an old town by the sea(滨海古城)-第13节
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pew with a face as complacent as that of the cat that has eaten the canary。
Presently the deacons appeal to her for information touching the good
doctor。 Mistress Shurtleff sweetly tells them that the good doctor was in
his study when she left home。 There he is found； indeed； and released from
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durance； begging the deacons to keep his mortification secret； to 〃give it
an understanding； but no tongue。〃 Such was the discipline undergone by
the worthy Dr。 Shurtleff on his earthly pilgrimage。 A portrait of this patient
mannow a saint somewherehangs in the rooms of the New England
Historical and Genealogical Society in Boston。 There he can be seen in
surplice and bands； with his lamblike； apostolic face looking down upon
the heavy antiquarian labors of his busy descendants。
Whether or not a man is to be classed as eccentric who vanishes
without rhyme or reason on his wedding…night is a query left to the
reader's decision。 We seem to have struck a matrimonial vein； and must
work it out。 In 1768； Mr。 James McDonough was one of the wealthiest
men in Portsmouth； and the fortunate suitor for the hand of a daughter of
Jacob Sheafe； a town magnate。 The home of the bride was decked and
lighted for the nuptials； the banquet…table was spread； and the guests were
gathered。 The minister in his robe stood by the carven mantelpiece； book
in hand； and waited。 Then followed an awkward intervalthere was a hitch
somewhere。 A strange silence fell upon the laughing groups； the air grew
tense with expectation； in the pantry； Amos Boggs； the butler； in his
agitation split a bottle of port over his new cinnamon…colored small…
clothes。 Then a whispera whisper suppressed these twenty minutesran
through the apartments；〃The bridegroom has not come！〃。 He never came。
The mystery of that night remains a mystery after the lapse of a century
and a quarter。
What had become of James McDonough？ The assassination of so
notable a person in a community where every strange face was challenged；
where every man's antecedents were known； could not have been
accomplished without leaving some slight traces。 Not a shadow of foul
play was discovered。 That McDonough had been murdered or had
committed suicide were theories accepted at first by a few； and then by no
one。 On the other hand； he was in love with his fiancee； he had wealth；
power； positionwhy had he fled？ He was seen a moment on the public
street； and then never seen again。 It was as if he turned into air。 Meanwhile
the bewilderment of the bride was dramatically painful。 If McDonough
had been waylaid and killed； she could mourn for him。 If he had deserted
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her； she could wrap herself in her pride。 But neither course lay open to her；
then or afterward。 In one of the Twice Told Tales Hawthorne deals with a
man named Wakefield； who disappears with like suddenness； and lives
unrecognized for twenty years in a street not far from his abandoned
hearthside。 Such expunging of one's self was not possible in Portsmouth；
but I never think of McDonough without recalling Wakefield。 I have an
inexplicable conviction that for many a year James McDonough； in some
snug ambush； studied and analyzed the effect of his own startling
disappearance。
Some time in the year 1758； there dawned upon Portsmouth a
personage bearing the ponderous title of King's Attorney； and carrying
much gold lace about him。 This gilded gentleman was Mr。 Wyseman
Clagett； of Bristol； England； where his father dwelt on the manor of Broad
Oaks； in a mansion with twelve chimneys； and kept a coach and eight or
ten servants。 Up to the moment of his advent in the colonies； Mr。
Wyseman Clagett had evidently not been able to keep anything but
himself。 His wealth consisted of his personal decorations； the golden frogs
on his lapels； and the tinsel at his throat； other charms he had none。 Yet
with these he contrived to dazzle the eyes of Lettice Mitchel； one of the
young beauties of the province； and to cause her to forget that she had
plighted troth with a Mr。 Warner； then in Europe； and destined to return
home with a disturbed heart。 Mr。 Clagett was a man of violent temper and
ingenious vindictiveness； and proved more than a sufficient punishment
for Lettice's infidelity。 The trifling fact that Warner was deadhe died
shortly after his returndid not interfere with the course of Mr。 Clagett's
jealousy； he was haunted by the suspicion that Lettice regretted her first
love； having left nothing undone to make her do so。 〃This is to pay
Warner's debts；〃 remarked Mr。 Clagett； as he twitched off the table…cloth
and wrecked the tea…things。
In his official capacity he was a relentless prosecutor。 The noun
Clagett speedily turned itself into a verb； 〃to Clagett〃 meant 〃to
prosecute；〃 they were convertible terms。 In spite of his industrious severity；
and his royal emoluments； if such existed； the exchequer of the King's
Attorney showed a perpetual deficit。 The stratagems to which he resorted
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from time to time in order to raise unimportant sums reminded one of
certain scenes in Moliere's comedies。
Mr。 Clagett had for his ame damnee a constable of the town。 They
were made for each other； they were two flowers with but a single stem；
and this was their method of procedure： Mr。 Clagett dispatched one of his
servants to pick a quarrel with some countryman on the street； or some
sailor drinking at an inn： the constable arrested the sailor or the
countryman； as the case might be； and hauled the culprit before Mr。
Clagett； Mr。 Clagett read the culprit a moral lesson； and fined him five
dollars and costs。 The plunder was then divided between the conspirators
two hearts that beat as oneClagett； of course； getting the lion's share。
Justice was never administered in a simpler manner in any country。 This
eminent legal light was extinguished in 1784； and the wick laid away in
the little churchyard in Litchfield； New Hampshire。 It is a satisfaction；
even after such a lapse of time； to know that Lettice survived the King's
Attorney sufficiently long to be very happy with somebody else。 Lettice
Mitchel was scarcely eighteen when she married Wyseman Clagett。
About eighty years ago； a witless fellow named Tilton seems to have
been a familiar figure on the streets of the old town。 Mr。 Brewster speaks
of him as 〃the well…known idiot； Johnny Tilton；〃 as if one should say； 〃the
well…known statesman； Daniel Webster。〃 It is curious to observe how any
sort of individuality gets magnified in this parochial atmosphere； where
everything lacks perspective； and nothing is trivial。 Johnny Tilton does not
appear to have had much individuality to start with； it was only after his
head was cracked that he showed any shrewdness whatever。 That
happened early in his unobtrusive boyhood。 He had frequently watched
the hens flying out of the loft window in his father's stable； which stood in
the rear of the Old Bell Tavern。 It occurred to Johnny； one day； that though
he might not be as bright as other lads； he certainly was in no respect
inferior to a hen。 So he placed himself on the sill of the window in the loft；
flapped his arms； and took flight。 The New England Icarus alighted head
downward； lay insensible for a while； and was henceforth looked upon as
a mortal who had lost his wits。 Yet at odd moments his cloudiness was
illumined by a gleam of intelligence such as had not been detected in him
