Presently, however, Christian began to feel idle, which is a good sign in invalids8; and soon the days became long and irksome. He began to take an increased interest in his surroundings, and realised at once how little he knew of the existence going on about him. Though he frequently passed, in the dim corridors and cloisters9, a silent, grey-clad figure, exchanging perhaps with him a scarcely perceptible salutation, he had never spoken with any other inmates11 of the monastery12 than the Provincial13 and the sub-prior.
He noticed also that the watchful14 care of the nurse had imperceptibly glided15 into that of a warder. He was never allowed out of his cell unless accompanied by the sub-prior—in fact, he was a state prisoner. His daily walks never extended beyond the one path near the potato bed, or backwards16 and forwards at the sunny end of the garden, where the huge pears hung ripely. From neither point was any portion of the surrounding country visible, but the Provincial could not veil the sun, and Christian knew where lay the west and where the east.
No possible opportunity for escape presented itself, but the Englishman was storing up strength and knowledge all the while. He knew that things would not go on for long like this, and felt that the Provincial would sooner or later summon him to the long room at the end of the corridor upon the upper floor.
This call came to him three weeks after the day when the two men had met in the garden—nine weeks after the Englishman's captivity17 had commenced.
“My son,” said the sub-prior one afternoon, “the Father Provincial wishes to speak with you to-day at three.”
Christian glanced up at the great monastery clock, which declared the time to be a quarter to three.
“I am ready,” he said quietly. There was no tremor18 in his voice or light in his eyes, and he continued walking leisurely19 by the side of the old monk20; but a sudden thrill of pleasant anticipation21 warmed his heart.
A little later they entered the monastery and mounted the stone stairs together. As they walked along the corridor the clock in the tower overhead struck three.
“I will wait for you at the foot of the stairs,” said the monk slowly, as if with some compunction. Then he led the way to the end of the corridor and knocked at the door. He stood back, as if the Provincial were in the habit of keeping knockers waiting. Such was, at all events, the case now, and some minutes elapsed before a clear, low voice bade him enter.
The monk opened the door and stood back against the wall for Christian to pass in. The Provincial was seated at the table near the window, which was open, the afternoon being sultry although the autumn was nearly over. At his left hand stood the small Venetian mirror which enabled him to see who was behind him without turning round.
As Christian crossed the room the Provincial rose and bowed slightly, with one of his slow, soft glances. Then he indicated the chair at the left-hand side of the table, and said, without looking up:
“Be good enough—Mr. Vellacott.”
When they were both seated the Provincial suddenly raised his eyes and fixed22 them upon the Englishman's face. The action was slightly dramatic, but very effective, and clearly showed that he was accustomed to find the eyes of others quail23 before his. Christian met the gaze with a calmness more difficult to meet than open defiance24. After a moment they turned away simultaneously25.
“I need scarcely,” said the Provincial, with singular sweetness of manner, which, however, was quite devoid26 of servility, “apologise to you, Monsieur, for speaking in French, as it is almost your native language.”
Christian bowed, at the same time edging somewhat nearer to the table.
“There are one or two matters,” continued the Jesuit, speaking faster, “upon which I have been instructed to treat with you; but first I must congratulate you upon your restoration to health. Your illness has been very serious... I trust that you have had nothing to complain of... in the treatment which you have received at our hands.”
Christian, while sitting quite motionless, was making an exhaustive survey of the room.
“On the contrary,” he said, in a conventional tone which, in comparison to his companion's manner, was almost brutal27, “it is probably owing to the care of the sub-prior that I am alive at the present moment, and—”
“And...?” repeated the Provincial, interrogatively. He leant back in his chair with an obvious air of interest.
“And I am very grateful——to him.”
“The reverend father is a great doctor,” said the Jesuit lightly. “Excuse me,” he continued, rising and leaning across the table, “I will close the window; the air from the river begins to grow cool.”
The journalist moved slightly, looking over his shoulder towards the window; at the same moment he altered, with his elbow, the position of the small mirror standing29 upon the table. Instead of reflecting the whole room, including the door at the end, it now reproduced the blank wall at the side opposed to the curtained recess30 where the bed was placed.
“And now, Mr. Vellacott,” continued the Jesuit, reseating himself, “I must beg your attention. I think there can be no harm in a little mutual31 frankness, and—and it seems to me that a certain allowance for respective circumstances can well be demanded.”
He paused, and opening the leather-bound manuscript book, became absorbed for a moment in the perusal32 of one of its pages.
“From your pen,” he then said, in a businesslike monotone, “there has emanated33 a serious and hitherto unproved charge against the Holy Society of Jesus. It came at a critical moment in the political strife34 then raging in France; and, in proportion to the attention it attracted, harm and calumny35 accrued36 to the Society. I am told that your motives37 were purely38 patriotic39, and your desire was nothing beyond a most laudable one of keeping your countrymen out of difficulties. Before I had the pleasure of seeing you I said, 'This is a young journalist who, at any expense, and even at the sacrifice of truth, wishes to make a name in the world and force himself into public attention.' Since then I have withdrawn40 that opinion.”
During these remarks the Provincial had not raised his eyes from the table. He now leant back in the chair and contemplated41 his own clasped hands. Christian had listened attentively42. His long, grave face was turned slightly towards the Provincial, and his eyes were perhaps a little softer in their gaze.
“I endeavoured,” he said, “some weeks ago, to explain my position.”
The Jesuit inclined his head. Then he raised his long white finger to his upper lip, stroking the blue skin pensively43.
Presently he raised his eyes to the Englishman's face, and in their velvety44 depths Christian thought he detected an expression which was almost pleading. It seemed to express a desire for help, for some slight assistance in the performance of a difficult task. He never again looked into those eyes in all his life, but the remembrance of them remained in his heart for many years after the surrounding incidents had passed away from memory and interest. He knew that the Soul looking forth45 from that pale and heartless face was of no ordinary mould or strength. In later years, when they were both grey-haired men whose Yea or No was of some weight in the world—one speaking with the great and open voice of the Press, the other working subtly, dumbly, secretly—their motives may have clashed once more, their souls may have met and touched, as it were, over the heads of the People, but they never looked into each other's eyes again.
The Provincial moved uneasily.
“It has been a most unfortunate business,” he said gently, and after a pause continued more rapidly, with his eyes upon the book. “I am instructed to lay before you the apologies of the Society for the inconvenience to which you have been put. Your own sense of justice will tell you that we were bound to defend ourselves in every way. You have done us a great injury, and, as is our custom, we have contradicted nothing. The Society of Jesus does not defend itself in the vain hope of receiving justice at the hands of men. I am now in a position to inform you again that you are at liberty—free to go where you will, when you will—and that any sum you may require is at your disposal to convey you home to England ... on your signing a promise never to write another word for private or public circulation on the subject of the Holy Order of Jesus, or to dictate46 to the writing of another.”
“I must refuse,” said Christian laconically47, almost before the words had left the Jesuit's lips. “As I explained before, I am simply a public servant; what I happen to know must ever be at the public disposal or I am useless.”
A short silence followed this remark. When at length the Provincial spoke10 his tone was cold and reserved.
“Of course,” he said, “I expected a refusal—at first. I am instructed to ask you to reconsider your refusal and to oblige me, at the end of a week, with the result of your meditations49. If it remains50 a refusal, another week will be accorded, and so on.”
“Until—?”
The Jesuit closed the book upon the table in front of him and with great care altered its position so that it lay quite squarely. He raised his eyebrows slightly and glanced sideways towards the Englishman. At that moment the bell began summoning the devotees to their evening meal, its deep tone vibrating weirdly51 through the bare corridors.
“Until you accept,” suggested he softly.
Christian looked at him speculatively52. The faintest suspicion of a smile hovered53 for a moment in his eyes, and then he turned and looked out of the window.
“I hope, Monsieur,” continued the Jesuit, “that when I have the pleasure of seeing you—a week hence—your health will be quite re-established!”
“Thank you!”
“And in the meantime I shall feel honoured by your asking for anything you may require.”
“Thank you!” answered Christian again. He was still looking over his shoulder, down at the brown river which ran immediately below the window.
“Please excuse my rising to open the door for you,” said the Provincial, with cool audacity54, “but I have a few words to write before joining our brethren at their evening repast.”
Christian turned and looked at him vaguely55. There was a peculiar56 gleam in his eyes, and he was breathing heavily. Then he rose and, as he passed the Jesuit, bowed slightly in acknowledgment of his grave salutation. He walked quickly down the length of the room, which was not carpeted, and opened the door, closing it again with some noise immediately. But he never crossed the threshold. To the man sitting at the table it was as if the Englishman had left the room, closing the door after him.
Presently the Provincial glanced at the mirror, from mere57 habit, and found that it was displaced. He re-arranged it thoughtfully, so that the entire room was included in its field of reflection.
“I wonder,” he said aloud, “when and why he did that!”
Then he returned to his writing. In a few minutes, however, he rose and pushed back his chair. With his hands clasped behind his back he stood and gazed fixedly58 out of the window. Beneath him the brown water glided past with curling eddy59 and gleaming ripple60, while its soft murmur61 was the only sound that broke the pathetic silence surrounding this lonely man. His small and perfectly62 formed face was quite expressionless; the curve of his thin lips meant nothing; all the suppressed vitality63 of his being lay in those deep, soft eyes over which there seemed to be a veil. Presently he turned, and with lithe64, smooth steps passed down the long room and out of the door.
Instantly Christian Vellacott came from his hiding-place within the recess. He ran to the window and opened it noiselessly. A moment later he was standing upon the stone sill. The afternoon sun shone full upon his face as he stood there, and showed a deep red flush on either cheek. Slowly he stooped forward, holding with one hand to the woodwork of the window while he examined critically the surface of the water. Suddenly he threw his arms forward and like a black shadow dived noiselessly, passing into the depth without a splash. When he rose to the surface he turned to look at the monastery. The Provincial's window was the only outlet65 directly on to the river.
The stream was rapid, and after swimming with it for a short time he left the water and lay down to recover his breath under the friendly cover of some bushes. There he remained for some time, while the short October twilight66 closed over the land. A man just dragged from the jaws67 of death, he lay in his wet clothes where he first found shelter without even troubling to move his limbs from the pools of water slowly accumulating. Already the monastery was a thing of the past. With the rapid forethought of his generation he was already looking to the future. He knew too well the spirit of the people in France to fear pursuit. The monks68 never ventured beyond their own walls except on ostentatious missions of charity. The machinations of the Society of Jesus were less to be feared in France than in England, and he had only to take his story to the nearest sub-prefecture to raise a storm of popular opinion in his favour. But this was not his project. With him, as in all human plans, his own personal feelings came before the possible duty he owed to the public. He lay beneath the bramble undergrowth, and speculated as to what might have taken place subsequent to his disappearance69. At that moment the fortunes of the Beacon70 gave him no food for thought. What Mr. Bodery and his subordinate might, or might not, think found no interest in his mind. All his speculations71 were confined to events at St. Mary Western, and the outcome of his meditations was that when the friendly cover of darkness lay on the land he rose and started to walk briskly across the well-tilled country towards the north.
That portion of Brittany which lies along the northern coast is a pastoral land where sleep occupies the larger half of man's life. Although it was only evening, an hour when Paris and London recover, as it were, from the previous night's vigil and brighten up into vigour72, the solitary73 Englishman passed unheeded through the squalid villages, unmolested along the winding74 roads. Mile after mile of scanty75 forest land and rich meadow were left behind, while, except for a few heavily-breathing cattle, he met no sign of life. At last he came upon a broader road which bore unmistakable signs of military workmanship in its construction, and here he met, and passed with laconic48 greeting, a few peasant women returning with empty baskets from some neighbouring market; or perhaps a “cantonnier” here and there, plodding76 home with “sabots” swinging heavily and round shoulders bent77 beneath the burden of his weighty stone-breaking implements78.
Following the direction of this road his course was now towards the north-east, with more tendency to the eastward79 than he desired, but there was no choice. About eight o'clock he passed through a small village, which appeared to be already wrapped in stupid slumber80 such as attends the peasant's pillow. A cock crowed loudly, and in reply a dog barked with some alarm, but Christian was already beyond the village upon the deserted81 high road again.
He now began to feel the weakening effect of his illness; his legs became cramped82, and he frequently rested at the roadside. The highway was running still more to the eastward now, and Christian was just beginning to consider the advisability of taking to the country again, when it joined a broader road cut east and west. Here he stopped short, and, raising his head, stood quite still for some moments.
“Ah!” he muttered. “The sea. I smell the sea.”
He now turned to the left, and advanced along the newly-discovered road towards the west. As he progressed the pungent83 odour of seaweed refreshed him and grew stronger every moment. Suddenly he became aware that although high land lay upon his left hand there was to his right a hollow darkness without shadow or depth. No merry plash of waves came to explain this; the smell of the sea was there, but the joyous84 tumble of its waters was not to be heard. The traveller stooped low and peered into the darkness. Gradually he discerned a distant line of horizon, and to that point there seemed to stretch a vast dead sheet of water without light or motion. Upon his ears there stole a soft bubbling sound, varied85 occasionally by a tiny ripple. Suddenly a flash of recollection appeared to pass through the watcher's mind, and he muttered an exclamation86 of surprise as he turned towards the east and endeavoured to pierce the gloom. He was right. Upon the distant line of horizon a jagged outline cut the sky. It was like the form of a huge tooth jutting87 out from the softer earth. Such is Mont St. Michel standing grandly alone in the midst of a shallow, sullen88 sea. The only firm thing among the quaking sands, the only stone for miles around.
“The Bay of Cancale!” reflected Christian. “If I keep to the westward89 I shall reach St. Malo before ten o'clock!”
And he set off with renewed vigour. From his feet there stretched away to the north a great dead level of quicksand, seething90, bubbling, and heaving in the darkness. The sea, and yet no sea. Neither honest land nor rolling water.
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1
Christian
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| adj.基督教徒的；n.基督教徒 | |
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contagion
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| n.(通过接触的疾病)传染；蔓延 | |
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placid
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| adj.安静的，平和的 | |
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recluses
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| n.隐居者，遁世者，隐士( recluse的名词复数 ) | |
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vegetating
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| v.过单调呆板的生活( vegetate的现在分词 )；植物似地生长；（瘤、疣等）长大 | |
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eminently
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| adv.突出地；显著地；不寻常地 | |
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physically
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| adj.物质上，体格上，身体上，按自然规律 | |
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invalids
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| 病人，残疾者( invalid的名词复数 ) | |
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cloisters
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| n.（学院、修道院、教堂等建筑的）走廊( cloister的名词复数 )；回廊；修道院的生活；隐居v.隐退，使与世隔绝( cloister的第三人称单数 ) | |
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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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inmates
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| n.囚犯( inmate的名词复数 ) | |
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monastery
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| n.修道院，僧院，寺院 | |
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provincial
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| adj.省的，地方的；n．外省人，乡下人 | |
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watchful
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| adj.注意的，警惕的 | |
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glided
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| v.滑动( glide的过去式和过去分词 )；掠过；（鸟或飞机 ） 滑翔 | |
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backwards
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| adv.往回地，向原处，倒，相反，前后倒置地 | |
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captivity
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| n.囚禁；被俘；束缚 | |
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tremor
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| n.震动，颤动，战栗，兴奋，地震 | |
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leisurely
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| adj.悠闲的；从容的，慢慢的 | |
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monk
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| n.和尚，僧侣，修道士 | |
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anticipation
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| n.预期，预料，期望 | |
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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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quail
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| n.鹌鹑；vi.畏惧，颤抖 | |
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defiance
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| n.挑战，挑衅，蔑视，违抗 | |
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simultaneously
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| adv.同时发生地，同时进行地 | |
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devoid
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| adj.全无的，缺乏的 | |
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brutal
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| adj.残忍的，野蛮的，不讲理的 | |
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eyebrows
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| 眉毛( eyebrow的名词复数 ) | |
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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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recess
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| n.短期休息，壁凹（墙上装架子，柜子等凹处） | |
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mutual
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| adj.相互的，彼此的；共同的，共有的 | |
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perusal
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| n.细读，熟读；目测 | |
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emanated
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| v.从…处传出，传出( emanate的过去式和过去分词 )；产生，表现，显示 | |
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strife
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| n.争吵，冲突，倾轧，竞争 | |
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calumny
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| n.诽谤，污蔑，中伤 | |
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accrued
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| adj.权责已发生的v.增加( accrue的过去式和过去分词 )；（通过自然增长）产生；获得；（使钱款、债务）积累 | |
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motives
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| n.动机，目的( motive的名词复数 ) | |
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purely
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| adv.纯粹地，完全地 | |
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patriotic
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| adj.爱国的，有爱国心的 | |
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withdrawn
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| vt.收回；使退出；vi.撤退，退出 | |
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contemplated
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| adj. 预期的 动词contemplate的过去分词形式 | |
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attentively
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| adv.聚精会神地；周到地；谛；凝神 | |
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pensively
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| adv.沉思地，焦虑地 | |
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velvety
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| adj. 像天鹅绒的, 轻软光滑的, 柔软的 | |
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forth
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| adv.向前；向外，往外 | |
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dictate
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| v.口授；(使)听写；指令，指示，命令 | |
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laconically
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| adv.简短地，简洁地 | |
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laconic
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| adj.简洁的；精练的 | |
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meditations
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| 默想( meditation的名词复数 )； 默念； 沉思； 冥想 | |
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remains
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| n.剩余物，残留物；遗体，遗迹 | |
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weirdly
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| 古怪地 | |
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speculatively
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| adv.思考地，思索地；投机地 | |
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hovered
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| 鸟( hover的过去式和过去分词 )； 靠近（某事物）； （人）徘徊； 犹豫 | |
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audacity
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| n.大胆，卤莽，无礼 | |
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vaguely
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| adv.含糊地，暖昧地 | |
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peculiar
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| adj.古怪的，异常的；特殊的，特有的 | |
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mere
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| adj.纯粹的；仅仅，只不过 | |
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fixedly
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| adv.固定地；不屈地，坚定不移地 | |
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eddy
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| n.漩涡，涡流 | |
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ripple
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| n.涟波，涟漪，波纹，粗钢梳；vt.使...起涟漪，使起波纹； vi.呈波浪状，起伏前进 | |
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murmur
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| n.低语，低声的怨言；v.低语，低声而言 | |
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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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vitality
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| n.活力，生命力，效力 | |
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lithe
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| adj.(指人、身体)柔软的，易弯的 | |
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outlet
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| n.出口/路；销路；批发商店；通风口；发泄 | |
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twilight
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| n.暮光，黄昏；暮年，晚期，衰落时期 | |
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jaws
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| n.口部；嘴 | |
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monks
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| n.修道士，僧侣( monk的名词复数 ) | |
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disappearance
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| n.消失，消散，失踪 | |
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beacon
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| n.烽火，（警告用的）闪火灯，灯塔 | |
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speculations
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| n.投机买卖( speculation的名词复数 )；思考；投机活动；推断 | |
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vigour
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| （=vigor）n.智力，体力，精力 | |
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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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winding
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| n.绕，缠，绕组，线圈 | |
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scanty
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| adj.缺乏的，仅有的，节省的，狭小的，不够的 | |
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plodding
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| a.proceeding in a slow or dull way | |
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bent
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| n.爱好，癖好；adj.弯的；决心的，一心的 | |
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implements
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| n.工具( implement的名词复数 )；家具；手段；[法律]履行（契约等）v.实现( implement的第三人称单数 )；执行；贯彻；使生效 | |
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eastward
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| adv.向东；adj.向东的；n.东方，东部 | |
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slumber
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| n.睡眠，沉睡状态 | |
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deserted
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| adj.荒芜的，荒废的，无人的，被遗弃的 | |
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cramped
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| a.狭窄的 | |
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pungent
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| adj.（气味、味道）刺激性的，辛辣的；尖锐的 | |
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joyous
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| adj.充满快乐的；令人高兴的 | |
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varied
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| adj.多样的，多变化的 | |
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exclamation
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| n.感叹号，惊呼，惊叹词 | |
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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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sullen
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| adj.愠怒的，闷闷不乐的，(天气等)阴沉的 | |
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westward
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| n.西方，西部；adj.西方的，向西的；adv.向西 | |
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seething
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| 沸腾的，火热的 | |
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