They met often—quite by accident, of course—on the moor8 and elsewhere. Tyrrel, for his part, shrank somewhat timidly from the sister of the boy, for his share in whose death he so bitterly reproached himself; yet he couldn’t quite drag himself off whenever he found himself in Cleer’s presence. She bound him as by a spell. He was profoundly attracted to her. There was something about the pretty Cornish girl so frank, so confiding9, in one word, so magnetic, that when once he came near her he couldn’t tear himself away as he felt he ought to. Yet he could see very well, none the less, it was for Eustace Le Neve that she watched most eagerly, with the natural interest of a budding girl in the man who takes her pure maiden10 fancy. Tyrrel allowed with a sigh that this was well indeed; for how could he ever dream, now he knew who she was, of marrying young Michael Trevennack’s sister?
One afternoon the two friends were returning from a long ramble11 across the open moor, when, near a little knoll12 of bare and weathered rock that rose from a circling belt of Cornish heath, they saw Cleer by herself, propped13 against the huge boulders14, with her eyes fixed15 intently on a paper-covered novel. She looked up and smiled as they approached; and the young men, turning aside from their ill-marked path, came over and stood by her. They talked for awhile about the ordinary nothings of society small-talk, till by degrees Cleer chanced accidentally to bring the conversation round to something that had happened to her mother and herself a year or two since in Malta. Le Neve snatched at the word; for he was eager to learn all he could about the Trevennacks’ movements, so deeply had Cleer already impressed her image on his susceptible16 nature.
“And when do you go back there?” he asked, somewhat anxiously. “I suppose your father’s leave is for a week or two only.”
“Oh, dear, no; we don’t go back at all, thank heaven,” Cleer answered, with a sunny smile. “I can’t bear exile, Mr. Le Neve, and I never cared one bit for living in Malta. But this year, fortunately, papa’s going to be transferred for a permanence to England; he’s to have charge of a department that has something or other to do with provisioning the Channel Squadron; I don’t quite understand what; but anyhow, he’ll have to be running about between Portsmouth and Plymouth, and I don’t know where else; and mamma and I will have to take a house for ourselves in London.”
Le Neve’s face showed his pleasure. “That’s well,” he answered, briskly. “Then you won’t be quite lost! I mean, there’ll be some chance at least when you go away from here of one’s seeing you sometimes.”
A bright red spot rose deep on Cleer’s cheek through the dark olive-brown skin. “How kind of you to say so,” she answered, looking down. “I’m sure mamma’ll be very pleased, indeed, if you’ll take the trouble to call.” Then, to hide her confusion, she went on hastily, “And are YOU going to be in England, too? I thought I understood the other day from your friend you had something to do with a railway in South America.”
“Oh, that’s all over now,” Le Neve answered, with a wave, well pleased she should ask him about his whereabouts so cordially. “I was only employed in the construction of the line, you know; I’ve nothing at all to do with its maintenance and working, and now the track’s laid, my work there’s finished. But as to stopping in England,—ah—that’s quite another thing. An engineer’s, you know, is a roving life. He’s here to-day and there to-morrow. I must go, I suppose, wherever work may take me. And there isn’t much stirring in the markets just now in the way of engineering.”
“I hope you’ll get something at home,” Cleer said, simply, with a blush, and then blamed herself for saying it. She blushed again at the thought. She looked prettiest when she blushed. Walter Tyrrel, a little behind, stood and admired her all the while. But Eustace was flattered she should think of wanting him to remain in England.
“Thank you,” he said, somewhat timidly, for her bashfulness made him a trifle bashful in return. “I should like to very much—for more reasons than one;” and he looked at her meaningly. “I’m getting tired, in some ways, of life abroad. I’d much prefer to come back now and settle down in England.”
Cleer rose as he spoke17. His frank admiration18 made her feel self-conscious. She thought this conversation had gone quite far enough for them both for the present. After all, she knew so little of him, though he was really very nice, and he looked at her so kindly19! But perhaps it would be better to go and hunt up papa. “I think I ought to be moving now,” she said, with a delicious little flush on her smooth, dark cheek. “My father’ll be waiting for me.” And she set her face across the moor in the opposite direction from the gate of Penmorgan.
“We may come with you, mayn’t we?” Eustace asked, with just an undertone of wistfulness.
But Tyrrel darted20 a warning glance at him. He, at least, couldn’t go to confront once more that poor dead boy’s father.
“I must hurry home,” he said, feebly, consulting his watch with an abstracted air. “It’s getting so late. But don’t let me prevent YOU from accompanying Miss Trevennack.”
Cleer shrank away, a little alarmed. She wasn’t quite sure whether it would be perfectly21 right for her to walk about alone on the moorland with only ONE young man, though she wouldn’t have minded the two, for there is safety in numbers. “Oh, no,” she said, half frightened, in that composite tone which is at once an entreaty22 and a positive command. “Don’t mind me, Mr. Le Neve. I’m quite accustomed to strolling by myself round the cliff. I wouldn’t make you miss your dinner for worlds. And besides, papa’s not far off. He went away from me, rambling23.”
The two young men, accepting their dismissal in the sense in which it was intended, saluted24 her deferentially25, and turned away on their own road. But Cleer took the path to Michael’s Crag, by the gully.
From the foot of the crag you can’t see the summit. Its own shoulders and the loose rocks of the foreground hide it. But Cleer was pretty certain her father must be there; for he was mostly to be found, when tide permitted it, perched up on the highest pinnacle26 of his namesake skerry, looking out upon the waters with a pre-occupied glance from that airy citadel27. The waves in the narrow channel that separate the crag from the opposite mainland were running high and boisterous28, but Cleer had a sure foot, and could leap, light as a gazelle, from rock to rock. Not for nothing was she Michael Trevennack’s daughter, well trained from her babyhood to high and airy climbs. She chose an easy spot where it was possible to spring across by a series of boulders, arranged accidentally like stepping-stones; and in a minute she was standing29 on the main crag itself, a huge beetling30 mass of detached serpentine31 pushed boldly out as the advance-guard of the land into the assailing32 waves, and tapering33 at its top into a pyramidal steeple.
The face of the crag was wet with spray in places; but Cleer didn’t mind spray; she was accustomed to the sea in all its moods and tempers. She clambered up the steep side—a sheer wall of bare rock, lightly clad here and there with sparse34 drapery of green sapphire35, or clumps36 of purple sea-aster, rooted firm in the crannies. Its front was yellow with great patches of lichen37, and on the peaks, overhead, the gulls38 perched, chattering39, or launched themselves in long curves upon the evening air. Cleer paused half way up to draw breath and admire the familiar scene. Often as she had gone there before, she could never help gazing with enchanted40 eyes on those brilliantly colored pinnacles41, on that deep green sea, on those angry white breakers that dashed in ceaseless assault against the solid black wall of rock all round her. Then she started once more on her climb up the uncertain path, a mere3 foothold in the crannies, clinging close with her tiny hands as she went to every jutting42 corner or weather-worn rock, and every woody stem of weather-beaten sea plants.
At last, panting and hot, she reached the sharp top, expecting to find Trevennack at his accustomed post on the very tallest pinnacle of the craggy little islet. But, to her immense surprise, her father wasn’t there. His absence disquieted43 her. Cleer stood up on the fissured44 mass of orange-lichened rock that crowned the very summit, dispossessing the gulls who flapped round her as she mounted it; then, shading her eyes with her hand, she looked down in every direction to see if she could descry45 that missing figure in some nook of the crag. He was nowhere visible. “Father!” she cried aloud, at the top of her voice; “father! father! father!” But the only answer to her cry was the sound of the sea on the base, and the loud noise of the gulls, as they screamed and fluttered in angry surprise over their accustomed breeding-grounds.
Alarmed and irresolute46, Cleer sat down on the rock, and facing landwards for awhile, waved her handkerchief to and fro to attract, if possible, her father’s attention. Then she scanned the opposite cliffs, beyond the gap or chasm47 that separated her from the mainland; but she could nowhere see him. He must have forgotten her and gone home to dinner alone, she fancied now, for it was nearly seven o’clock. Nothing remained but to climb down again and follow him. It was getting full late to be out by herself on the island. And tide was coming in, and the surf was getting strong—Atlantic swell48 from the gale49 at sea yesterday.
Painfully and toilsomely she clambered down the steep path, making her foothold good, step by step, in the slippery crannies, rendered still more dangerous in places by the sticky spray and the brine that dashed over them from the seething50 channel. It was harder coming down, a good deal, than going up, and she was accustomed to her father’s hand to guide her—to fit her light foot on the little ledges51 by the way, or to lift her down over the steepest bits with unfailing tenderness. So she found it rather difficult to descend52 by herself—both difficult and tedious. At last, however, after one or two nasty slips, and a false step or so on the way that ended in her grazing the tender skin on those white little fingers, Cleer reached the base of the crag, and stood face to face with the final problem of crossing the chasm that divided the islet from the opposite mainland.
Then for the first time the truth was borne in upon her with a sudden rush that she couldn’t get back—she was imprisoned53 on the island. She had crossed over at almost the last moment possible. The sea now quite covered two or three of her stepping-stones; fierce surf broke over the rest with each advancing billow, and rendered the task of jumping from one to the other impracticable even for a strong and sure-footed man, far more for a slight girl of Cleer’s height and figure.
In a moment the little prisoner took in the full horror of the situation. It was now about half tide, and seven o’clock in the evening. High water would therefore fall between ten and eleven; and it must be nearly two in the morning, she calculated hastily, before the sea had gone down enough to let her cross over in safety. Even then, in the dark, she dared hardly face those treacherous54 stepping-stones. She must stop there till day broke, if she meant to get ashore55 again without unnecessary hazard.
Cleer was a Trevennack, and therefore brave; but the notion of stopping alone on that desolate56 island, thronged57 with gulls and cormorants58, in the open air, through all those long dark hours till morning dawned, fairly frightened and appalled59 her. For a minute or two she crouched60 and cowered61 in silence. Then, overcome by terror, she climbed up once more to the first platform of rock, above the reach of the spray, and shouted with all her might, “Father! father! father!”
But ‘tis a lonely coast, that wild stretch by the Lizard62. Not a soul was within earshot. Cleer sat there still, or stood on top of the crag, for many minutes together, shouting and waving her handkerchief for dear life itself; but not a soul heard her. She might have died there unnoticed; not a creature came near to help or deliver her. The gulls and the cormorants alone stared at her and wondered.
Meanwhile, tide kept flowing with incredible rapidity. The gale in the Atlantic had raised an unwonted swell; and though there was now little wind, the breakers kept thundering in upon the firm, sandy beach with a deafening63 roar that drowned Cleer’s poor voice completely. To add to her misfortunes, fog began to drift slowly with the breeze from seaward. It was getting dark too, and the rocks were damp. Overhead the gulls screamed loud as they flapped and circled above her.
In an agony of despair, Cleer sat down all unnerved on the topmost crag. She began to cry to herself. It was all up now. She knew she must stop there alone till morning.
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1
abruptness
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| n. 突然，唐突 | |
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unnaturally
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| adv.违反习俗地；不自然地；勉强地；不近人情地 | |
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mere
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| adj.纯粹的；仅仅，只不过 | |
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entities
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| 实体对像； 实体，独立存在体，实际存在物( entity的名词复数 ) | |
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squire
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| n.护卫, 侍从, 乡绅 | |
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confidential
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| adj.秘（机）密的，表示信任的，担任机密工作的 | |
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complexion
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| n.肤色；情况，局面；气质，性格 | |
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moor
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| n.荒野，沼泽；vt.(使)停泊；vi.停泊 | |
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confiding
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| adj.相信人的，易于相信的v.吐露（秘密，心事等）( confide的现在分词 )；（向某人）吐露（隐私、秘密等） | |
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maiden
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| n.少女，处女；adj.未婚的，纯洁的，无经验的 | |
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ramble
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| v.漫步，漫谈，漫游；n.漫步，闲谈，蔓延 | |
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knoll
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| n.小山，小丘 | |
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propped
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| 支撑，支持，维持( prop的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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boulders
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| n.卵石( boulder的名词复数 )；巨砾；（受水或天气侵蚀而成的）巨石；漂砾 | |
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15
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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susceptible
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| adj.过敏的，敏感的；易动感情的，易受感动的 | |
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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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admiration
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| n.钦佩，赞美，羡慕 | |
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kindly
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| adj.和蔼的，温和的，爽快的；adv.温和地，亲切地 | |
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darted
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| v.投掷，投射( dart的过去式和过去分词 )；向前冲，飞奔 | |
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perfectly
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| adv.完美地，无可非议地，彻底地 | |
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entreaty
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| n.恳求，哀求 | |
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rambling
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| adj.[建]凌乱的，杂乱的 | |
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saluted
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| v.欢迎，致敬( salute的过去式和过去分词 )；赞扬，赞颂 | |
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deferentially
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| adv.表示敬意地，谦恭地 | |
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pinnacle
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| n.尖塔，尖顶，山峰；(喻)顶峰 | |
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citadel
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| n.城堡；堡垒；避难所 | |
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boisterous
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| adj.喧闹的，欢闹的 | |
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standing
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| n.持续，地位；adj.永久的，不动的，直立的，不流动的 | |
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beetling
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| adj.突出的，悬垂的v.快速移动( beetle的现在分词 ) | |
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serpentine
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| adj.蜿蜒的，弯曲的 | |
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assailing
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| v.攻击( assail的现在分词 )；困扰；质问；毅然应对 | |
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tapering
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| adj.尖端细的 | |
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sparse
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| adj.稀疏的，稀稀落落的，薄的 | |
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sapphire
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| n.青玉，蓝宝石；adj.天蓝色的 | |
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clumps
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| n.（树、灌木、植物等的）丛、簇( clump的名词复数 )；（土、泥等）团；块；笨重的脚步声v.（树、灌木、植物等的）丛、簇( clump的第三人称单数 )；（土、泥等）团；块；笨重的脚步声 | |
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37
lichen
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| n.地衣, 青苔 | |
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gulls
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| n.鸥( gull的名词复数 )v.欺骗某人( gull的第三人称单数 ) | |
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39
chattering
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| n. （机器振动发出的）咔嗒声，(鸟等)鸣，啁啾 adj. 喋喋不休的，啾啾声的 动词chatter的现在分词形式 | |
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40
enchanted
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| adj. 被施魔法的，陶醉的，入迷的 动词enchant的过去式和过去分词 | |
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41
pinnacles
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| 顶峰( pinnacle的名词复数 )； 顶点； 尖顶； 小尖塔 | |
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42
jutting
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| v.（使）突出( jut的现在分词 )；伸出；（从…）突出；高出 | |
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43
disquieted
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| v.使不安，使忧虑，使烦恼( disquiet的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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44
fissured
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| adj.裂缝的v.裂开( fissure的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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45
descry
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| v.远远看到；发现；责备 | |
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46
irresolute
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| adj.无决断的，优柔寡断的，踌躇不定的 | |
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47
chasm
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| n.深坑，断层，裂口，大分岐，利害冲突 | |
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48
swell
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| vi.膨胀，肿胀；增长，增强 | |
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49
gale
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| n.大风，强风，一阵闹声（尤指笑声等） | |
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50
seething
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| 沸腾的，火热的 | |
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51
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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52
descend
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| vt./vi.传下来，下来，下降 | |
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53
imprisoned
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| 下狱，监禁( imprison的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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54
treacherous
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| adj.不可靠的，有暗藏的危险的；adj.背叛的，背信弃义的 | |
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55
ashore
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| adv.在(向)岸上，上岸 | |
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56
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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57
thronged
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| v.成群，挤满( throng的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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cormorants
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| 鸬鹚，贪婪的人( cormorant的名词复数 ) | |
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59
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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60
crouched
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| v.屈膝，蹲伏( crouch的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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61
cowered
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| v.畏缩，抖缩( cower的过去式 ) | |
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62
lizard
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| n.蜥蜴，壁虎 | |
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63
deafening
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| adj. 振耳欲聋的, 极喧闹的 动词deafen的现在分词形式 | |
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