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第38节

classic mystery and detective stories-第38节

小说: classic mystery and detective stories 字数: 每页4000字

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imagined a scene so horrible as his last hours presented。  He

cursed and blasphemed about three halfpence; missing; as he said;

some weeks before; in an account of change with his groom; about

hay to a starved horse that he kept。  Then he grasped John's hand;

and asked him to give him the sacrament。  〃If I send to the

clergyman; he will charge me something for it; which I cannot pay;

I cannot。  They say I am rich;look at this blanket;but I would

not mind that; if I could save my soul。〃  And; raving; he added;

〃Indeed; Doctor; I am a very poor man。  I never troubled a

clergyman before; and all I want is; that you will grant me two

trifling requests; very little matters in your way;save my soul;

and (whispering) make interest to get me a parish coffin;I have

not enough left to bury me。  I always told everyone I was poor; but

the more I told them so; the less they believed me。〃



John; greatly shocked; retired from the bedside; and sat down in a

distant corner of the room。  The women were again in the room;

which was very dark。  Melmoth was silent from exhaustion; and there

was a deathlike pause for some time。  At this moment John saw the

door open; and a figure appear at it; who looked round the room;

and then quietly and deliberately retired; but not before John had

discovered in his face the living original of the portrait。  His

first impulse was to utter an exclamation of terror; but his breath

felt stopped。  He was then rising to pursue the figure; but a

moment's reflection checked him。  What could be more absurd; than

to be alarmed or amazed at a resemblance between a living man and

the portrait of a dead one!  The likeness was doubtless strong

enough to strike him even in that darkened room; but it was

doubtless only a likeness; and though it might be imposing enough

to terrify an old man of gloomy and retired habits; and with a

broken constitution; John resolved it should not produce the same

effect on him。



But while he was applauding himself for this resolution; the door

opened; and the figure appeared at it; beckoning and nodding to

him; with a familiarity somewhat terrifying。  John now started up;

determined to pursue it; but the pursuit was stopped by the weak

but shrill cries of his uncle; who was struggling at once with the

agonies of death and his housekeeper。  The poor woman; anxious for

her master's reputation and her own; was trying to put on him a

clean shirt and nightcap; and Melmoth; who had just sensation

enough to perceive they were taking something from him; continued

exclaiming feebly; 〃They are robbing me;robbing me in my last

moments;robbing a dying man。  John; won't you assist me;I shall

die a beggar; they are taking my last shirt;I shall die a

beggar。〃And the miser died。



        。        。        。        。        。



A few days after the funeral; the will was opened before proper

witnesses; and John was found to be left sole heir to his uncle's

property; which; though originally moderate; had; by his grasping

habits; and parsimonious life; become very considerable。



As the attorney who read the will concluded; he added; 〃There are

some words here; at the corner of the parchment; which do not

appear to be part of the will; as they are neither in the form of a

codicil; nor is the signature of the testator affixed to them; but;

to the best of my belief; they are in the handwriting of the

deceased。〃  As he spoke he showed the lines to Melmoth; who

immediately recognized his uncle's hand (that perpendicular and

penurious hand; that seems determined to make the most of the very

paper; thriftily abridging every word; and leaving scarce an atom

of margin); and read; not without some emotion; the following

words: 〃I enjoin my nephew and heir; John Melmoth; to remove;

destroy; or cause to be destroyed; the portrait inscribed J。

Melmoth; 1646; hanging in my closet。  I also enjoin him to search

for a manuscript; which I think he will find in the third and

lowest left…hand drawer of the mahogany chest standing under that

portrait;it is among some papers of no value; such as manuscript

sermons; and pamphlets on the improvement of Ireland; and such

stuff; he will distinguish it by its being tied round with a black

tape; and the paper being very moldy and discolored。  He may read

it if he will;I think he had better not。  At all events; I adjure

him; if there be any power in the adjuration of a dying man; to

burn it。〃



After reading this singular memorandum; the business of the meeting

was again resumed; and as old Melmoth's will was very clear and

legally worded; all was soon settled; the party dispersed; and John

Melmoth was left alone。



        。        。        。        。        。



He resolutely entered the closet; shut the door; and proceeded to

search for the manuscript。  It was soon found; for the directions

of old Melmoth were forcibly written; and strongly remembered。  The

manuscript; old; tattered; and discolored; was taken from the very

drawer in which it was mentioned to be laid。  Melmoth's hands felt

as cold as those of his dead uncle; when he drew the blotted pages

from their nook。  He sat down to read;there was a dead silence

through the house。  Melmoth looked wistfully at the candles;

snuffed them; and still thought they looked dim; (perchance he

thought they burned blue; but such thought he kept to himself)。

Certain it is; he often changed his posture; and would have changed

his chair; had there been more than one in the apartment。



He sank for a few moments into a fit of gloomy abstraction; till

the sound of the clock striking twelve made him start;it was the

only sound he had heard for some hours; and the sounds produced by

inanimate things; while all living beings around are as dead; have

at such an hour an effect indescribably awful。  John looked at his

manuscript with some reluctance; opened it; paused over the first

lines; and as the wind sighed round the desolate apartment; and the

rain pattered with a mournful sound against the dismantled window;

wishedwhat did he wish for?he wished the sound of the wind less

dismal; and the dash of the rain less monotonous。He may be

forgiven; it was past midnight; and there was not a human being

awake but himself within ten miles when he began to read。



        。        。        。        。        。



The manuscript was discolored; obliterated; and mutilated beyond

any that had ever before exercised the patience of a reader。

Michaelis himself; scrutinizing into the pretended autograph of St。

Mark at Venice; never had a harder time of it。Melmoth could make

out only a sentence here and there。  The writer; it appeared; was

an Englishman of the name of Stanton; who had traveled abroad

shortly after the Restoration。  Traveling was not then attended

with the facilities which modern improvement has introduced; and

scholars and literati; the intelligent; the idle; and the curious;

wandered over the Continent for years; like Tom Corvat; though they

had the modesty; on their return; to entitle the result of their

multiplied observations and labors only 〃crudities。〃



Stanton; about the year 1676; was in Spain; he was; like most of

the travelers of that age; a man of literature; intelligence; and

curiosity; but ignorant of the language of the country; and

fighting his way at times from convent to convent; in quest of what

was called 〃Hospitality;〃 that is; obtaining board and lodging on

the condition of holding a debate in Latin; on some point

theological or metaphysical; with any monk who would become the

champion of the strife。  Now; as the theology was Catholic; and the

metaphysics Aristotelian; Stanton sometimes wished himself at the

miserable Posada from whose filth and famine he had been fighting

his escape; but though his reverend antagonists always denounced

his creed; and comforted themselves; even in defeat; with the

assurance that he must be damned; on the double score of his being

a heretic and an Englishman; they were obliged to confess that his

Latin was good; and his logic unanswerable; and he was allowed; in

most cases; to sup and sleep in peace。  This was not doomed to be

his fate on the night of the 17th August 1677; when he found

himself in the plains of Valencia; deserted by a cowardly guide;

who had been terrified by the sight of a cross erected as a

memorial of a murder; had slipped off his mule unperceived;

crossing himself every step he took on his retreat from the

heretic; and left Stanton amid the terrors of an approaching storm;

and the dangers of an unknown country。  The sublime and yet

softened beauty of the scenery around; had filled the soul of

Stanton with delight; and he enjoyed that delight as Englishmen

generally do; silently。



The magnificent remains of two dynasties that had passed away; the

ruins of Roman palaces; and of Moorish fortresses; were around and

above him;the dark and heavy thunde

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