The dog-cart that Arthur had hired to take him away belonged to an old-fashioned inn in the parish of Rewtham, situated1 about a mile from Rewtham House (which had just passed into the hands of the Bellamys), and two from Bratham Abbey, and thither2 Arthur had himself driven. His Jehu, known through all the country round as “Old Sam,” was an ancient ostler, who had been in the service of the Rewtham “King’s Head,” man and boy, for over fifty years, and from him Arthur collected a good deal of inaccurate3 information about the Caresfoot family, including a garbled4 version of all the death of Angela’s mother and Philip’s disinheritance.
After all, there are few more comfortable places than an inn; not a huge London hotel, where you are known as No. 48, and have to lock the door of your cell when you come out of it, and deliver up your key to the warder in the hall; but an old-fashioned country establishment where they cook your breakfast exactly as you like it, and give you sound ale and a four-poster. At least, so thought Arthur, as he sat in the private parlour smoking his pipe and reflecting on the curious vicissitudes5 of existence. Now, here he was, with all the hopes and interests of his life utterly6 changed in a single space of six-and-twenty hours. Why, six-and-twenty hours ago, he had never met his respected guardian7, nor Sir John and Lady Bellamy, nor Philip and his daughter. He could hardly believe that it was only that morning that he had first seen Angela. It seemed weeks ago, and, if time could have been measured on a new principle, by events and not by minutes, it would have been weeks. The wheel of life, he thought, revolves8 with a strange irregularity. For months and years it turns slowly and steadily9 under the even pressure of monotonous10 events. But, on some unexpected day, a tide comes rushing down the stream of being, and spins it round at speed; and then tears onward11 to the ocean called the Past, leaving its plaything to creak and turn, to turn and creak, or wrecked12 perhaps and useless.
Thinking thus, Arthur made his way to bed. The excitement of the day had wearied him, and for a while he slept soundly, but, as the fatigue13 of the body wore off, the activity of his mind asserted itself, and he began to dream vague, happy dreams of Angela, that by degrees took shape and form, till they stood out clear before the vision of his mind. He dreamt that he and Angela were journeying, two such happy travellers, through the green fields in summer, till by-and-by they came to the dark entrance of a wood, into which they plunged14, fearing nothing. Thicker grew the overshadowing branches, and darker grew the path, and now they journeyed lover-wise, with their arms around each other. But, as they passed along, they came to a place where the paths forked, and here he stooped to kiss her. Already he could feel the thrill of her embrace, when she was swept from him by an unseen force, and carried down the path before them, leaving him rooted where he was. But still he could trace her progress as she went, wringing15 her hands in sorrow; and presently he saw the form of Lady Bellamy, robed as an Egyptian sorceress, and holding a letter in her hand, which she offered to Angela, whispering in her ear. She took it, and then in a second the letter turned to a great snake, with George’s head, that threw its coils around her and struck at her with its fangs16. Next, the darkness of night rushed down upon the scene, and out of the darkness came wild cries and mocking laughter, and the choking sounds of death. And his senses left him.
When sight and sense came back, he dreamt that he was still walking down a wooded lane, but the foliage17 of the overhanging trees was of a richer green. The air was sweet with the scent18 of unknown flowers, beautiful birds flitted around him, and from far-off came the murmur19 of the sea. And as he travelled, broken-hearted, a fair woman with a gentle voice stood by his side, and kissed and comforted him, till at length he grew weary of her kisses, and she left him, weeping, and he went on his way alone, seeking his lost Angela. And then at length the path took a sudden turn, and he stood on the shore of an illimitable ocean, over which brooded a strange light, as where
“The quiet end of evening smiles
Miles on miles.”
And there, with the soft light lingering on her hair, and tears of gladness in her eyes, stood Angela, more lovely than before, her arms outstretched to greet him. And then the night closed in, and he awoke.
His eyes opened upon the solemn and beautiful hour of the first quickening of the dawn, and the thrill and softness that comes from contact with the things we meet in sleep was still upon him. He got up and flung open his lattice window. From the garden beneath rose the sweet scent of May flowers, very different from that of his dream which yet lingered in his nostrils20, whilst from a neighbouring lilac-bush streamed the rich melody of the nightingale. Presently it ceased before the broadening daylight, but in its stead, pure and clear and cold, arose the notes of the mavis, giving tuneful thanks and glory to its Maker21. And, as he listened, a great calm stole upon his spirit, and kneeling down there by the open window, with the breath of spring upon his brow, and the voice of the happy birds within his ears, he prayed to the Almighty22 with all his heart that it might please Him in His wise mercy to verify his dream, inasmuch as he would be well content to suffer, if by suffering he might at last attain23 to such an unutterable joy. And rising from his knees, feeling better and stronger, he knew in some dim way that that undertaking24 must be blest which, in such a solemn hour of the heart, he did not fear to pray God to guide, to guard, and to consummate25.
And on many an after-day, and in many another place, the book of his life would reopen at this well-conned page, and he would see the dim light in the faint, flushed sky, and hear the song of the thrush swelling26 upwards27 strong and sweet, and remember his prayer and the peace that fell upon his soul.
By ten o’clock that morning, Arthur, his dog, and his portmanteau, had all arrived together in front of the Abbey House. Before his feet had touched the moss-grown gravel28, the hall-door was flung open, and Angela appeared to welcome him, looking, as old Sam the ostler forcibly put it afterwards to his helper, “just like a hangel with the wings off.” Jakes, too, emerged from the recesses30 of the garden, and asked Angela, in a tone of aggrieved31 sarcasm32, as he edged his way suspiciously past Aleck, why the gentleman had not brought the “rampingest lion from the Zoologic Gardens” with him at once? Having thus expressed his feelings on the subject of bull-dogs, he shouldered the portmanteau, and made his way with it upstairs. Arthur followed him up the wide oak stairs, every one of which was squared out of a single log, stopping for a while on the landing, where the staircase turned, to gaze at the stern-faced picture that hung so that it looked through the large window facing it, right across the park and over the whole stretch of the Abbey lands, and to wonder at the deep-graved inscription33 of “Devil Caresfoot” set so conspicuously34 beneath.
His room was the largest upon the first landing, and the same in which Angela’s mother had died. It had never been used from that hour to this, and, indeed, in a little recess29 or open space between a cupboard and the wall, there still stood two trestles, draped with rotten black cloth, that had originally been brought there to rest her coffin35 on, and which Angela had overlooked in getting the room ready.
This spacious36 but somewhat gloomy apartment was hung round with portraits of the Caresfoots of past ages, many of which bore a marked resemblance to Philip, but amongst whom he looked in vain for one in the slightest degree like Angela, whose handiwork he recognized in two large bowls of flowers placed upon the dark oak dressing-table.
Just as Jakes had finished unbuckling his portmanteau, a task that he had undertaken with some groaning37, and was departing in haste, lest he should be asked to do something else, Arthur caught sight of the trestles.
“What are those?” he asked, cheerfully.
“Coffin-stools,” was the abrupt38 reply.
“Coffin-stools!” ejaculated Arthur, feeling that it was unpleasant to have little details connected with one’s latter end brought thus abruptly39 into notice. “What the deuce are they doing here?”
“Brought to put the last as slept in that ’ere bed on, and stood ever since.”
“Don’t you think,” insinuated40 Arthur, gently, “that you had better take them away?”
“Can’t do so; they be part of the furniture, they be — stand there all handy for the next one, too, maybe you;” and he vanished with a sardonic41 grin.
Jakes did not submit to the indignities42 of unbuckling portmanteaus and having his legs sniffed43 at by bull-dogs for nothing. Not by any means pleased by suggestions so unpleasant, Arthur took his way downstairs, determined44 to renew the coffin-stool question with his host. He found Angela waiting for him in the hall, and making friends with Aleck.
“Will you come in and see my father for a minute before we go out?” she said.
Arthur assented45, and she led the way into the study, where Philip always sat, the same room in which his father had died. He was sitting at a writing-table as usual, at work on farm accounts. Rising, he greeted Arthur civilly, taking, however, no notice of his daughter, although he had not seen her since the previous day.
“Well, Heigham, so you have made up your mind to brave these barbarous wilds, have you? I am delighted to see you, but I must warn you that, beyond a pipe and a glass of grog in the evening, I have not much time to put at your disposal. We are rather a curious household. I don’t know whether Angela has told you, but for one thing we do not take our meals together, so you will have to make your choice between the dining-room and the nursery, for my daughter is not out of the nursery yet;” and he gave a little laugh. “On the whole, perhaps you had better be relegated46 to the nursery; it will, at any rate, be more amusing to you that the society of a morose47 old fellow like myself. And, besides, I am very irregular in my habits. Angela, you are staring at me again; I should be so very much obliged if you would look the other way. I only hope, Heigham, that old Pigott won’t talk your head off; she has got a dreadful tongue. Well, don’t let me keep you any longer; it is a lovely day for the time of year. Try to amuse yourself somehow, and I hope for your sake that Angela will not occupy herself with you as she does with me, by staring as though she wished to examine your brains and backbone48. Good-by for the present.”
“What does he mean?” asked Arthur, as soon as they were fairly outside the door, “about your staring at him?”
“Mean!” answered poor Angela, who looked as though she were going to cry. “I wish I could tell you; all I know is that he cannot bear me to look at him — he is always complaining of it. That is why we do not take our meals together — at least, I believe it is. He detests49 my being near him. I am sure I don’t know why; it makes me very unhappy. I cannot see anything different in my eyes from anybody else’s, can you?” and she turned them, swimming as they were with tears of mortification50, full upon Arthur.
He scrutinized51 their depths very closely, so closely indeed, that presently she turned them away again with a blush.
“Well,” she said, “I am sure you have looked long enough. Are they different?”
“Very different,” replied the oracle52, with enthusiasm.
“How?”
“Well, they — they are larger.”
“Is that all?”
“And they are deeper.”
“Deeper — that is nothing. I want to know if they produce any unpleasant effect upon you — different from other people’s eyes, I mean?”
“Well, if you ask me, I am afraid that your eyes do produce a strange effect upon me, but I cannot say that it is an unpleasant one. But you did not look long enough for me to form a really sound opinion. Let us try again.”
“No, I will not; and I do believe that you are laughing at me. I think that is very unkind;” and she marched on in silence.
“Don’t be angry with me, or I shall be miserable53. I really was not laughing at you; only, if you knew what wonderful eyes you have got, you would not ask such ridiculous questions about them. Your father must be a strange man to get such ideas. I am sure I should be delighted if you would look at me all day long. But tell me something more about your father: he interests me very much.”
Angela felt the tell-tale blood rise to her face as he praised her eyes, and bit her lips with vexation; it seemed to her that she had suddenly caught an epidemic54 of blushing.
“I cannot tell you very much about my father, because I do not know much; his life is, to a great extent, a sealed book to me. But they say that once he was a very different man, when he was quite young, I mean. But all of a sudden his father — my grand-father, you know — whose picture is on the stairs, died, and within a day or two my mother died too; that was when I was born. After that he broke down, and became what he is now. For twenty years he has lived as he does now, poring all day over books of accounts, and very rarely seeing anybody, for he does all his business by letter, or nearly all of it, and he has no friends. There was some story about his being engaged to a lady who lived at Rewtham when he married my mother, which I daresay you have heard; but I don’t know much about it. But, Mr. Heigham”— and here she dropped her voice —“there is one thing that I must warn you of: my father has strange fancies at times. He is dreadfully superstitious55, and thinks that he has communications with beings from another world. I believe that it is all nonsense, but I tell you so that you may not be surprised at anything he says or does. He is not a happy man, Mr. Heigham.”
“Apparently not. I cannot imagine any one being happy who is superstitious; it is the most dreadful bondage56 in the world.”
“Where are your ravens58 today?” asked Arthur, presently.
“I don’t know; I have not seen very much of them for the last week or two. They have made a nest in one of the big trees at the back of the house, and I daresay that they are there, or perhaps they are hunting for their food — they always feed themselves. But I will soon tell you,” and she whistled in a soft but penetrating59 note.
Next minute there was a swoop60 of wings, and the largest raven57, after hovering61 over her for a minute, lit upon her shoulder, and rubbed his black head against her face.
“This is Jack62, you see; I expect that Jill is busy sitting on her eggs. Fly away, Jack, and look after your wife.” She clapped her hands, and the great bird, giving a reproachful croak63, spread his wings, and was gone.
“You have a strange power over animals to make those birds so fond of you.”
“Do you think so? It is only because I have, living as I do quite alone, had time to study all their ways, and make friends of them. Do you see that thrush there? I know him well; I fed him during the frost last winter. If you will stand back with the dog, you shall see.”
Arthur hid himself behind a thick bush and watched. Angela whistled again, but in another note, with a curious result. Not only the thrush in question, but quite a dozen other birds of different sorts and sizes, came flying round her, some settling at her feet, and one, a little robin64, actually perching itself upon her hat. Presently she dismissed them as she had done the raven, by clapping her hands, and came back to Arthur.
“In the winter time,” she said, “I could show you more curious things than that.”
“I think that you are a witch,” said Arthur, who was astounded65 at the sight.
She laughed as she answered,
“The only witchery that I use is kindness.”
收听单词发音 |
1
situated
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| adj.坐落在...的，处于某种境地的 | |
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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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inaccurate
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| adj.错误的，不正确的，不准确的 | |
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garbled
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| adj.（指信息）混乱的，引起误解的v.对（事实）歪曲，对（文章等）断章取义，窜改( garble的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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vicissitudes
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| n.变迁，世事变化；变迁兴衰( vicissitude的名词复数 )；盛衰兴废 | |
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utterly
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| adv.完全地，绝对地 | |
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guardian
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| n.监护人；守卫者，保护者 | |
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revolves
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| v.（使）旋转( revolve的第三人称单数 )；细想 | |
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steadily
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| adv.稳定地；不变地；持续地 | |
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monotonous
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| adj.单调的，一成不变的，使人厌倦的 | |
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onward
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| adj.向前的，前进的；adv.向前，前进，在先 | |
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wrecked
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| adj.失事的，遇难的 | |
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13
fatigue
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| n.疲劳，劳累 | |
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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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wringing
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| 淋湿的，湿透的 | |
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fangs
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| n.（尤指狗和狼的）长而尖的牙( fang的名词复数 )；（蛇的）毒牙；罐座 | |
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foliage
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| n.叶子，树叶，簇叶 | |
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scent
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| n.气味，香味，香水，线索，嗅觉；v.嗅，发觉 | |
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murmur
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| n.低语，低声的怨言；v.低语，低声而言 | |
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nostrils
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| 鼻孔( nostril的名词复数 ) | |
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maker
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| n.制造者，制造商 | |
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almighty
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| adj.全能的，万能的；很大的，很强的 | |
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attain
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| vt.达到，获得，完成 | |
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undertaking
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| n.保证，许诺，事业 | |
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consummate
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| adj.完美的；v.成婚；使完美 [反]baffle | |
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swelling
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| n.肿胀 | |
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upwards
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| adv.向上，在更高处...以上 | |
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gravel
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| n.砂跞；砂砾层；结石 | |
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recess
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| n.短期休息，壁凹（墙上装架子，柜子等凹处） | |
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recesses
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| n.壁凹( recess的名词复数 )；（工作或业务活动的）中止或暂停期间；学校的课间休息；某物内部的凹形空间v.把某物放在墙壁的凹处( recess的第三人称单数 )；将（墙）做成凹形，在（墙）上做壁龛；休息，休会，休庭 | |
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aggrieved
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| adj.愤愤不平的，受委屈的；悲痛的；（在合法权利方面）受侵害的v.令委屈，令苦恼，侵害( aggrieve的过去式)；令委屈，令苦恼，侵害( aggrieve的过去式和过去分词) | |
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sarcasm
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| n.讥讽，讽刺，嘲弄，反话 （adj.sarcastic） | |
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inscription
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| n.（尤指石块上的）刻印文字，铭文，碑文 | |
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conspicuously
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| ad.明显地，惹人注目地 | |
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coffin
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| n.棺材，灵柩 | |
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spacious
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| adj.广阔的，宽敞的 | |
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groaning
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| adj. 呜咽的, 呻吟的 动词groan的现在分词形式 | |
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abrupt
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| adj.突然的，意外的；唐突的，鲁莽的 | |
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abruptly
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| adv.突然地，出其不意地 | |
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insinuated
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| v.暗示( insinuate的过去式和过去分词 )；巧妙或迂回地潜入；（使）缓慢进入；慢慢伸入 | |
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sardonic
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| adj.嘲笑的，冷笑的，讥讽的 | |
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indignities
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| n.侮辱，轻蔑( indignity的名词复数 ) | |
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sniffed
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| v.以鼻吸气，嗅，闻( sniff的过去式和过去分词 )；抽鼻子（尤指哭泣、患感冒等时出声地用鼻子吸气）；抱怨，不以为然地说 | |
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determined
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| adj.坚定的；有决心的 | |
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assented
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| 同意，赞成( assent的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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relegated
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| v.使降级( relegate的过去式和过去分词 )；使降职；转移；把…归类 | |
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morose
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| adj.脾气坏的，不高兴的 | |
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backbone
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| n.脊骨，脊柱，骨干；刚毅，骨气 | |
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detests
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| v.憎恶，嫌恶，痛恨( detest的第三人称单数 ) | |
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mortification
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| n.耻辱，屈辱 | |
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scrutinized
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| v.仔细检查，详审( scrutinize的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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oracle
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| n.神谕，神谕处，预言 | |
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miserable
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| adj.悲惨的，痛苦的；可怜的，糟糕的 | |
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epidemic
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| n.流行病；盛行；adj.流行性的，流传极广的 | |
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superstitious
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| adj.迷信的 | |
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bondage
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| n.奴役，束缚 | |
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raven
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| n.渡鸟，乌鸦；adj.乌亮的 | |
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ravens
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| n.低质煤；渡鸦( raven的名词复数 ) | |
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penetrating
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| adj.（声音）响亮的，尖锐的adj.（气味）刺激的adj.（思想）敏锐的，有洞察力的 | |
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swoop
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| n.俯冲，攫取；v.抓取，突然袭击 | |
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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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jack
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| n.插座，千斤顶，男人；v.抬起，提醒，扛举；n.（Jake）杰克 | |
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croak
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| vi.嘎嘎叫，发牢骚 | |
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robin
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| n.知更鸟，红襟鸟 | |
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astounded
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| v.使震惊(astound的过去式和过去分词)；愕然；愕；惊讶 | |
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