'Twere now to be most happy; for I fear,
My soul hath her content so absolute,
That not another comfort like to this
Succeeds in unknown fate.—Othello.
It was a day of cloudless sunshine when Morton set forth1 for the house at Battle Brook2; but his mind was far from sharing the brightness of the world without. The hope that flowed so full and calmly the night before had ebbed3 and left him dry. He was shaken with doubts, misgivings4, perturbations. He walked his horse up the avenue, till he came within view of the house, a large, square mansion5, with a veranda6 on three sides, a quiet-looking place enough, but in Morton's eyes priceless as Aladdin's palace, and sacred as Our Lady's house at Loretto. A monthly honeysuckle twined about one of the columns of the porch; the hall door stood open, and the air played freely through from front to rear.
He gave his horse to the charge of an old Scotchman who was mowing7 the lawn, rang at the door, asked for Miss Leslie, and was shown into the vacant parlor8. With its straw carpeting and light summer furniture, it was bright and cheerful as every thing else about it. Engravings from Turner and Landseer, framed in black walnut9, hung against the walls; and on a small table in a corner stood a bird cage, with the door left purposely open. The inmate10 was hopping11 about the room, without attempting to escape, though the windows also were open.
"No wonder it will not leave her," thought the visitor.
He seated himself by the window, and looked out on the fields and the groves12 beyond. Far down in the meadow, the yellow-tufted rye was undulating in the warm summer wind, wave chasing wave in graceful13 succession. The birds would not sing,—the afternoon was too hot,—but the buzz, and hum, and chirrup of a myriad14 of insects rose from their lurking-places in the grass, while now and then the cicala raised its piercing voice from a neighboring apple tree.
Suddenly Morton's heart began to beat; a light step on the staircase reached his ear, and the rustling15 of a dress. Miss Leslie came in with her usual natural and quiet ease of manner, while he rose to receive her with his heart in his throat. And now, when he needed them most, his wits seemed to fail him. He tried to converse16, and produced nothing but barren commonplace. Again and again the conversation flagged; and the hum and chirrup of the insect world without filled the pauses between.
He glanced at his companion.
"Be a man, you idiot," he apostrophized himself.
"I must speak out, or die," he thought.
He rested his arm on the table. He leaned towards her. Heaven knows what nonsense was on his lips, when the sound of a man's footstep in the hall made him subside19 into his chair, and do his best to look nonchalant. Leslie entered, cast an uneasy glance at the visitor, and greeted him with somewhat cool courtesy.
"I have just met Miss Weston and her sister," said Leslie to his daughter; "I think they will be here in a few minutes."
Leslie took a turn or two about the room, looked out at the window, remarked that it was a hot afternoon, said that the hay crop had been the heaviest ever known, in consequence, he opined, of the joint21 effects of heat, moisture, and guano; and was descanting on the ravages22 committed by the borers on a certain peach tree, when Miss Weston and her sister appeared.
"It's all up with me. She does not care for me a straw," thought Morton, as he saw the easy cordiality with which Miss Leslie received her guests. He was introduced. Miss Weston complimented him on the affair of the railroad. His reply was cold and constrained23. Leslie soon left the room. Morton felt himself de trop, yet could not muster24 strength of mind to go. Conversation flagged. Every body became constrained. Miss Weston suspected the truth, and glanced at her sister that they should take their leave, when, at this juncture25, a servant came to announce tea.
The ebbs26 and flows of the human mind are beyond the reach of astronomy. As they went into the next room, Morton became conscious of a faint and indefinite something in the face of his mistress, which, he could not tell why, cast a gleam of light into his darkness, and lifted him out of the slough27 of despond in which he had been floundering for the last half hour. A flush of hope dawned on him. His constraint28 passed away, and Miss Weston's opinion of him was wonderfully revolutionized. At length, much to his delight, one of the visitors remarked to the other, that they had better go home before it grew too dark. But here a new alarm seized him. Might he not be expected to offer them his escort? Terrified at this idea, and oblivious29 of all gallantry, he made his escape into the garden, impelled—so he left them to infer—by a delicate wish to free them from the restraint of his presence. Here he walked to and fro behind the hedge, in no small agitation30, but with all his faculties31 on the alert.
In a quarter of an hour, he heard voices at the hall door; and approaching behind a cluster of high laurels32, saw Edith Leslie accompanying her two friends down the avenue. After walking with them a few rods, she bade them good evening, and turned back towards the house. Morton went forward to meet her.
"There is a beautiful sunset over the water, beyond the garden. Will you walk that way?"
They turned down one of the garden paths.
"What did you think of me this afternoon?" asked Morton—"did you think me ill, or bewitched, or turned idiot?"
"Neither. I thought you a little taciturn, at first."
"I am fortunate if that was your worst opinion. I believe I was under a spell. Did you never dream—all people, I believe, have something in common in their dreams—of being in some great peril33, without power to move hand or foot to escape?—of being under some desperate necessity of speaking, without power to open your lips?—or of seeing before you some splendid prize, without power to make even an effort to grasp it? Something like that was my case." Here he came to an abrupt34 stop, walked on a pace or two, then turned to his companion with a vehemence35 which startled her—"Miss Leslie, you heard your friend praise me for humanity—courage—what not? It was all a mistake—all a delusion36. I thought you were in the train. I was wild with agony; and when the people were crowding after me, I thought that all had been for nothing, because I had not saved you. I can hardly tell what I did; it was mere37 blind instinct. I could have ridden into the fire, and perhaps not have felt the burning. There is a spell upon me. I am changed—life is changed—every thing is changed. I scarcely know myself. It mans me, and it makes me a child again. The world puts on a new face; just as this sunset lights the earth with purple and vermilion, and turns it to a fairy land. Forgive me; I don't know what I am saying. I am in fear that all this brightness will change of a sudden into winter and night, and cold, rocky commonplace. You know what I would say. I have no words fit to say it. You are my judge, to lift me up, or cast me down."
Here he stopped again abruptly38, and looked at his companion in much greater agitation than he would have felt if he had just thrown the dice39 for life or death. She stood for a moment with her eyes fixed40 on the earth, as if waiting for him to go on, then slowly raised them to his face.
"You risked your life to save mine. You need not believe that I could ever forget it."
Morton's heart sprang to his lips. Nature had not been liberal to him in the gift of tongues, but the energy of his emotion supplied the defect. Nor were his words thrown away; for with all its outward calm, the nature that responded to them was earnest and ardent42 as his own.
It was an hour or more since the whippoorwills had begun their evening cries, when they returned to the house. Candles were lighted, and Leslie was sitting with two persons from the neighborhood, an agent of the Matherton factories and a lawyer, conversing43 upon railroad stocks. He looked very uneasily at his daughter and Morton, but said nothing. The latter was engrossed44 with one idea; but he forced himself to join in the conversation, and favored the company with his views—not very lucid45 on this occasion—upon the topic under discussion. He soon, however, contrived46 to whisper to Miss Leslie, "I shall go in five minutes—will you meet me in the hall?" She left the room in a few moments; and Morton, after a short interval47, took his leave, in much alarm lest his intended father-in-law should strain courtesy so far as to follow him. Leslie, however, remained quiet; and he found his mistress waiting for him at the hall door. Their interview was short, but Morton never forgot it. After bidding her good night some eight or ten times, he compelled himself to leave the house, mounted his horse, waved his hand to Edith Leslie, whom he saw watching him from a side window, wheeled, rode down the avenue, turned as he reached the entrance of the trees, and waved his hand again towards the window. His heart was full to overflowing48, and tears, not of sorrow, ran down his cheeks. "Good Heaven!" laughed Morton, as he brushed them away, "this has not happened to me before these twelve years." He waved a farewell once more, and spurring his horse, rode down the avenue into the high road.
It was a soft, warm, starlight evening, and, as he passed along, he heard the voices of the whippoorwills from far and near, while the meadows, the orchards49, and the borders of the woods sparkled with fireflies. With loosened rein50, he suffered his horse to canter lightly forward, and gave himself up to the enchantment51 of his dreams. A thousand times in his after life did he recall the visions of that evening's ride.
About a mile before reaching the town, the road passed, for a few rods, through a belt of thick woods. While riding through the darkest of the shadow, a strange cry startled him—a shriek52 so wild and awful that the blood curdled53 in his veins54, and his horse leaped aside with fright. There was a rustling among the branches over his head, a flapping and fanning of broad pinions55, and the dusky form of some great bird sailed away into the innermost darkness of the woods. Morton knew the sound. It was the voice of the great horned owl41, rarely found in that part of the country, though he had once or twice before heard its midnight yells in the lonely forests of Maine.
The cry long rang in his ears. It seemed fraught56 with startling portent57, clouded his spirits, and umbered the rose-tint of his reveries. He turned his face to the stars, and breathed a prayer for the welfare of his mistress.
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1
forth
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| adv.向前；向外，往外 | |
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brook
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| n.小河，溪；v.忍受，容让 | |
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3
ebbed
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| （指潮水）退( ebb的过去式和过去分词 )； 落； 减少； 衰落 | |
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misgivings
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| n.疑虑，担忧，害怕；疑虑，担心，恐惧( misgiving的名词复数 )；疑惧 | |
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5
mansion
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| n.大厦，大楼；宅第 | |
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veranda
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| n.走廊；阳台 | |
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7
mowing
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| n.割草，一次收割量，牧草地v.刈，割( mow的现在分词 ) | |
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8
parlor
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| n.店铺，营业室；会客室，客厅 | |
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9
walnut
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| n.胡桃，胡桃木，胡桃色，茶色 | |
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10
inmate
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| n.被收容者；(房屋等的)居住人；住院人 | |
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11
hopping
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| n. 跳跃 动词hop的现在分词形式 | |
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12
groves
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| 树丛，小树林( grove的名词复数 ) | |
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13
graceful
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| adj.优美的，优雅的；得体的 | |
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14
myriad
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| adj.无数的；n.无数，极大数量 | |
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15
rustling
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| n. 瑟瑟声，沙沙声 adj. 发沙沙声的 | |
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16
converse
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| vi.谈话，谈天，闲聊；adv.相反的，相反 | |
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17
bent
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| n.爱好，癖好；adj.弯的；决心的，一心的 | |
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18
embroidery
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| n.绣花，刺绣；绣制品 | |
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19
subside
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| vi.平静，平息；下沉，塌陷，沉降 | |
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20
gnawed
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| 咬( gnaw的过去式和过去分词 )； （长时间） 折磨某人； （使）苦恼； （长时间）危害某事物 | |
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21
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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22
ravages
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| 劫掠后的残迹，破坏的结果，毁坏后的残迹 | |
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23
constrained
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| adj.束缚的,节制的 | |
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24
muster
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| v.集合，收集，鼓起，激起；n.集合，检阅，集合人员，点名册 | |
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25
juncture
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| n.时刻，关键时刻，紧要关头 | |
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26
ebbs
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| 退潮( ebb的名词复数 )； 落潮； 衰退 | |
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27
slough
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| v.蜕皮，脱落，抛弃 | |
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28
constraint
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| n.(on)约束，限制；限制(或约束)性的事物 | |
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29
oblivious
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| adj.易忘的，遗忘的，忘却的，健忘的 | |
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30
agitation
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| n.搅动；搅拌；鼓动，煽动 | |
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31
faculties
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| n.能力( faculty的名词复数 )；全体教职员；技巧；院 | |
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32
laurels
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| n.桂冠，荣誉 | |
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33
peril
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| n.(严重的)危险；危险的事物 | |
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34
abrupt
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| adj.突然的，意外的；唐突的，鲁莽的 | |
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35
vehemence
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| n.热切；激烈；愤怒 | |
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36
delusion
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| n.谬见，欺骗，幻觉，迷惑 | |
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37
mere
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| adj.纯粹的；仅仅，只不过 | |
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abruptly
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| adv.突然地，出其不意地 | |
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39
dice
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| n.骰子；vt.把（食物）切成小方块，冒险 | |
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40
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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41
owl
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| n.猫头鹰，枭 | |
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42
ardent
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| adj.热情的，热烈的，强烈的，烈性的 | |
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43
conversing
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| v.交谈，谈话( converse的现在分词 ) | |
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44
engrossed
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| adj.全神贯注的 | |
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45
lucid
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| adj.明白易懂的，清晰的，头脑清楚的 | |
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46
contrived
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| adj.不自然的，做作的；虚构的 | |
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47
interval
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| n.间隔，间距；幕间休息，中场休息 | |
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48
overflowing
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| n. 溢出物,溢流 adj. 充沛的，充满的 动词overflow的现在分词形式 | |
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49
orchards
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| （通常指围起来的）果园( orchard的名词复数 ) | |
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50
rein
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| n.疆绳，统治，支配；vt.以僵绳控制，统治 | |
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51
enchantment
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| n.迷惑，妖术，魅力 | |
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52
shriek
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| v./n.尖叫，叫喊 | |
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53
curdled
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| v.（使）凝结( curdle的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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54
veins
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| n.纹理；矿脉( vein的名词复数 )；静脉；叶脉；纹理 | |
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55
pinions
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| v.抓住[捆住]（双臂）( pinion的第三人称单数 ) | |
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56
fraught
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| adj.充满…的，伴有(危险等)的；忧虑的 | |
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57
portent
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| n.预兆；恶兆；怪事 | |
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