Meanwhile he walked familiar streets, merry reminiscences crowding round him, sad ones also, both with the same surprising pathos8. The keen frosty air; the low, rosy9, wintry sun; the castle, hailing him like an old acquaintance; the names of friends on door-plates; the sight of friends whom he seemed to recognise, and whom he eagerly avoided, in the streets; the pleasant chant of the north-country accent; the dome10 of St. George’s reminding him of his last penitential moments in the lane, and of that King of Glory whose name had echoed ever since in the saddest corner of his memory; and the gutters11 where he had learned to slide, and the shop where he had bought his skates, and the stones on which he had trod, and the railings in which he had rattled12 his clachan as he went to school; and all those thousand and one nameless particulars, which the eye sees without noting, which the memory keeps indeed yet without knowing, and which, taken one with another, build up for us the aspect of the place that we call home: all these besieged13 him, as he went, with both delight and sadness.
His first visit was for Houston, who had a house on Regent Terrace, kept for him in old days by an aunt. The door was opened (to his surprise) upon the chain, and a voice asked him from within what he wanted.
‘I want Mr. Houston — Mr. Alan Houston,’ said he.
‘And who are ye?’ said the voice.
‘This is most extraordinary,’ thought John; and then aloud he told his name.
‘No’ young Mr. John?’ cried the voice, with a sudden increase of Scotch14 accent, testifying to a friendlier feeling.
‘The very same,’ said John.
And the old butler removed his defences, remarking only ‘I thocht ye were that man.’ But his master was not there; he was staying, it appeared, at the house in Murrayfield; and though the butler would have been glad enough to have taken his place and given all the news of the family, John, struck with a little chill, was eager to be gone. Only, the door was scarce closed again, before he regretted that he had not asked about ‘that man.’
He was to pay no more visits till he had seen his father and made all well at home; Alan had been the only possible exception, and John had not time to go as far as Murrayfield. But here he was on Regent Terrace; there was nothing to prevent him going round the end of the hill, and looking from without on the Mackenzies’ house. As he went, he reflected that Flora15 must now be a woman of near his own age, and it was within the bounds of possibility that she was married; but this dishonourable doubt he dammed down.
There was the house, sure enough; but the door was of another colour, and what was this — two door-plates? He drew nearer; the top one bore, with dignified16 simplicity17, the words, ‘Mr. Proudfoot’; the lower one was more explicit18, and informed the passer-by that here was likewise the abode19 of ‘Mr. J. A. Dunlop Proudfoot, Advocate.’ The Proudfoots must be rich, for no advocate could look to have much business in so remote a quarter; and John hated them for their wealth and for their name, and for the sake of the house they desecrated20 with their presence. He remembered a Proudfoot he had seen at school, not known: a little, whey-faced urchin21, the despicable member of some lower class. Could it be this abortion22 that had climbed to be an advocate, and now lived in the birthplace of Flora and the home of John’s tenderest memories? The chill that had first seized upon him when he heard of Houston’s absence deepened and struck inward. For a moment, as he stood under the doors of that estranged23 house, and looked east and west along the solitary24 pavement of the Royal Terrace, where not a cat was stirring, the sense of solitude25 and desolation took him by the throat, and he wished himself in San Francisco.
And then the figure he made, with his decent portliness, his whiskers, the money in his purse, the excellent cigar that he now lighted, recurred26 to his mind in consolatory27 comparison with that of a certain maddened lad who, on a certain spring Sunday ten years before, and in the hour of church-time silence, had stolen from that city by the Glasgow road. In the face of these changes, it were impious to doubt fortune’s kindness. All would be well yet; the Mackenzies would be found, Flora, younger and lovelier and kinder than before; Alan would be found, and would have so nicely discriminated28 his behaviour as to have grown, on the one hand, into a valued friend of Mr. Nicholson’s, and to have remained, upon the other, of that exact shade of joviality29 which John desired in his companions. And so, once more, John fell to work discounting the delightful30 future: his first appearance in the family pew; his first visit to his uncle Greig, who thought himself so great a financier, and on whose purblind31 Edinburgh eyes John was to let in the dazzling daylight of the West; and the details in general of that unrivalled transformation32 scene, in which he was to display to all Edinburgh a portly and successful gentleman in the shoes of the derided33 fugitive34.
The time began to draw near when his father would have returned from the office, and it would be the prodigal’s cue to enter. He strolled westward35 by Albany Street, facing the sunset embers, pleased, he knew not why, to move in that cold air and indigo36 twilight37, starred with street-lamps. But there was one more disenchantment waiting him by the way.
At the corner of Pitt Street he paused to light a fresh cigar; the vesta threw, as he did so, a strong light upon his features, and a man of about his own age stopped at sight of it.
‘I think your name must be Nicholson,’ said the stranger.
It was too late to avoid recognition; and besides, as John was now actually on the way home, it hardly mattered, and he gave way to the impulse of his nature.
‘Great Scott!’ he cried, ‘Beatson!’ and shook hands with warmth. It scarce seemed he was repaid in kind.
‘So you’re home again?’ said Beatson. ‘Where have you been all this long time?’
‘In the States,’ said John — ‘California. I’ve made my pile though; and it suddenly struck me it would be a noble scheme to come home for Christmas.’
‘I see,’ said Beatson. ‘Well, I hope we’ll see something of you now you’re here.’
‘Oh, I guess so,’ said John, a little frozen.
‘Well, ta-ta,’ concluded Beatson, and he shook hands again and went.
This was a cruel first experience. It was idle to blink facts: here was John home again, and Beatson — Old Beatson — did not care a rush. He recalled Old Beatson in the past — that merry and affectionate lad — and their joint38 adventures and mishaps39, the window they had broken with a catapult in India Place, the escalade of the castle rock, and many another inestimable bond of friendship; and his hurt surprise grew deeper. Well, after all, it was only on a man’s own family that he could count; blood was thicker than water, he remembered; and the net result of this encounter was to bring him to the doorstep of his father’s house, with tenderer and softer feelings.
The night had come; the fanlight over the door shone bright; the two windows of the dining-room where the cloth was being laid, and the three windows of the drawing-room where Maria would be waiting dinner, glowed softlier through yellow blinds. It was like a vision of the past. All this time of his absence life had gone forward with an equal foot, and the fires and the gas had been lighted, and the meals spread, at the accustomed hours. At the accustomed hour, too, the bell had sounded thrice to call the family to worship. And at the thought, a pang40 of regret for his demerit seized him; he remembered the things that were good and that he had neglected, and the things that were evil and that he had loved; and it was with a prayer upon his lips that he mounted the steps and thrust the key into the key-hole.
He stepped into the lighted hall, shut the door softly behind him, and stood there fixed41 in wonder. No surprise of strangeness could equal the surprise of that complete familiarity. There was the bust42 of Chalmers near the stair — railings, there was the clothes-brush in the accustomed place; and there, on the hat-stand, hung hats and coats that must surely be the same as he remembered. Ten years dropped from his life, as a pin may slip between the fingers; and the ocean and the mountains, and the mines, and crowded marts and mingled43 races of San Francisco, and his own fortune and his own disgrace, became, for that one moment, the figures of a dream that was over.
He took off his hat, and moved mechanically toward the stand; and there he found a small change that was a great one to him. The pin that had been his from boyhood, where he had flung his balmoral when he loitered home from the Academy, and his first hat when he came briskly back from college or the office — his pin was occupied. ‘They might have at least respected my pin!’ he thought, and he was moved as by a slight, and began at once to recollect44 that he was here an interloper, in a strange house, which he had entered almost by a burglary, and where at any moment he might be scandalously challenged.
He moved at once, his hat still in his hand, to the door of his father’s room, opened it, and entered. Mr. Nicholson sat in the same place and posture45 as on that last Sunday morning; only he was older, and greyer, and sterner; and as he now glanced up and caught the eye of his son, a strange commotion46 and a dark flush sprung into his face.
‘Father,’ said John, steadily47, and even cheerfully, for this was a moment against which he was long ago prepared, ‘father, here I am, and here is the money that I took from you. I have come back to ask your forgiveness, and to stay Christmas with you and the children.’
‘Keep your money,’ said the father, ‘and go!’
‘Father!’ cried John; ‘for God’s sake don’t receive me this way. I’ve come for — ’
‘Understand me,’ interrupted Mr. Nicholson; ‘you are no son of mine; and in the sight of God, I wash my hands of you. One last thing I will tell you; one warning I will give you; all is discovered, and you are being hunted for your crimes; if you are still at large it is thanks to me; but I have done all that I mean to do; and from this time forth I would not raise one finger — not one finger — to save you from the gallows48! And now,’ with a low voice of absolute authority, and a single weighty gesture of the finger, ‘and now — go!’
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1
forth
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| adv.向前；向外，往外 | |
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incognito
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| adv.匿名地；n.隐姓埋名；adj.化装的，用假名的，隐匿姓名身份的 | |
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piously
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| adv.虔诚地 | |
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reconciliation
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| n.和解，和谐，一致 | |
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5
frigid
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| adj.寒冷的，凛冽的；冷淡的；拘禁的 | |
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6
investor
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| n.投资者，投资人 | |
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7
calf
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| n.小牛，犊，幼仔，小牛皮 | |
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8
pathos
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| n.哀婉，悲怆 | |
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9
rosy
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| adj.美好的，乐观的，玫瑰色的 | |
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dome
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| n.圆屋顶，拱顶 | |
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11
gutters
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| （路边）排水沟( gutter的名词复数 )； 阴沟； （屋顶的）天沟； 贫贱的境地 | |
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rattled
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| 慌乱的，恼火的 | |
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besieged
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| 包围，围困，围攻( besiege的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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14
scotch
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| n.伤口，刻痕；苏格兰威士忌酒；v.粉碎，消灭，阻止；adj.苏格兰(人)的 | |
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15
flora
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| n.(某一地区的)植物群 | |
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16
dignified
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| a.可敬的，高贵的 | |
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simplicity
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| n.简单，简易；朴素；直率，单纯 | |
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18
explicit
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| adj.详述的，明确的；坦率的；显然的 | |
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abode
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| n.住处，住所 | |
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desecrated
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| 毁坏或亵渎( desecrate的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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urchin
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| n.顽童；海胆 | |
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abortion
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| n.流产，堕胎 | |
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estranged
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| adj.疏远的，分离的 | |
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24
solitary
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| adj.孤独的，独立的，荒凉的；n.隐士 | |
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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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26
recurred
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| 再发生，复发( recur的过去式和过去分词 )； 治愈 | |
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27
consolatory
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| adj.慰问的，可藉慰的 | |
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28
discriminated
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| 分别，辨别，区分( discriminate的过去式和过去分词 )； 歧视，有差别地对待 | |
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29
joviality
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| n.快活 | |
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30
delightful
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| adj.令人高兴的，使人快乐的 | |
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31
purblind
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| adj.半盲的；愚笨的 | |
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32
transformation
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| n.变化；改造；转变 | |
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33
derided
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| v.取笑，嘲笑( deride的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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34
fugitive
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| adj.逃亡的，易逝的；n.逃犯，逃亡者 | |
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westward
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| n.西方，西部；adj.西方的，向西的；adv.向西 | |
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indigo
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| n.靛青，靛蓝 | |
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37
twilight
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| n.暮光，黄昏；暮年，晚期，衰落时期 | |
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38
joint
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| adj.联合的，共同的；n.关节，接合处；v.连接，贴合 | |
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mishaps
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| n.轻微的事故，小的意外( mishap的名词复数 ) | |
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40
pang
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| n.剧痛，悲痛，苦闷 | |
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41
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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42
bust
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| vt.打破；vi.爆裂；n.半身像；胸部 | |
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43
mingled
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| 混合，混入( mingle的过去式和过去分词 )； 混进，与…交往[联系] | |
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44
recollect
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| v.回忆，想起，记起，忆起，记得 | |
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45
posture
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| n.姿势，姿态，心态，态度；v.作出某种姿势 | |
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46
commotion
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| n.骚动，动乱 | |
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47
steadily
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| adv.稳定地；不变地；持续地 | |
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48
gallows
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| n.绞刑架，绞台 | |
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