Mr. Dangerfield was at the club that night, and was rather in spirits than otherwise, except, indeed, when poor Charles Nutter1 was talked of. Then he looked grave, and shrugged2, and shook his head, and said —
‘A bad business, Sir; and where’s his poor wife?’
‘Spending the night with us, poor soul,’ said Major O’Neill, mildly, ‘and hasn’t an idaya, poor thing; and indeed, I hope, she mayn’t hear it.’
‘Pooh! Sir, she must hear it; but you know she might have heard worse, Sir, eh?’ rejoined Dangerfield.
‘True for you, Sir,’ said the major, suspending the filling of his pipe to direct a quiet glance of significance at Dangerfield, and then closing his eyes with a nod.
And just at this point in came Spaight.
‘Well, Spaight!’
‘Well, Sir.’
‘You saw the body, eh?’ and a dozen other interrogatories followed, as, cold and wet with melting snow, dishevelled, and storm-beaten — for it was a plaguy rough night — the young fellow, with a general greeting to the company, made his way to the fire.
‘’Tis a tremendous night, gentlemen, so by your leave I’ll stir the fire — and, yes, I seen him, poor Nutter — and, paugh, an ugly sight he is, I can tell you; here Larry, bring me a rummer-glass of punch — his right ear’s gone, and a’most all his right hand — and screeching3 hot, do you mind — an’, phiew — altogether ’tis sickening — them fishes, you know — I’m a’most sorry I went in-you remember Dogherty’s whiskey shop in Ringsend — he lies in the back parlour, and wondherful little changed in appearance.’
And so Mr. Spaight, with a little round table at his elbow, and his heels over the fender, sipped4 his steaming punch, and thawed5 inwardly and outwardly, as he answered their questions and mixed in their speculations6.
Up at the Mills, which had heard the awful news, first from the Widow Macan, and afterwards from Pat Moran, the maids sat over their tea in the kitchen in high excitement and thrilling chat —‘The poor master!’ ‘Oh, the poor man!’ ‘Oh, la, what’s that?’ with a start and a peep over the shoulders. ‘And oh, dear, and how in the world will the poor little misthress ever live over the news?’ And so forth7, made a principal part of their talk. There was a good accompaniment of wind outside, and a soft pelting8 of snow on the window panes9, ‘and oh, my dear life, but wasn’t it dark!’
Up went Moggy, with her thick-wicked kitchen candle, to seek repose10; and Betty, resolving not to be long behind, waited only ‘to wash up her plates’ and slack down the fire, having made up her mind, for she grew more nervous in solitude11, to share Moggy’s bed for that night.
Moggy had not been twenty minutes gone, and her task was nearly ended, when —‘Oh, blessed saints!’ murmured Betty, with staring eyes, and dropping the sweeping-brush on the flags, she heard, or thought she heard, her master’s step, which was peculiar12, crossing the floor overhead.
She listened, herself as pale as a corpse13, and nearly as breathless; but there was nothing now but the muffled14 gusts15 of the storm, and the close soft beat of the snow, so she listened and listened, but nothing came of it.
‘’Tis only the vapours,’ said Betty, drawing a long breath, and doing her best to be cheerful; and so she finished her labours, stopping every now and then to listen, and humming tunes16 very loud, in fits and starts. Then it came to her turn to take her candle and go up stairs; she was a good half-hour later than Moggy — all was quiet within the house — only the sound of the storm — the creak and rattle17 of its strain, and the hurly-burly of the gusts over the roof and chimneys.
Over her shoulder she peered jealously this way and that, as with flaring18 candle she climbed the stairs. How black the window looked on the lobby, with its white patterns of snow flakes19 in perpetual succession sliding down the panes. Who could tell what horrid20 face might be looking in close to her as she passed, secure in the darkness and that drifting white lace veil of snow? So nimbly and lightly up the stairs climbed Betty, the cook.
If listeners seldom hear good of themselves, it is also true that peepers sometimes see more than they like; and Betty, the cook, as she reached the landing, glancing askance with ominous21 curiosity, beheld22 a spectacle, the sight of which nearly bereft23 her of her senses.
Crouching24 in the deep doorway25 on the right of the lobby, the cook, I say, saw something — a figure — or a deep shadow — only a deep shadow — or maybe a dog. She lifted the candle — she peeped under the candlestick: ’twas no shadow, as I live, ’twas a well-defined figure!
He was draped in black, cowering26 low, with the face turned up. It was Charles Nutter’s face, fixed27 and stealthy. It was only while the fascination28 lasted — while you might count one, two, three, deliberately29 — that the horrid gaze met mutually. But there was no mistake there. She saw the stern dark picture as plainly as ever she did. The light glimmered30 on his white eye-balls.
Starting up, he struck at the candle with his hat. She uttered a loud scream, and flinging stick and all at the figure, with a great clang against the door behind, all was swallowed in instantaneous darkness; she whirled into the opposite bed-room she knew not how, and locked the door within, and plunged31 head-foremost under the bed-clothes, half mad with terror.
The squall was heard of course. Moggy heard it, but she heeded32 not; for Betty was known to scream at mice, and even moths33. And as her door was heard to slam, as was usual in panics of the sort, and as she returned no answer, Moggy was quite sure there was nothing in it.
But Moggy’s turn was to come. When spirits ‘walk,’ I’ve heard they make the most of their time, and sometimes pay a little round of visits on the same evening.
This is certain; Moggy was by no means so great a fool as Betty in respect of hobgoblins, witches, banshees, pookas, and the world of spirits in general. She eat heartily34, and slept soundly, and as yet had never seen the devil. Therefore such terrors as she that night experienced were new to her, and I can’t reasonably doubt the truth of her narrative35. Awaking suddenly in the night, she saw a light in the room, and heard a quiet rustling36 going on in the corner, where the old white-painted press showed its front from the wall. So Moggy popped her head through her thin curtains at the side, and — blessed hour!— there she saw the shape of a man looking into the press, the doors being wide open, and the appearance of a key in the lock.
The shape was very like her master. The saints between us and harm! The glow was reflected back from the interior of the press, and showed the front part of the figure in profile with a sharp line of light. She said he had some sort of thick slippers37 over his boots, a dark coat, with the cape38 buttoned, and a hat flapping over his face; coat and hat and all, sprinkled over with snow.
As if he heard the rustle39 of the curtain, he turned toward the bed, and with an awful ejaculation she cried, ‘’Tis you, Sir!’
‘Don’t stir, and you’ll meet no harm,’ he said, and over he posts to the bedside, and he laid his cold hand on her wrist, and told her again to be quiet, and for her life to tell no one what she had seen, and with that she supposed she swooned away; for the next thing she remembered was listening in mortal fear, the room being all dark, and she heard a sound at the press again, and then steps crossing the floor, and she gave herself up for lost; but he did not come to the bedside any more, and the tread passed out at the door, and so, as she thought, went down stairs.
In the morning the press was locked and the door shut, and the hall-door and back-door locked, and the keys on the hall-table, where they had left them the night before.
You may be sure these two ladies were thankful to behold40 the gray light, and hear the cheerful sounds of returning day; and it would be no easy matter to describe which of the two looked most pallid41, scared, and jaded42 that morning, as they drank a hysterical43 dish of tea together in the kitchen, close up to the window, and with the door shut, discoursing44, and crying, and praying over their tea-pot in miserable45 companionship.
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nutter
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| n.疯子 | |
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shrugged
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| vt.耸肩（shrug的过去式与过去分词形式） | |
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screeching
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| v.发出尖叫声( screech的现在分词 )；发出粗而刺耳的声音；高叫 | |
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sipped
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| v.小口喝，呷，抿( sip的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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thawed
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| 解冻 | |
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speculations
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| n.投机买卖( speculation的名词复数 )；思考；投机活动；推断 | |
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forth
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| adv.向前；向外，往外 | |
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pelting
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| 微不足道的，无价值的，盛怒的 | |
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panes
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| 窗玻璃( pane的名词复数 ) | |
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repose
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| v.(使)休息；n.安息 | |
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solitude
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| n. 孤独; 独居,荒僻之地,幽静的地方 | |
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peculiar
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| adj.古怪的，异常的；特殊的，特有的 | |
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corpse
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| n.尸体，死尸 | |
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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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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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tunes
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| n.曲调，曲子( tune的名词复数 )v.调音( tune的第三人称单数 )；调整；（给收音机、电视等）调谐；使协调 | |
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rattle
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| v.飞奔，碰响；激怒；n.碰撞声；拨浪鼓 | |
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flaring
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| a.火焰摇曳的，过份艳丽的 | |
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flakes
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| 小薄片( flake的名词复数 )； （尤指）碎片； 雪花； 古怪的人 | |
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horrid
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| adj.可怕的；令人惊恐的；恐怖的；极讨厌的 | |
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ominous
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| adj.不祥的，不吉的，预兆的，预示的 | |
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beheld
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| v.看，注视( behold的过去式和过去分词 )；瞧；看呀；（叙述中用于引出某人意外的出现）哎哟 | |
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bereft
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| adj.被剥夺的 | |
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crouching
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| v.屈膝，蹲伏( crouch的现在分词 ) | |
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doorway
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| n.门口，(喻)入门；门路，途径 | |
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cowering
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| v.畏缩，抖缩( cower的现在分词 ) | |
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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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fascination
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| n.令人着迷的事物，魅力，迷恋 | |
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deliberately
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| adv.审慎地；蓄意地；故意地 | |
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glimmered
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| v.发闪光，发微光( glimmer的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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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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heeded
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| v.听某人的劝告，听从( heed的过去式和过去分词 )；变平，使（某物）变平( flatten的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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moths
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| n.蛾( moth的名词复数 ) | |
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heartily
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| adv.衷心地，诚恳地，十分，很 | |
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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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rustling
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| n. 瑟瑟声，沙沙声 adj. 发沙沙声的 | |
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slippers
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| n. 拖鞋 | |
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cape
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| n.海角，岬；披肩，短披风 | |
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rustle
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| v.沙沙作响；偷盗(牛、马等)；n.沙沙声声 | |
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behold
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| v.看，注视，看到 | |
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pallid
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| adj.苍白的，呆板的 | |
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jaded
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| adj.精疲力竭的；厌倦的；（因过饱或过多而）腻烦的；迟钝的 | |
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hysterical
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| adj.情绪异常激动的，歇斯底里般的 | |
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discoursing
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| 演说（discourse的现在分词形式） | |
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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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