A lowering grey sky succeeded the sunshine of the day of the hunt. I crawled down late to breakfast, feeling very stiff after yesterday’s exertions2, and was on the whole relieved to find that Willy had gone out for a long day’s shooting, and that till lunch at least I should have no one to entertain but myself.
The evening before had been, as far as Willy had been concerned, of a rather{166} complicated type. I had done all in my power to efface3 from his mind the memory of my unfortunate laughter, but until dinner was over he had remained implacable. Uncle Dominick, on the contrary, had been unusually bland4 and talkative. It appeared that Madam O’Neill and her eldest5 daughter had called on me while I was out, and my uncle, having met them on the drive, had brought them in, given them tea, and had even gone so far as to ask the two girls to come with their brother to dinner the next night. He had given me to understand that this unusual hospitality was on my account—“Although,” he added, “I have no doubt you two young people are quite well able to amuse each other.” The look which accompanied this was, under the circumstances, so peculiarly embarrassing, that, in order to change the conversation, I made the mistake of be{167}ginning to describe the hunt. Too soon I discovered that to slur7 over Willy’s disaster would be impossible, and my obvious efforts to do so did not improve matters.
“So you went off with young O’Neill,” my uncle had said, with a change of look and voice that frightened me; and nothing more was said on the subject.
My discomfiture8 was perhaps the cause of the alteration9 in Willy’s demeanour after dinner. Success far beyond my expectations, or indeed my wishes, was the result of my conciliatory advances. I went to bed feeling that I had more than regained10 the position I had held in Willy’s esteem11, and a little flurried by the difficulties of so ambiguous a relationship as that of first cousins.
From all this, it may be imagined that when I heard from Roche that “the masther was gone to town, and would not{168} be home for lunch,” I regarded the combined absences of Willy and his father as little short of providential.
I observed that the magenta12 and yellow dahlias which had decorated the table on my arrival still held their ground, albeit13 in an advanced stage of decay; and, remembering the glories of the autumn leaves, I suggested to Roche that with his permission I might be able to improve upon the present arrangement.
A little elated by the expectation of surprising Willy with the unusual splendour of the dinner-table, and not without an emulative14 thought of the O’Neills, I determined15 to ransack16 the shrubberies for the most glowing leaves wherewith to carry out my purpose. A few minutes later, I left the house with a capacious basket in my hand, feeling a delightful17 sense of freedom, and full of the selfish,{169} half-savage pleasure of a solitary18 and irresponsible voyage of discovery.
I wandered down the nearest path to the sea, and, keeping to the shore, came to the little promontory19 which, with its few ragged20 trees, I could see from the windows of my room. There was a certain romance about this lonely wind and wave beaten point that had always attracted me to it. When, in the early light, I saw the fir trees’ weird21 reflection in the quiet cove6, I used to wonder if they had ever been a landmark22 for some western Dick Hatteraick; and now, as I scrambled23 about, and tugged24 at the tough bramble-stems that trailed in the coarse grass, I was half persuaded that any one of the rough boulders25 might close the entrance of a smuggler’s long-forgotten “hide.”
I had soon gathered as many blackberry-leaves as I wanted, and, sitting down{170} beside one of the old trees, I leaned my cheek against its seamy trunk and looked across the grey rollers to the horizon.
A narrow black line stole from behind the eastern point of Durrusmore Harbour, leaving a dark stain on the sky as it went, and from where I sat I fancied I could hear the beat of machinery26.
It was the first time I had noticed the passing of one of the big American steamers, and I watched the great creature move out of sight with a strange conflict of feeling. Uppermost, I think, was the thought of what my regret would be if I were at that moment on board her, bound for America. I was a little ashamed when I reflected how soon the newer interests had superseded27 the old. I had been but a week in Ireland, and already the idea of leaving it for America was akin28 to that of emigration. What, I wondered, was the charm that had{171} worked so quickly? Was this subtle familiarity and satisfaction with my new life merely the result of ?sthetic interest, or had it the depth of an inherited instinct?
I could not tell; I could only feel a strange presentiment29 that my existence had hitherto been nothing but a preface, and that I was now on the threshold of what was to be, for good or evil, my real life.
I picked up my basket and retraced30 my steps down the little slope, till I again found myself in the shrubbery walk. On one point my mind was clear. My liking31 for Durrus was in no perceptible degree influenced by my feeling for my uncle and my cousin. I reiterated32 this to myself as I strolled along in the damp shade of over-arching laurels33 towards the plantation34 which lay between the sea and the lodge35.
Uncle Dominick was anything but a{172} person to inspire immediate36 affection; and then Willy—well, Willy certainly had many attractive points, but, although he was a pleasant companion, he could not be said to be either very cultured or refined.
I left the path and strayed through the wood, stopping here and there to rob the branches of their lavish37 autumn loveliness. A sluggish38 little stream crept among the trees, and along its banks the ferns grew thickly. I knelt down in the stubbly yellow grass beside it, where the pale trunk of a beech39 tree stooped over the water, and picked the small delicate ferns that were clustering between its roots. Having gathered all within reach, I still knelt there, watching a little procession of withered40 beech-leaves making their slow way down the stream, and studying my own dark reflection on the water.
I was at length startled by the sound of{173} voices that seemed to come from the path I had just left, but from where I was, the thickness of the intervening laurels prevented me from seeing to whom they belonged.
It soon became evident that one of the speakers was a country girl. She was talking rapidly and earnestly; but what she said was unintelligible41 to me till she and her companion came to the point in the path which was nearest to me, when, after a momentary42 pause, the soft voice broke out—
“Ye won’t lave me for her, will ye, now? Ye said ye’d hold by me always, and now——”
Something between a sob43 and a choke ended the sentence. Several sobs44 followed; and then the girl’s voice went on excitedly—
I could hear no reply; but that reassurance46 and consolation47 were offered was obvious, for as the footsteps died away I heard something like a broken laugh from the girl, with some faint echo of it from a man’s voice.
“Who can she be?” I thought, with instinctive48 compassion49. There was a certain perplexing familiarity in the low pathetic voice, and I walked home, feeling unnecessarily depressed50 and troubled by what I had heard, and wondering sadly at the self-abandonment which had led to such an appeal.
The path by which I returned skirted the garden and formed a loop with the one by which I had first entered the wood. As I approached the broader walk, I saw a girl’s figure flit down the other path,{175} and I had just time to recognize it as being that of Anstey Brian. Simultaneously51 came the recollection of the pleading voice in the wood, and in an instant I knew why it had been familiar.
“Then it must have been Anstey,” I thought, feeling both sorry and surprised. The entreaty52 in her voice had made it very plain how serious a matter her trouble was to her, and the helplessness of her quick surrender showed that she had lost all power of resistance or resentment53. I was astonished to think that so pretty a girl as Anstey should have cause to reproach her sweetheart with want of constancy. “Who could he be?” I wondered. Then, remembering that the path she was on was a usual short cut from the lodge to the yard, I came to the conclusion that one of the Durrus stablemen must have been the object of this broken-hearted appeal.{176} I determined that I would try and find out something further about Anstey and her lover, and wondered if it would be of any use to mention the subject to Willy.
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1
nay
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| adv.不；n.反对票，投反对票者 | |
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exertions
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| n.努力( exertion的名词复数 )；费力；（能力、权力等的）运用；行使 | |
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3
efface
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| v.擦掉，抹去 | |
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bland
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| adj.淡而无味的，温和的，无刺激性的 | |
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eldest
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| adj.最年长的，最年老的 | |
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cove
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| n.小海湾，小峡谷 | |
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7
slur
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| v.含糊地说；诋毁；连唱；n.诋毁；含糊的发音 | |
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8
discomfiture
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| n.崩溃；大败；挫败；困惑 | |
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9
alteration
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| n.变更，改变；蚀变 | |
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10
regained
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| 复得( regain的过去式和过去分词 )； 赢回； 重回； 复至某地 | |
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esteem
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| n.尊敬，尊重；vt.尊重，敬重；把…看作 | |
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12
magenta
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| n..紫红色（的染料）；adj.紫红色的 | |
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13
albeit
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| conj.即使；纵使；虽然 | |
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14
emulative
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| adj.好胜 | |
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15
determined
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| adj.坚定的；有决心的 | |
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16
ransack
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| v.彻底搜索，洗劫 | |
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17
delightful
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| adj.令人高兴的，使人快乐的 | |
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18
solitary
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| adj.孤独的，独立的，荒凉的；n.隐士 | |
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promontory
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| n.海角；岬 | |
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ragged
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| adj.衣衫褴褛的，粗糙的，刺耳的 | |
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weird
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| adj.古怪的，离奇的；怪诞的，神秘而可怕的 | |
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22
landmark
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| n.陆标，划时代的事，地界标 | |
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23
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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24
tugged
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| v.用力拉，使劲拉，猛扯( tug的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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25
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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26
machinery
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| n.(总称)机械，机器；机构 | |
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27
superseded
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| [医]被代替的，废弃的 | |
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28
akin
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| adj.同族的，类似的 | |
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presentiment
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| n.预感，预觉 | |
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30
retraced
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| v.折回( retrace的过去式和过去分词 )；回忆；回顾；追溯 | |
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31
liking
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| n.爱好；嗜好；喜欢 | |
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32
reiterated
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| 反复地说，重申( reiterate的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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33
laurels
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| n.桂冠，荣誉 | |
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34
plantation
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| n.种植园，大农场 | |
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35
lodge
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| v.临时住宿，寄宿，寄存，容纳；n.传达室，小旅馆 | |
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36
immediate
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| adj.立即的；直接的，最接近的；紧靠的 | |
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37
lavish
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| adj.无节制的；浪费的；vt.慷慨地给予，挥霍 | |
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38
sluggish
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| adj.懒惰的，迟钝的，无精打采的 | |
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39
beech
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| n.山毛榉；adj.山毛榉的 | |
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40
withered
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| adj. 枯萎的，干瘪的，（人身体的部分器官）因病萎缩的或未发育良好的 动词wither的过去式和过去分词形式 | |
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41
unintelligible
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| adj.无法了解的，难解的，莫明其妙的 | |
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42
momentary
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| adj.片刻的，瞬息的；短暂的 | |
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43
sob
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| n.空间轨道的轰炸机；呜咽，哭泣 | |
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44
sobs
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| 啜泣（声），呜咽（声）( sob的名词复数 ) | |
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45
entirely
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| ad.全部地，完整地；完全地，彻底地 | |
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46
reassurance
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| n.使放心，使消除疑虑 | |
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47
consolation
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| n.安慰，慰问 | |
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48
instinctive
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| adj.(出于)本能的；直觉的；(出于)天性的 | |
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49
compassion
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| n.同情，怜悯 | |
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50
depressed
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| adj.沮丧的，抑郁的，不景气的，萧条的 | |
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51
simultaneously
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| adv.同时发生地，同时进行地 | |
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52
entreaty
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| n.恳求，哀求 | |
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53
resentment
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| n.怨愤，忿恨 | |
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