And Eustace answered reverently4, “Yes, I think I understand. Having come so near doing the same thing myself, I sympathize with you.”
Tyrrel paused a moment again. His face was like marble. Then he added, in a tone of the profoundest anguish5, “Till this minute, Eustace, I’ve never told anybody. And if it hadn’t been forced out of me by that poor man’s tortured and broken-hearted face, I wouldn’t have told you now. But could I look at him to-day and not break down before him?”
“How did it all happen?” Le Neve asked, leaning forward and clasping his friend’s arm with a brotherly gesture.
Tyrrel answered with a deep sigh, “Like this. I’ll make a clean breast of it all at last. I’ve bottled it up too long. I’ll tell you now, Eustace.
“Nearly sixteen years ago I was staying down here at Penmorgan with my uncle. The Trevennacks, as I learned afterward6, were in lodgings7 at Gunwalloe. But, so far as I can remember at present, I never even saw them. To the best of my belief I never set eyes on Michael Trevennack himself before this very morning. If I’d known who he was, you may be pretty sure I’d have cut off my right hand before I’d allowed myself to speak to him.
“Well, one day that year I was strolling along the top of the cliff by Michael’s Crag, with my uncle beside me, who owned Penmorgan. I was but a boy then, and I walked by the edge more than once, very carelessly. My uncle knew the cliffs, though, and how dangerous they were; he knew men might any time be walking below, digging launces in the sand, or getting lobworms for their lines, or hunting serpentine8 to polish, or looking for sea-bird’s eggs among the half-way ledges9. Time after time he called out to me, ‘Walter, my boy, take care; don’t go so near the edge, you’ll tumble over presently.’ And time after time I answered him back, like a boy that I was, ‘Oh, I’m all right, uncle. No fear about me. I can take care of myself. These cliffs don’t crumble10. They’re a deal too solid.’
“At last, when he saw it was no good warning me that way any longer, he turned round to me rather sharply—he was a Tyrrel, you see, and conscientious11, as we all of us are—it runs in the blood somehow—‘If you don’t mind for yourself, at least mind for others. Who can say who may be walking underneath12 those rocks? If you let a loose stone fall you may commit manslaughter.’
“I laughed, and thought ill of him. He was such a fidget! I was only a boy. I considered him absurdly and unnecessarily particular. He had stalked on a yard or two in front. I loitered behind, and out of pure boyish deviltry, as I was just above Michael’s Crag, I loosened some stones with my foot and showered them over deliberately13. Oh, heavens, I feel it yet; how they rattled15 and rumbled16!
“My uncle wasn’t looking. He walked on and left me behind. He didn’t see me push them. He didn’t see them fall. He didn’t hear them rattle14. But as they reached the bottom I heard myself—or thought I heard—a vague cry below. A cry as of some one wounded. I was frightened at that; I didn’t dare to look down, but ran on to my uncle. Not till some hours after did I know the whole truth, for we walked along the cliffs all the way to Kynance, and then returned inland by the road to the Lizard17.
“That afternoon, late, there was commotion18 at Penmorgan. The servants brought us word how a bit of the cliff near Michael’s Crag had foundered19 unawares, and struck two people who were walking below—a Mr. Trevennack, in lodgings at Gunwalloe, and his boy Michael. The father wasn’t much hurt, they said; but the son—oh, Eustace! the son was dangerously wounded.... I listened in terror.... He lived out the night, and died next morning.”
Tyrrel leaned back in agony as he spoke20, and looked utterly21 crushed. It was an awful memory. Le Neve hardly knew what to say, the man’s remorse was so poignant22. After all those years the boy’s thoughtless act seemed to weigh like a millstone round the grown man’s neck. Eustace held his peace, and felt for him. By and by Tyrrel went on again, rocking himself to and fro on his rough seat as he spoke. “For fifteen years,” he said, piteously, “I’ve borne this burden in my heart, and never told anybody. I tell it now first of all men to you. You’re the only soul on earth who shares my secret.”
“Then your uncle didn’t suspect it?” Eustace asked, all breathless.
Walter Tyrrel shook his head. “On the contrary,” he answered, “he said to me next day, ‘How glad I am Walter, my boy, I called you away from the cliff that moment! It was quite providential. For if you’d loosened a stone, and then this thing had happened, we’d both of us have believed it was YOU that did it?’ I was too frightened and appalled23 to tell him it WAS I. I thought they’d hang me. But from that day to this—Eustace, Eustace, believe me—I’ve never ceased to think of it! I’ve never forgiven myself!”
“Yet it was an accident after all,” Le Neve said, trying to comfort him.
“No, no; not quite. I should have been warned in time. I should have obeyed my uncle. But what would you have? It’s the luck of the Tyrrels.”
He spoke plaintively24. Le Neve pulled a piece of grass and began biting it to hide his confusion. How near he might have come to doing the same thing himself. He thanked his stars it wasn’t he. He thanked his stars he hadn’t let that stone drop from the cliff that morning.
Tyrrel was the first to break the solemn silence. “You can understand now,” he said, with an impatient gesture, “why I hate Penmorgan. I’ve hated it ever since. I shall always hate it. It seems like a mute reminder25 of that awful day. In my uncle’s time I never came near it. But as soon as it was my own I felt I must live upon it; and now, this terror of meeting Trevennack some day has made life one long burden to me. Sooner or later I felt sure I should run against him. They told me how he came down here from time to time to see where his son died, and I knew I should meet him. Now you can understand, too, why I hate the top of the cliffs so much, and WILL walk at the bottom. I had two good reasons for that. One I’ve told you already; the other was the fear of coming across Trevennack.”
Le Neve turned to him compassionately26. “My dear fellow,” he said, “you take it too much to heart. It was so long ago, and you were only a child. The... the accident might happen to any boy any day.”
“Yes, yes,” Tyrrel answered, passionately27. “I know all that. I try, so, to console myself. But then I’ve wrecked28 that unhappy man’s life for him.”
“He has his daughter still,” Le Neve put in, vaguely29. It was all he could think of to say by way of consolation30; and to him, Cleer Trevennack would have made up for anything.
A strange shade passed over Tyrrel’s face. Eustace noted31 it instinctively32. Something within seemed to move that Cornish heart. “Yes, he has his daughter still,” the Squire33 of Penmorgan answered, with a vacant air. “But for me, that only makes things still worse than before.... How can she pardon my act? What can she ever think of me?”
Le Neve turned sharply round upon him. There was some undercurrent in the tone in which he spoke that suggested far more than the mere34 words themselves might perhaps have conveyed to him. “What do you mean?” he asked, all eager, in a quick, low voice. “You’ve met Miss Trevennack before? You’ve seen her? You’ve spoken to her?”
For a second Tyrrel hesitated; then, with a burst, he spoke out. “I may as well tell you all,” he cried, “now I’ve told you so much. Yes, I’ve met her before, I’ve seen her, I’ve spoken to her.”
“But she didn’t seem to recognize you,” Le Neve objected, taken aback.
Tyrrel shook his head despondently35. “That’s the worst of it all,” he answered, with a very sad sigh. “She didn’t even remember me.... She was so much to me; and to her—why, to HER, Eustace—I was less than nothing.”
“And you knew who she was when you saw her just now?” Le Neve asked, greatly puzzled.
“Yes and no. Not exactly. I knew she was the person I’d seen and talked with, but I’d never heard her name, nor connected her in any way with Michael Trevennack. If I had, things would be different. It’s a terrible Nemesis36. I’ll tell you how it happened. I may as well tell all. But the worst point of the whole to me in this crushing blow is to learn that that girl is Michael Trevennack’s daughter.”
“Where and when did you meet her then?” Le Neve asked, growing curious.
“Quite casually37, once only, some time since, in a railway carnage. It must be two years ago now, and I was going from Bath to Bournemouth. She traveled with me in the same compartment38 as far as Temple Combe, and I talked all the way with her; I can remember every word of it.... Eustace, it’s foolish of me to acknowledge it, perhaps, but in those two short hours I fell madly in love with her. Her face has lived with me ever since; I’ve longed to meet her, But I was stupidly afraid to ask her name before she got out of the train; and I had no clue at all to her home or her relations. Yet, a thousand times since I’ve said to myself, ‘If ever I marry I’ll marry that girl who went in the carriage from Bath to Temple Combe with me.’ I’ve cherished her memory from that day to this. You mayn’t believe, I dare say, in love at first sight; but this I can swear to you was a genuine case of it.”
“I can believe in it very well,” Le Neve answered, most truthfully, “now I’ve seen Miss Trevennack.”
Tyrrel looked at him, and smiled sadly. “Well, when I saw her again this morning,” he went on, after a short pause, “my heart came up into my mouth. I said to myself, with a bound, ‘It’s she! It’s she! At last I’ve found her.’ And it dashed my best hopes to the ground at once to see she didn’t even remember having met me.”
Le Neve looked at him shyly. “Walter,” he said, after a short struggle, “I’m not surprised you fell in love with her. And shall I tell you why? I fell in love with her myself, too, the moment I saw her.”
Tyrrel turned to him without one word of reproach. “Well, we’re no rivals now,” he answered, generously. “Even if she would have me—even if she loved me well—how could I ask her to take—her brother’s murderer?”
Le Neve drew a long breath. He hadn’t thought of that before. But had it been other wise, he couldn’t help feeling that the master of Penmorgan would have been a formidable rival for a penniless engineer just home from South America.
For already Eustace Le Neve was dimly aware, in his own sanguine39 mind, that he meant to woo and win that beautiful Cleer Trevennack.
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1
prying
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| adj.爱打听的v.打听，刺探（他人的私事）( pry的现在分词 )；撬开 | |
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2
astonishment
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| n.惊奇，惊异 | |
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remorse
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| n.痛恨，悔恨，自责 | |
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reverently
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| adv.虔诚地 | |
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anguish
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| n.(尤指心灵上的)极度痛苦，烦恼 | |
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afterward
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| adv.后来；以后 | |
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lodgings
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| n. 出租的房舍, 寄宿舍 | |
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8
serpentine
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| adj.蜿蜒的，弯曲的 | |
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9
ledges
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| n.（墙壁，悬崖等）突出的狭长部分( ledge的名词复数 )；（平窄的）壁架；横档；（尤指）窗台 | |
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10
crumble
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| vi.碎裂，崩溃；vt.弄碎，摧毁 | |
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11
conscientious
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| adj.审慎正直的，认真的，本着良心的 | |
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12
underneath
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| adj.在...下面，在...底下；adv.在下面 | |
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13
deliberately
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| adv.审慎地；蓄意地；故意地 | |
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14
rattle
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| v.飞奔，碰响；激怒；n.碰撞声；拨浪鼓 | |
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15
rattled
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| 慌乱的，恼火的 | |
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16
rumbled
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| 发出隆隆声，发出辘辘声( rumble的过去式和过去分词 )； 轰鸣着缓慢行进； 发现…的真相； 看穿（阴谋） | |
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lizard
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| n.蜥蜴，壁虎 | |
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18
commotion
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| n.骚动，动乱 | |
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19
foundered
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| v.创始人( founder的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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20
spoke
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| n.（车轮的）辐条；轮辐；破坏某人的计划；阻挠某人的行动 v.讲，谈（speak的过去式）；说；演说；从某种观点来说 | |
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21
utterly
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| adv.完全地，绝对地 | |
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poignant
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| adj.令人痛苦的，辛酸的，惨痛的 | |
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23
appalled
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| v.使惊骇，使充满恐惧( appall的过去式和过去分词)adj.惊骇的；丧胆的 | |
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24
plaintively
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| adv.悲哀地，哀怨地 | |
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reminder
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| n.提醒物，纪念品；暗示，提示 | |
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26
compassionately
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| adv.表示怜悯地，有同情心地 | |
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27
passionately
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| ad.热烈地，激烈地 | |
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28
wrecked
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| adj.失事的，遇难的 | |
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29
vaguely
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| adv.含糊地，暖昧地 | |
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consolation
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| n.安慰，慰问 | |
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31
noted
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| adj.著名的，知名的 | |
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32
instinctively
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| adv.本能地 | |
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33
squire
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| n.护卫, 侍从, 乡绅 | |
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34
mere
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| adj.纯粹的；仅仅，只不过 | |
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35
despondently
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| adv.沮丧地，意志消沉地 | |
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36
nemesis
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| n.给以报应者，复仇者，难以对付的敌手 | |
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37
casually
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| adv.漠不关心地，无动于衷地，不负责任地 | |
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38
compartment
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| n.卧车包房，隔间；分隔的空间 | |
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39
sanguine
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| adj.充满希望的，乐观的，血红色的 | |
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