It was Doctor Torvey who entered the old still-room now, buttoned-up to the chin in his greatcoat, and with a muffler of many colours wrapped partly over that feature.
“Well!— hey? So poor Feltram’s had an accident?”
The Doctor was addressing Sir Bale, and getting to the bedside as he pulled off his gloves.
“I see you’ve been keeping him warm — that’s right; and a considerable flow of water from his mouth; turn him a little that way. Hey? O, ho!” said the Doctor, as he placed his hand upon Philip, and gently stirred his limbs. “It’s more than an hour since this happened. I’m afraid there’s very little to be done now;” and in a lower tone, with his hand on poor Philip Feltram’s arm, and so down to his fingers, he said in Sir Bale Mardykes’ ear, with a shake of his head,
“Here, you see, poor fellow, here’s the cadaveric1 stiffness; it’s very melancholy2, but it’s all over, he’s gone; there’s no good trying any more. Come here, Mrs. Julaper. Did you ever see any one dead? Look at his eyes, look at his mouth. You ought to have known that, with half an eye. And you know,” he added again confidentially3 in Sir Bale’s ear, “trying any more now is all my eye.”
Then after a few more words with the Baronet, and having heard his narrative4, he said from time to time, “Quite right; nothing could be better; capital practice, sir,” and so forth5. And at the close of all this, amid the sobs6 of kind Mrs. Julaper and the general whimpering of the humbler handmaids, the Doctor standing7 by the bed, with his knuckles8 on the coverlet, and a glance now and then on the dead face beside him, said — by way of ‘quieting men’s minds,’ as the old tract-writers used to say — a few words to the following effect:
“Everything has been done here that the most experienced physician could have wished. Everything has been done in the best way. I don’t know anything that has not been done, in fact. If I had been here myself, I don’t know — hot bricks — salt isn’t a bad thing. I don’t know, I say, that anything of any consequence has been omitted.” And looking at the body, “You see,” and he drew the fingers a little this way and that, letting them return, as they stiffly did, to their former attitude, “you may be sure that the poor gentleman was quite dead by the time he arrived here. So, since he was laid there, nothing has been lost by delay. And, Sir Bale, if you have any directions to send to Golden Friars, sir, I shall be most happy to undertake your message.”
“Nothing, thanks; it is a melancholy ending, poor fellow! You must come to the study with me, Doctor Torvey, and talk a little bit more; and — very sad, doctor — and you must have a glass of sherry, or some port — the port used not to be bad here; I don’t take it — but very melancholy it is — bring some port and sherry; and, Mrs. Julaper, you’ll be good enough to see that everything that should be done here is looked to; and let Marlin and the men have supper and something to drink. You have been too long in your wet clothes, Marlin.”
So, with gracious words all round, he led the Doctor to the library where he had been sitting, and was affable and hospitable9, and told him his own version of all that had passed between him and Philip Feltram, and presented himself in an amiable10 point of view, and pleased the Doctor with his port and flatteries — for he could not afford to lose anyone’s good word just now; and the Doctor was a bit of a gossip, and in most houses in that region, in one character or another, every three months in the year.
So in due time the Doctor drove back to Golden Friars, with a high opinion of Sir Bale, and higher still of his port, and highest of all of himself: in the best possible humour with the world, not minding the storm that blew in his face, and which he defied in good-humoured mock-heroics spoken in somewhat thick accents, and regarding the thunder and lightning as a lively gala of fireworks; and if there had been a chance of finding his cronies still in the George and Dragon, he would have been among them forthwith, to relate the tragedy of the night, and tell what a good fellow, after all, Sir Bale was; and what a fool, at best, poor Philip Feltram.
But the George was quiet for that night. The thunder rolled over voiceless chambers11; and the lights had been put out within the windows, on whose multitudinous small panes12 the lightning glared. So the Doctor went home to Mrs. Torvey, whom he charmed into good-humoured curiosity by the tale of wonder he had to relate.
Sir Bale’s qualms13 were symptomatic of something a little less sublime14 and more selfish than conscience. He was not sorry that Philip Feltram was out of the way. His lips might begin to babble15 inconveniently16 at any time, and why should not his mouth be stopped? and what stopper so effectual as that plug of clay which fate had introduced? But he did not want to be charged with the odium of the catastrophe17. Every man cares something for the opinion of his fellows. And seeing that Feltram had been well liked, and that his death had excited a vehement18 commiseration19, Sir Bale did not wish it to be said that he had made the house too hot to hold him, and had so driven him to extremity20.
Sir Bale’s first agitation21 had subsided22. It was now late, he had written many letters, and he was tired. It was not wonderful, then, that having turned his lounging-chair to the fire, he should have fallen asleep in it, as at last he did.
The storm was passing gradually away by this time. The thunder was now echoing among the distant glens and gorges23 of Daulness Fells, and the angry roar and gusts24 of the tempest were subsiding25 into the melancholy soughing and piping that soothe26 like a lullaby.
Sir Bale therefore had his unpremeditated sleep very comfortably, except that his head was hanging a little uneasily; which, perhaps, helped him to this dream.
It was one of those dreams in which the continuity of the waking state that immediately preceded it seems unbroken; for he thought that he was sitting in the chair which he occupied, and in the room where he actually was. It seemed to him that he got up, took a candle in his hand, and went through the passages to the old still-room where Philip Feltram lay. The house seemed perfectly27 still. He could hear the chirp28 of the crickets faintly from the distant kitchen, and the tick of the clock sounded loud and hollow along the passage. In the old still-room, as he opened the door, was no light, except what was admitted from the candle he carried. He found the body of poor Philip Feltram just as he had left it — his gentle face, saddened by the touch of death, was turned upwards29, with white lips: with traces of suffering fixed30 in its outlines, such as caused Sir Bale, standing by the bed, to draw the coverlet over the dead man’s features, which seemed silently to upbraid31 him. “Gone in weakness!” said Sir Bale, repeating the words of the “daft sir,” Hugh Creswell; as he did so, a voice whispered near him, with a great sigh, “Come in power!” He looked round, in his dream, but there was no one; the light seemed to fail, and a horror slowly overcame him, especially as he thought he saw the figure under the coverlet stealthily beginning to move. Backing towards the door, for he could not take his eyes off it, he saw something like a huge black ape creep out at the foot of the bed; and springing at him, it griped him by the throat, so that he could not breathe; and a thousand voices were instantly round him, holloaing, cursing, laughing in his ears; and in this direful plight32 he waked.
Was it the ring of those voices still in his ears, or a real shriek33, and another, and a long peal34, shriek after shriek, swelling35 madly through the distant passages, that held him still, freezing in the horror of his dream?
I will tell you what this noise was.
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1
cadaveric
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| 尸体的 | |
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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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confidentially
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| ad.秘密地，悄悄地 | |
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narrative
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| n.叙述，故事；adj.叙事的，故事体的 | |
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forth
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| adv.向前；向外，往外 | |
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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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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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knuckles
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| n.（指人）指关节( knuckle的名词复数 )；（指动物）膝关节，踝v.（指人）指关节( knuckle的第三人称单数 )；（指动物）膝关节，踝 | |
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hospitable
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| adj.好客的；宽容的；有利的，适宜的 | |
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amiable
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| adj.和蔼可亲的，友善的，亲切的 | |
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chambers
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| n.房间( chamber的名词复数 )；（议会的）议院；卧室；会议厅 | |
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panes
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| 窗玻璃( pane的名词复数 ) | |
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qualms
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| n.不安；内疚 | |
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sublime
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| adj.崇高的，伟大的；极度的，不顾后果的 | |
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babble
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| v.含糊不清地说，胡言乱语地说，儿语 | |
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inconveniently
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| ad.不方便地 | |
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catastrophe
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| n.大灾难，大祸 | |
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vehement
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| adj.感情强烈的；热烈的；(人)有强烈感情的 | |
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commiseration
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| n.怜悯，同情 | |
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extremity
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| n.末端，尽头；尽力；终极；极度 | |
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agitation
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| n.搅动；搅拌；鼓动，煽动 | |
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subsided
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| v.（土地）下陷（因在地下采矿）( subside的过去式和过去分词 )；减弱；下降至较低或正常水平；一下子坐在椅子等上 | |
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gorges
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| n.山峡，峡谷( gorge的名词复数 )；咽喉v.（用食物把自己）塞饱，填饱( gorge的第三人称单数 )；作呕 | |
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gusts
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| 一阵强风( gust的名词复数 )； （怒、笑等的）爆发； （感情的）迸发； 发作 | |
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subsiding
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| v.（土地）下陷（因在地下采矿）( subside的现在分词 )；减弱；下降至较低或正常水平；一下子坐在椅子等上 | |
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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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perfectly
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| adv.完美地，无可非议地，彻底地 | |
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chirp
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| v.(尤指鸟)唧唧喳喳的叫 | |
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upwards
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| adv.向上，在更高处...以上 | |
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fixed
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| adj.固定的，不变的，准备好的；(计算机)固定的 | |
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upbraid
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| v.斥责，责骂，责备 | |
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plight
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| n.困境，境况，誓约，艰难；vt.宣誓，保证，约定 | |
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33
shriek
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| v./n.尖叫，叫喊 | |
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peal
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| n.钟声；v.鸣响 | |
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swelling
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| n.肿胀 | |
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