After such leave-takings, especially where something like a revelation takes place, there sometimes supervenes, I’m told, a sort of excitement before the chill and ache of separation sets in. So, Lily, when she went home, found that her music failed her, all but the one strange little air, ‘The river ran between them;’ and then she left the harpsichord1 and went into the garden through the glass door, but the flowers had only half their interest, and the garden was solitary2, and she felt restless, as if she were going to make a journey, or looking for strange news; and then she bethought her again of Mrs. Colonel Stafford, that she might have by this time returned from Dublin, and there was some little interest about the good old lady, even in this, that she had just returned by the same road that he had gone away by, that she might have chanced to see him as he passed; that at least she might happen to speak of him, and to know something of the likelihood of his return, or even to speculate about him; for now any talk in which his name occurred was interesting, though she did not know it quite herself. So she went down to the King’s House, and did find old Mrs. Stafford at home: and after an entertaining gossip about some ‘rich Nassau damask,’ at Haughton’s in the Coombe, that had taken her fancy mightily3, and how she had chosen a set of new Nankeen plates and fine oblong dishes at the Music Hall, and how Peter Raby, the watchman, was executed yesterday morning, in web worsted breeches, for the murder of Mr. Thomas Fleming, of Thomas-street, she did come at last to mention Devereux: and she said that the colonel had received a letter from General Chattesworth, ‘who by-the-bye,’ and then came a long parenthesis4, very pleasant, you may be sure, for Lily to listen to; and the general, it appeared, thought it most likely that Devereux would not return to Chapelizod, and the Royal Irish Artillery5; and then she went on to other subjects, and Lily staid a long time, thinking she might return to Devereux, but she did not mention him again. So home went little Lily more pensive6 than she came.
It was near eight o’clock, when who should arrive at the door, and flutter the crows in the old elms with an energetic double knock, but Aunt Rebecca, accompanied by no less a personage than Dr. Toole in full costume, and attended by old Dominick, the footman.
The doctor was a little bit ruffled7 and testy8, for having received a summons from Belmont, he had attended in full blow, expecting to prescribe for Aunt Rebecca or Miss Gertrude, and found, instead, that he was in for a barren and benevolent9 walk of half a mile on the Inchicore road, with the energetic Miss Rebecca, to visit one of her felonious pensioners10 who lay sick in his rascally11 crib. It was not the first time that the jolly little doctor had been entrapped12 by the good lady into a purely13 philanthropic excursion of this kind. But he could not afford to mutiny, and vented14 his disgust in blisters15 and otherwise drastic treatment of the malingering scoundrels whom he served out after his kind for the trouble and indignity16 they cost him.
‘And here we are, Lily dear, on our way to see poor dear Pat Doolan, who, I fear, is not very long for this world. Dominick!— he’s got a brain fever, my dear.’
The doctor said ‘pish!’ inaudibly, and Aunt Becky went on.
‘You know the unhappy creature is only just out of prison, and if ever mortal suffered unjustly, he’s the man. Poor Doolan’s as innocent as you or I, my dear, or sweet little Spot, there;’ pointing her fan like a pistol at that interesting quadruped’s head. ‘The disgrace has broken his heart, and that’s at the bottom of his sickness. I wish you could hear him speak, poor dear wretch17 — Dominick!’ and she had a word for that domestic in the hall.
‘Hear him speak, indeed!’ said Toole, taking advantage of her momentary18 absence. ‘I wish you could, the drunken blackguard. King Solomon could not make sense of it. She gave that burglar, would you believe it, Ma’am? two guineas, by Jupiter: the first of this month — and whiskey only sixpence a pint19 — and he was drunk without intermission of course, day and night for a week after. Brain fever, indeed, ’tis just as sweet a little fit of delirium20 tremens, my dear Madam, as ever sent an innocent burglar slap into bliss;’ and the word popped out with a venomous hiss21 and an angry chuckle22.
‘And so, my dear,’ resumed Aunt Becky, marching in again; ‘good Doctor Toole — our good Samaritan, here — has taken him up, just for love, and the poor man’s fee — his blessing23.’
The doctor muttered something about ‘taking him up,’ but inarticulately, for it was only for the relief of his own feelings.
‘And now, dear Lilias, we want your good father to come with us, just to pray by the poor fellow’s bedside: he’s in the study, is he?’
‘No, he was not to be home until tomorrow morning.’
‘Bless me!’ cried Aunt Becky, with as much asperity24 as if she had said something different; ‘and not a soul to be had to comfort a dying wretch in your father’s parish — yes, he’s dying; we want a minister to pray with him, and here we’ve a Flemish account of the rector. This tells prettily25 for Dr. Walsingham!’
‘Dr. Walsingham’s the best rector in the whole world, and the holiest man and the noblest,’ cried brave little Lily, standing26 like a deer at bay, with her wild shy eyes looking full in Aunt Becky’s, and a flush in her cheeks, and the beautiful light of truth beaming like a star from her forehead. And for a moment it looked like battle; but the old lady smiled a kind of droll27 little smile, and gave her a little pat on the cheek, saying with a shake of her head, ‘saucy girl!’
‘And you,’ said Lily, throwing her arms about her neck, ‘are my own Aunt Becky, the greatest darling in the world!’ And so, as John Bunyan says, ‘the water stood in their eyes,’ and they both laughed, and then they kissed, and loved one another the better. That was the way their little quarrels used always to end.
‘Well, doctor, we must only do what we can,’ said Aunt Becky, looking gravely on the physician: ‘and I don’t see why you should not read — you can lend us a prayer-book, darling — just a collect or two, and the Lord’s Prayer — eh?’
‘Why, my dear Ma’am, the fellow’s howling about King Lewis and the American Indians, Dominick says, and ghosts and constables29, and devils, and worse things, Madam, and — pooh — punch and laudanum’s his only chance; don’t mind the prayer-book, Miss Lily — there’s no use in it, Mistress Chattesworth! I give you my honour, Ma’am, he could not make head or tale of it.’
In fact, the doctor was terrified lest Aunt Rebecca should compel him to officiate, and he was thinking how the fellows at the club, and the Aldermen of Skinner’s-alley, would get hold of the story, and treat the subject less gravely than was desirable.
So Aunt Becky, with Lily’s leave, called in Dominick, to examine him touching30 the soundness of Pat Doolan’s mind, and the honest footman had no hesitation31 in pronouncing him wholly non compos.
‘Pleasant praying with a chap like that, by Jove, as drunk as an owl28, and as mad as a March hare! my dear Ma’am,’ whispered Toole to Lilias.
‘And, Lily dear’, there’s poor Gertrude all alone —‘twould be good natured in you to go up and drink a dish of tea with her; but, then, you’re cold — you’re afraid?’
She was not afraid — she had been out today — and it had done her all the good in the world, and it was very good of Aunt Becky to think of it, for she was lonely too: and so off went the elder Miss Chattesworth, with her doctor and Dominick, in their various moods, on their mission of mercy; and Lily sent into the town for the two chairmen, Peter Brian and Larry Foy, the two-legged ponies32, as Toole called them.
1 harpsichord | |
n.键琴(钢琴前身) | |
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2 solitary | |
adj.孤独的,独立的,荒凉的;n.隐士 | |
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3 mightily | |
ad.强烈地;非常地 | |
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4 parenthesis | |
n.圆括号,插入语,插曲,间歇,停歇 | |
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5 artillery | |
n.(军)火炮,大炮;炮兵(部队) | |
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6 pensive | |
a.沉思的,哀思的,忧沉的 | |
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7 ruffled | |
adj. 有褶饰边的, 起皱的 动词ruffle的过去式和过去分词 | |
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8 testy | |
adj.易怒的;暴躁的 | |
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9 benevolent | |
adj.仁慈的,乐善好施的 | |
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10 pensioners | |
n.领取退休、养老金或抚恤金的人( pensioner的名词复数 ) | |
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11 rascally | |
adj. 无赖的,恶棍的 adv. 无赖地,卑鄙地 | |
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12 entrapped | |
v.使陷入圈套,使入陷阱( entrap的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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13 purely | |
adv.纯粹地,完全地 | |
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14 vented | |
表达,发泄(感情,尤指愤怒)( vent的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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15 blisters | |
n.水疱( blister的名词复数 );水肿;气泡 | |
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16 indignity | |
n.侮辱,伤害尊严,轻蔑 | |
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17 wretch | |
n.可怜的人,不幸的人;卑鄙的人 | |
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18 momentary | |
adj.片刻的,瞬息的;短暂的 | |
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19 pint | |
n.品脱 | |
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20 delirium | |
n. 神智昏迷,说胡话;极度兴奋 | |
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21 hiss | |
v.发出嘶嘶声;发嘘声表示不满 | |
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22 chuckle | |
vi./n.轻声笑,咯咯笑 | |
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23 blessing | |
n.祈神赐福;祷告;祝福,祝愿 | |
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24 asperity | |
n.粗鲁,艰苦 | |
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25 prettily | |
adv.优美地;可爱地 | |
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26 standing | |
n.持续,地位;adj.永久的,不动的,直立的,不流动的 | |
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27 droll | |
adj.古怪的,好笑的 | |
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28 owl | |
n.猫头鹰,枭 | |
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29 constables | |
n.警察( constable的名词复数 ) | |
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30 touching | |
adj.动人的,使人感伤的 | |
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31 hesitation | |
n.犹豫,踌躇 | |
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32 ponies | |
矮种马,小型马( pony的名词复数 ); £25 25 英镑 | |
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