔者 | |
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maker
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| n.制造者，制造商 | |
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outraged
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| a.震惊的，义愤填膺的 | |
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humble
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| adj.谦卑的，恭顺的；地位低下的；v.降低，贬低 | |
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supplication
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| n.恳求，祈愿，哀求 | |
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innate
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| adj.天生的，固有的，天赋的 | |
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repent
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| v.悔悟，悔改，忏悔，后悔 | |
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repentance
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| n.懊悔 | |
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wrung
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| 绞( wring的过去式和过去分词 )； 握紧（尤指别人的手）； 把（湿衣服）拧干； 绞掉（水） | |
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chagrin
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| n.懊恼；气愤；委屈 | |
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exhortations
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| n.敦促( exhortation的名词复数 )；极力推荐；（正式的）演讲；（宗教仪式中的）劝诫 | |
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soften
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| v.(使)变柔软；(使)变柔和 | |
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purged
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| 清除（政敌等）( purge的过去式和过去分词 )； 涤除（罪恶等）； 净化（心灵、风气等）； 消除（错事等）的不良影响 | |
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hazardous
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| adj.(有)危险的，冒险的；碰运气的 | |
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sordid
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| adj.肮脏的，不干净的，卑鄙的，暗淡的 | |
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treacherous
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| adj.不可靠的，有暗藏的危险的；adj.背叛的，背信弃义的 | |
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iniquity
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| n.邪恶；不公正 | |
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egregious
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| adj.非常的，过分的 | |
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sobs
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| 啜泣（声），呜咽（声）( sob的名词复数 ) | |
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consolation
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| n.安慰，慰问 | |
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bereaved
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| adj.刚刚丧失亲人的v.使失去（希望、生命等）( bereave的过去式和过去分词)；（尤指死亡）使丧失（亲人、朋友等）；使孤寂；抢走（财物） | |
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stark
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| adj.荒凉的；严酷的；完全的；adv.完全地 | |
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wrought
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| v.引起；以…原料制作；运转；adj.制造的 | |
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countenance
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| n.脸色，面容；面部表情；vt.支持，赞同 | |
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exhaustion
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| n.耗尽枯竭，疲惫，筋疲力尽，竭尽，详尽无遗的论述 | |
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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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bereavement
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| n.亲人丧亡，丧失亲人，丧亲之痛 | |
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conspicuous
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| adj.明眼的，惹人注目的；炫耀的，摆阔气的 | |
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abject
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| adj.极可怜的，卑屈的 | |
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compassion
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| n.同情，怜悯 | |
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73
hesitation
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| n.犹豫，踌躇 | |
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hearty
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| adj.热情友好的；衷心的；尽情的，纵情的 | |
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deserted
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| adj.荒芜的，荒废的，无人的，被遗弃的 | |
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providence
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| n.深谋远虑，天道，天意；远见；节约；上帝 | |
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concealing
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| v.隐藏，隐瞒，遮住( conceal的现在分词 ) | |
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enumerate
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| v.列举，计算，枚举，数 | |
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blessings
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| n.（上帝的）祝福( blessing的名词复数 )；好事；福分；因祸得福 | |
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80
determined
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| adj.坚定的；有决心的 | |
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81
bribe
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| n.贿赂；v.向…行贿，买通 | |
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82
solitary
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| adj.孤独的，独立的，荒凉的；n.隐士 | |
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83
mused
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| v.沉思，冥想( muse的过去式和过去分词 )；沉思自语说（某事） | |
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kindly
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| adj.和蔼的，温和的，爽快的；adv.温和地，亲切地 | |
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