Six o'clock next morning found Graeme on the deck of the Ibex as she threaded her way swiftly among the bristling1 black rocks that guard the coast of Guernsey.
Herm and Jethou lay sleeping in the eye of the sun. Beyond them lay a filmy blue whaleback of an island which he was told was Sark, and it was to Sark he was bound.
And wherefore Sark, when, within reasonable limits, all the wide world lay open to him?
Truly, it might not be easy to say. But this I know,—having so far learned the lesson of life, though missing much else—that at times, perhaps at all times, when we think our choice of ways our very own,—when we stand in doubt at the crossroads of life, and then decide on this path or that, and pride ourselves on the exercise of our high prerogative2 as free agents,—the result, when we look back, bears in upon our hearts the mighty3 fact that a higher mind than our own has been quietly at work, shaping our ends and moulding and rounding our lives. We may doubt it at times. We may take all the credit to ourselves for dangers passed and tiny victories won, but in due time the eyes of our understanding are opened—and we know.
Possibly it was the rapt eulogiums of his friend Black—who had spent the previous summer in Sark, and had ever since been seeking words strong enough in which to paint its charms—that forced its name to the front when he stood facing the wide world, that lacked, for him at all events, a Margaret Brandt, and was therefore void and desolate4.
"If ever you seek perfect peace, relief from your fellows, and the simple life, try Sark—and see that you live in a cottage!" he remembered Adam Black murmuring softly, as they sat smoking at the Travellers' one night, shortly after that memorable5 dinner of the Whitefriars'. And then he had heaved a sigh of regret at thought of being where he was when he might have been in Sark.
Graeme knew nothing whatever of Sark save what his friend had let fall at times. "Jersey6, Guernsey, Alderney, and Sark," recalled his short-jacket and broad-collar days, and the last of the quartette had always somehow conjured7 up in his mind the image of a bleak8, inaccessible9 rock set in a stormy sea, where no one lived if he could possibly find shelter elsewhere,—an Ultima Thule, difficult of access and still more difficult of exit, a weather-bound little spot into which you scrambled10 precariously11 by means of boats and ladders, and out of which you might not be able to get for weeks on end.
But Sark was to hold a very different place in his mind henceforth. The name of Calais burnt itself into the heart of Queen Mary by reason of loss. Surely on John Graeme's heart the name of Sark may hope to find itself in living letters, for in Sark he was to find more than he had lost—new grace and charm in life, new hopes, new life itself.
He had gone straight home from Lincoln's Inn, and packed his portmanteau, knowing only that he was going away somewhere out of things, caring little where, so long as it was remote and lonely.
Fellow-man—and especially woman—was distasteful to him at the moment. He craved12 only Solitude13 the Soother14, and Nature the Healer.
He packed all he thought he might need for a couple of months' stay, and among other things the manuscript he had been at work upon until more pressing matters intervened. He felt, indeed, no slightest inclination15 towards it, or anything else, at present. But that might come, for Work and he were tried friends.
He wrote briefly16 to Lady Elspeth telling her how things were with him, and that he was going away for a time. He did not tell her where, for the simple reason that at the moment of writing he did not know himself. Sark came into his mind later.
He told his landlady17 that he was going away for a change, and she remarked in motherly fashion that she was glad to hear it, and it was high time too. He told her to keep all his letters till he sent for them. He had no importunate18 correspondents, his next book was as good as placed, and all he desired at the moment was to cut the painter, and drift into some quiet backwater where he could lie up till life should wear a more cheerful face.
And so no single soul knew where he had gone, and he said to himself, somewhat bitterly, and quite untruthfully, that no single soul cared.
He had paced the deck all night. The swift smooth motion of the boat, with a slight slow roll in it, was very soothing19; and the first tremulous hints of the dawn, and the wonder of its slow unfolding, and the coming of the sun were things to be remembered.
The cold gaunt aloofness20, and weltering loneliness of the Casquets appealed to him strongly. Just the kind of place, he said to himself, for a heart-sick traveller to crawl into and grizzle until he found himself again.
As they turned and swung in straight between the little lighthouse on White Rock and Castle Cornet, the bright early sunshine was bathing all the rising terraces of St. Peter Port in a golden haze21. Such a quaint22 medley23 of gray weathered walls and mellowed24 red roofs, from which the thin blue smoke of early fires crept lazily up to mingle25 with the haze above! Such restful banks of greenery! Such a startling blaze of windows flashing back unconscious greetings to the sun! This too was a sight worth remembering. For a wounded soul he was somewhat surprised at the enjoyment26 these things afforded him.
A further surprise was the pleasure he found in the reduction of a hearty27 appetite at an hotel on the front. Come! He was not as hard hit as he had thought! There was life in the young dog yet.
But these encouraging symptoms were doubtless due to the temporary exhilaration of the journey. The workaday bustle28 of the quays29 renewed his desire for the solitary30 places, and he set out to find means of transport to the little whalebacked island out there in the golden shimmer31 of the sun.
There was no steamer till the following day, he learned, and delay was not to his mind. So presently he came to an arrangement with an elderly party in blue, with a red-weathered face and grizzled hair, to put him and his two portmanteaux across to Sark for the sum of five shillings English.
"To Havver Gosslin," said the aged32 mariner33, with much emphasis, and a canny34 look which conveyed to Graeme nothing more than a simple and praiseworthy desire on his part to avoid any possibility of mistake.
"To Sark," said Graeme, with equal emphasis.
"Ay, ay!" said the other; and so it came that the new-comer's initial experience of the little island went far towards the confirmation35 of the vague ideas of his childhood as to its inaccessibility36.
The ancient called to a younger man, and they strolled away along the harbour wall to get the baggage.
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1
bristling
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| a.竖立的 | |
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prerogative
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| n.特权 | |
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mighty
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| adj.强有力的；巨大的 | |
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desolate
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| adj.荒凉的，荒芜的；孤独的，凄凉的；v.使荒芜，使孤寂 | |
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memorable
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| adj.值得回忆的，难忘的，特别的，显著的 | |
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jersey
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| n.运动衫 | |
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conjured
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| 用魔术变出( conjure的过去式和过去分词 )； 祈求，恳求； 变戏法； （变魔术般地） 使…出现 | |
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bleak
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| adj.(天气)阴冷的；凄凉的；暗淡的 | |
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inaccessible
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| adj.达不到的，难接近的 | |
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scrambled
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| v.快速爬行( scramble的过去式和过去分词 )；攀登；争夺；（军事飞机）紧急起飞 | |
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precariously
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| adv.不安全地；危险地；碰机会地；不稳定地 | |
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craved
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| 渴望，热望( crave的过去式 )； 恳求，请求 | |
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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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soother
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| n.抚慰者，橡皮奶头 | |
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inclination
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| n.倾斜；点头；弯腰；斜坡；倾度；倾向；爱好 | |
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briefly
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| adv.简单地，简短地 | |
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landlady
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| n.女房东，女地主 | |
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importunate
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| adj.强求的；纠缠不休的 | |
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soothing
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| adj.慰藉的；使人宽心的；镇静的 | |
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aloofness
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| 超然态度 | |
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haze
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| n.霾，烟雾；懵懂，迷糊；vi.(over)变模糊 | |
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quaint
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| adj.古雅的，离奇有趣的，奇怪的 | |
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medley
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| n.混合 | |
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mellowed
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| （使）成熟( mellow的过去式和过去分词 )； 使色彩更加柔和，使酒更加醇香 | |
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mingle
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| vt.使混合，使相混；vi.混合起来；相交往 | |
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enjoyment
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| n.乐趣；享有；享用 | |
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hearty
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| adj.热情友好的；衷心的；尽情的，纵情的 | |
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bustle
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| v.喧扰地忙乱，匆忙，奔忙；n.忙碌；喧闹 | |
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quays
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| 码头( quay的名词复数 ) | |
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solitary
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| adj.孤独的，独立的，荒凉的；n.隐士 | |
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shimmer
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| v./n.发微光，发闪光；微光 | |
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aged
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| adj.年老的，陈年的 | |
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mariner
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| n.水手号不载人航天探测器，海员，航海者 | |
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canny
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| adj.谨慎的，节俭的 | |
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35
confirmation
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| n.证实，确认，批准 | |
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36
inaccessibility
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| n. 难接近, 难达到, 难达成 | |
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