"There is the brook2 running through it, though we do not see it," replied Rose; "a torpid3 little brook, to be sure; but, as you say, it has heaven in its bosom4, like Walden Pond, or any wider one."
As they sat together on the hill-top, they could look down into Robert Hagburn's enclosure, and they saw him, with his arm now relieved from the sling5, walking about, in a very erect6 manner, with a middle-aged7 man by his side, to whom he seemed to be talking and explaining some matter. Even at that distance Septimius could see that the rustic8 stoop and uncouthness9 had somehow fallen away from Robert, and that he seemed developed.
"What has come to Robert Hagburn?" said he. "He looks like another man than the lout10 I knew a few weeks ago."
"Nothing," said Rose Garfield, "except what comes to a good many young men nowadays. He has enlisted11, and is going to the war. It is a pity for his mother."
"A great pity," said Septimius. "Mothers are greatly to be pitied all over the country just now, and there are some even more to be pitied than the mothers, though many of them do not know or suspect anything about their cause of grief at present."
"Of whom do you speak?" asked Rose.
"I mean those many good and sweet young girls," said Septimius, "who would have been happy wives to the thousands of young men who now, like Robert Hagburn, are going to the war. Those young men–many of them at least–will sicken and die in camp, or be shot down, or struck through with bayonets on battle-fields, and turn to dust and bones; while the girls that would have loved them, and made happy firesides for them, will pine and wither12, and tread along many sour and discontented years, and at last go out of life without knowing what life is. So you see, Rose, every shot that takes effect kills two at least, or kills one and worse than kills the other."
"No woman will live single on account of poor Robert Hagburn being shot," said Rose, with a change of tone; "for he would never be married were he to stay at home and plough the field."
"How can you tell that, Rose?" asked Septimius.
Rose did not tell how she came to know so much about Robert Hagburn's matrimonial purposes; but after this little talk it appeared as if something had risen up between them,–a sort of mist, a medium, in which their intimacy13 was not increased; for the flow and interchange of sentiment was balked14, and they took only one or two turns in silence along Septimius's trodden path. I don't know exactly what it was; but there are cases in which it is inscrutably revealed to persons that they have made a mistake in what is of the highest concern to them; and this truth often comes in the shape of a vague depression of the spirit, like a vapor15 settling down on a landscape; a misgiving16, coming and going perhaps, a lack of perfect certainty. Whatever it was, Rose and Septimius had no more tender and playful words that day; and Rose soon went to look after her grandmother, and Septimius went and shut himself up in his study, after making an arrangement to meet Rose the next day.
Septimius shut himself up, and drew forth17 the document which the young officer, with that singular smile on his dying face, had bequeathed to him as the reward of his death. It was in a covering of folded parchment, right through which, as aforesaid, was a bullet-hole and some stains of blood. Septimius unrolled the parchment cover, and found inside a manuscript, closely written in a crabbed18 hand; so crabbed, indeed, that Septimius could not at first read a word of it, nor even satisfy himself in what language it was written. There seemed to be Latin words, and some interspersed19 ones in Greek characters, and here and there he could doubtfully read an English sentence; but, on the whole, it was an unintelligible21 mass, conveying somehow an idea that it was the fruit of vast labor22 and erudition, emanating23 from a mind very full of books, and grinding and pressing down the great accumulation of grapes that it had gathered from so many vineyards, and squeezing out rich viscid juices,–potent wine,–with which the reader might get drunk. Some of it, moreover, seemed, for the further mystification of the officer, to be written in cipher24; a needless precaution, it might seem, when the writer's natural chirography was so full of puzzle and bewilderment.
Septimius looked at this strange manuscript, and it shook in his hands as he held it before his eyes, so great was his excitement. Probably, doubtless, it was in a great measure owing to the way in which it came to him, with such circumstances of tragedy and mystery; as if–so secret and so important was it–it could not be within the knowledge of two persons at once, and therefore it was necessary that one should die in the act of transmitting it to the hand of another, the destined25 possessor, inheritor, profiter by it. By the bloody26 hand, as all the great possessions in this world have been gained and inherited, he had succeeded to the legacy27, the richest that mortal man ever could receive. He pored over the inscrutable sentences, and wondered, when he should succeed in reading one, if it might summon up a subject-fiend, appearing with thunder and devilish demonstrations28. And by what other strange chance had the document come into the hand of him who alone was fit to receive it? It seemed to Septimius, in his enthusiastic egotism, as if the whole chain of events had been arranged purposely for this end; a difference had come between two kindred peoples; a war had broken out; a young officer, with the traditions of an old family represented in his line, had marched, and had met with a peaceful student, who had been incited29 from high and noble motives30 to take his life; then came a strange, brief intimacy, in which his victim made the slayer31 his heir. All these chances, as they seemed, all these interferences of Providence32, as they doubtless were, had been necessary in order to put this manuscript into the hands of Septimius, who now pored over it, and could not with certainty read one word!
But this did not trouble him, except for the momentary33 delay. Because he felt well assured that the strong, concentrated study that he would bring to it would remove all difficulties, as the rays of a lens melt stones; as the telescope pierces through densest34 light of stars, and resolves them into their individual brilliancies. He could afford to spend years upon it if it were necessary; but earnestness and application should do quickly the work of years.
Amid these musings he was interrupted by his Aunt Keziah; though generally observant enough of her nephew's studies, and feeling a sanctity in them, both because of his intending to be a minister and because she had a great reverence35 for learning, even if heathenish, this good old lady summoned Septimius somewhat peremptorily36 to chop wood for her domestic purposes. How strange it is,–the way in which we are summoned from all high purposes by these little homely37 necessities; all symbolizing38 the great fact that the earthly part of us, with its demands, takes up the greater portion of all our available force. So Septimius, grumbling39 and groaning40, went to the woodshed and exercised himself for an hour as the old lady requested; and it was only by instinct that he worked, hardly conscious what he was doing. The whole of passing life seemed impertinent; or if, for an instant, it seemed otherwise, then his lonely speculations41 and plans seemed to become impalpable, and to have only the consistency42 of vapor, which his utmost concentration succeeded no further than to make into the likeness43 of absurd faces, mopping, mowing44, and laughing at him.
But that sentence of mystic meaning shone out before him like a transparency, illuminated45 in the darkness of his mind; he determined46 to take it for his motto until he should be victorious47 in his quest. When he took his candle, to retire apparently48 to bed, he again drew forth the manuscript, and, sitting down by the dim light, tried vainly to read it; but he could not as yet settle himself to concentrated and regular effort; he kept turning the leaves of the manuscript, in the hope that some other illuminated sentence might gleam out upon him, as the first had done, and shed a light on the context around it; and that then another would be discovered, with similar effect, until the whole document would thus be illuminated with separate stars of light, converging49 and concentrating in one radiance that should make the whole visible. But such was his bad fortune, not another word of the manuscript was he able to read that whole evening; and, moreover, while he had still an inch of candle left, Aunt Keziah, in her nightcap,–as witch-like a figure as ever went to a wizard meeting in the forest with Septimius's ancestor,–appeared at the door of the room, aroused from her bed, and shaking her finger at him.
"Septimius," said she, "you keep me awake, and you will ruin your eyes, and turn your head, if you study till midnight in this manner. You'll never live to be a minister, if this is the way you go on."
"Well, well, Aunt Keziah," said Septimius, covering his manuscript with a book, "I am just going to bed now."
Strangely enough, a glance at the manuscript, as he hid it from the old woman, had seemed to Septimius to reveal another sentence, of which he had imperfectly caught the purport52; and when she had gone, he in vain sought the place, and vainly, too, endeavored to recall the meaning of what he had read. Doubtless his fancy exaggerated the importance of the sentence, and he felt as if it might have vanished from the book forever. In fact, the unfortunate young man, excited and tossed to and fro by a variety of unusual impulses, was got into a bad way, and was likely enough to go mad, unless the balancing portion of his mind proved to be of greater volume and effect than as yet appeared to be the case.
The next morning he was up, bright and early, poring over the manuscript with the sharpened wits of the new day, peering into its night, into its old, blurred54, forgotten dream; and, indeed, he had been dreaming about it, and was fully20 possessed55 with the idea that, in his dream, he had taken up the inscrutable document, and read it off as glibly56 as he would the page of a modern drama, in a continual rapture57 with the deep truth that it made clear to his comprehension, and the lucid58 way in which it evolved the mode in which man might be restored to his originally undying state. So strong was the impression, that when he unfolded the manuscript, it was with almost the belief that the crabbed old handwriting would be plain to him. Such did not prove to be the case, however; so far from it, that poor Septimius in vain turned over the yellow pages in quest of the one sentence which he had been able, or fancied he had been able, to read yesterday. The illumination that had brought it out was now faded, and all was a blur53, an inscrutableness, a scrawl59 of unintelligible characters alike. So much did this affect him, that he had almost a mind to tear it into a thousand fragments, and scatter60 it out of the window to the west-wind, that was then blowing past the house; and if, in that summer season, there had been a fire on the hearth61, it is possible that easy realization62 of a destructive impulse might have incited him to fling the accursed scrawl into the hottest of the flames, and thus returned it to the Devil, who, he suspected, was the original author of it. Had he done so, what strange and gloomy passages would I have been spared the pain of relating! How different would have been the life of Septimius,–a thoughtful preacher of God's word, taking severe but conscientious63 views of man's state and relations, a heavy-browed walker and worker on earth, and, finally, a slumberer64 in an honored grave, with an epitaph bearing testimony65 to his great usefulness in his generation.
But, in the mean time, here was the troublesome day passing over him, and pestering66, bewildering, and tripping him up with its mere67 sublunary troubles, as the days will all of us the moment we try to do anything that we flatter ourselves is of a little more importance than others are doing. Aunt Keziah tormented68 him a great while about the rich field, just across the road, in front of the house, which Septimius had neglected the cultivation69 of, unwilling70 to spare the time to plough, to plant, to hoe it himself, but hired a lazy lout of the village, when he might just as well have employed and paid wages to the scarecrow which Aunt Keziah dressed out in ancient habiliments, and set up in the midst of the corn. Then came an old codger from the village, talking to Septimius about the war,–a theme of which he was weary: telling the rumor71 of skirmishes that the next day would prove to be false, of battles that were immediately to take place, of encounters with the enemy in which our side showed the valor72 of twenty-fold heroes, but had to retreat; babbling73 about shells and mortars74, battalions75, man?uvres, angles, fascines, and other items of military art; for war had filled the whole brain of the people, and enveloped76 the whole thought of man in a mist of gunpowder77.
In this way, sitting on his doorstep, or in the very study, haunted by such speculations, this wretched old man would waste the better part of a summer afternoon while Septimius listened, returning abstracted monosyllables, answering amiss, and wishing his persecutor78 jammed into one of the cannons79 he talked about, and fired off, to end his interminable babble80 in one roar; [talking] of great officers coming from France and other countries; of overwhelming forces from England, to put an end to the war at once; of the unlikelihood that it ever should be ended; of its hopelessness; of its certainty of a good and speedy end.
Then came limping along the lane a disabled soldier, begging his way home from the field, which, a little while ago, he had sought in the full vigor81 of rustic health he was never to know again; with whom Septimius had to talk, and relieve his wants as far as he could (though not from the poor young officer's deposit of English gold), and send him on his way.
Then came the minister to talk with his former pupil, about whom he had latterly had much meditation82, not understanding what mood had taken possession of him; for the minister was a man of insight, and from conversations with Septimius, as searching as he knew how to make them, he had begun to doubt whether he were sufficiently83 sound in faith to adopt the clerical persuasion84. Not that he supposed him to be anything like a confirmed unbeliever: but he thought it probable that these doubts, these strange, dark, disheartening suggestions of the Devil, that so surely infect certain temperaments85 and measures of intellect, were tormenting86 poor Septimius, and pulling him back from the path in which he was capable of doing so much good. So he came this afternoon to talk seriously with him, and to advise him, if the case were as he supposed, to get for a time out of the track of the thought in which he had so long been engaged; to enter into active life; and by and by, when the morbid87 influences should have been overcome by a change of mental and moral religion, he might return, fresh and healthy, to his original design.
"What can I do," asked Septimius, gloomily, "what business take up, when the whole land lies waste and idle, except for this war?"
"There is the very business, then," said the minister. "Do you think God's work is not to be done in the field as well as in the pulpit? You are strong, Septimius, of a bold character, and have a mien88 and bearing that gives you a natural command among men. Go to the wars, and do a valiant89 part for your country, and come back to your peaceful mission when the enemy has vanished. Or you might go as chaplain to a regiment90, and use either hand in battle,–pray for success before a battle, help win it with sword or gun, and give thanks to God, kneeling on the bloody field, at its close. You have already stretched one foe91 on your native soil."
Septimius could not but smile within himself at this warlike and bloody counsel; and, joining it with some similar exhortations92 from Aunt Keziah, he was inclined to think that women and clergymen are, in matters of war, the most uncompromising and bloodthirsty of the community. However, he replied, coolly, that his moral impulses and his feelings of duty did not exactly impel93 him in this direction, and that he was of opinion that war was a business in which a man could not engage with safety to his conscience, unless his conscience actually drove him into it; and that this made all the difference between heroic battle and murderous strife94. The good minister had nothing very effectual to answer to this, and took his leave, with a still stronger opinion than before that there was something amiss in his pupil's mind.
By this time, this thwarting95 day had gone on through its course of little and great impediments to his pursuit,–the discouragements of trifling96 and earthly business, of purely97 impertinent interruption, of severe and disheartening opposition98 from the powerful counteraction99 of different kinds of mind,–until the hour had come at which he had arranged to meet Rose Garfield. I am afraid the poor thwarted100 youth did not go to his love-tryst in any very amiable101 mood; but rather, perhaps, reflecting how all things earthly and immortal102, and love among the rest, whichever category, of earth or heaven, it may belong to, set themselves against man's progress in any pursuit that he seeks to devote himself to. It is one struggle, the moment he undertakes such a thing, of everything else in the world to impede103 him.
However, as it turned out, it was a pleasant and happy interview that he had with Rose that afternoon. The girl herself was in a happy, tuneful mood, and met him with such simplicity104, threw such a light of sweetness over his soul, that Septimius almost forgot all the wild cares of the day, and walked by her side with a quiet fulness of pleasure that was new to him. She reconciled him, in some secret way, to life as it was, to imperfection, to decay; without any help from her intellect, but through the influence of her character, she seemed, not to solve, but to smooth away, problems that troubled him; merely by being, by womanhood, by simplicity, she interpreted God's ways to him; she softened105 the stoniness106 that was gathering107 about his heart. And so they had a delightful108 time of talking, and laughing, and smelling to flowers; and when they were parting, Septimius said to her,–
"Rose, you have convinced me that this is a most happy world, and that Life has its two children, Birth and Death, and is bound to prize them equally; and that God is very kind to his earthly children; and that all will go well."
"And have I convinced you of all this?" replied Rose, with a pretty laughter. "It is all true, no doubt, but I should not have known how to argue for it. But you are very sweet, and have not frightened me to-day."
"Do I ever frighten you then, Rose?" asked Septimius, bending his black brow upon her with a look of surprise and displeasure.
"Yes, sometimes," said Rose, facing him with courage, and smiling upon the cloud so as to drive it away; "when you frown upon me like that, I am a little afraid you will beat me, all in good time."
"Now," said Septimius, laughing again, "you shall have your choice, to be beaten on the spot, or suffer another kind of punishment,–which?"
So saying, he snatched her to him, and strove to kiss her, while Rose, laughing and struggling, cried out, "The beating! the beating!" But Septimius relented not, though it was only Rose's cheek that he succeeded in touching109. In truth, except for that first one, at the moment of their plighted110 troths, I doubt whether Septimius ever touched those soft, sweet lips, where the smiles dwelt and the little pouts111. He now returned to his study, and questioned with himself whether he should touch that weary, ugly, yellow, blurred, unintelligible, bewitched, mysterious, bullet-penetrated, blood-stained manuscript again. There was an undefinable reluctance112 to do so, and at the same time an enticement113 (irresistible, as it proved) drawing him towards it. He yielded, and taking it from his desk, in which the precious, fatal treasure was locked up, he plunged114 into it again, and this time with a certain degree of success. He found the line which had before gleamed out, and vanished again, and which now started out in strong relief; even as when sometimes we see a certain arrangement of stars in the heavens, and again lose it, by not seeing its individual stars in the same relation as before; even so, looking at the manuscript in a different way, Septimius saw this fragment of a sentence, and saw, moreover, what was necessary to give it a certain meaning. "Set the root in a grave, and wait for what shall blossom. It will be very rich, and full of juice." This was the purport, he now felt sure, of the sentence he had lighted upon; and he took it to refer to the mode of producing something that was essential to the thing to be concocted115. It might have only a moral being; or, as is generally the case, the moral and physical truth went hand in hand.
While Septimius was busying himself in this way, the summer advanced, and with it there appeared a new character, making her way into our pages. This was a slender and pale girl, whom Septimius was once startled to find, when he ascended116 his hill-top, to take his walk to and fro upon the accustomed path, which he had now worn deep.
What was stranger, she sat down close beside the grave, which none but he and the minister knew to be a grave; that little hillock, which he had levelled a little, and had planted with various flowers and shrubs117; which the summer had fostered into richness, the poor young man below having contributed what he could, and tried to render them as beautiful as he might, in remembrance of his own beauty. Septimius wished to conceal118 the fact of its being a grave: not that he was tormented with any sense that he had done wrong in shooting the young man, which had been done in fair battle; but still it was not the pleasantest of thoughts, that he had laid a beautiful human creature, so fit for the enjoyment119 of life, there, when his own dark brow, his own troubled breast, might better, he could not but acknowledge, have been covered up there. [Perhaps there might sometimes be something fantastically gay in the language and behavior of the girl.]
Well; but then, on this flower and shrub-disguised grave, sat this unknown form of a girl, with a slender, pallid120, melancholy121 grace about her, simply dressed in a dark attire122, which she drew loosely about her. At first glimpse, Septimius fancied that it might be Rose; but it needed only a glance to undeceive him; her figure was of another character from the vigorous, though slight and elastic123 beauty of Rose; this was a drooping124 grace, and when he came near enough to see her face, he saw that those large, dark, melancholy eyes, with which she had looked at him, had never met his gaze before.
"Good-morrow, fair maiden125," said Septimius, with such courtesy as he knew how to use (which, to say truth, was of a rustic order, his way of life having brought him little into female society). "There is a nice air here on the hill-top, this sultry morning below the hill!"
As he spoke126, he continued to look wonderingly at the strange maiden, half fancying that she might be something that had grown up out of the grave; so unexpected she was, so simply unlike anything that had before come there.
The girl did not speak to him, but as she sat by the grave she kept weeding out the little white blades of faded autumn grass and yellow pine-spikes, peering into the soil as if to see what it was all made of, and everything that was growing there; and in truth, whether by Septimius's care or no, there seemed to be several kinds of flowers,–those little asters that abound127 everywhere, and golden flowers, such as autumn supplies with abundance. She seemed to be in quest of something, and several times plucked a leaf and examined it carefully; then threw it down again, and shook her head. At last she lifted up her pale face, and, fixing her eyes quietly on Septimius, spoke: "It is not here!"
A very sweet voice it was,–plaintive, low,–and she spoke to Septimius as if she were familiar with him, and had something to do with him. He was greatly interested, not being able to imagine who the strange girl was, or whence she came, or what, of all things, could be her reason for coming and sitting down by this grave, and apparently botanizing upon it, in quest of some particular plant.
"Are you in search of flowers?" asked Septimius. "This is but a barren spot for them, and this is not a good season. In the meadows, and along the margin128 of the watercourses, you might find the fringed gentian at this time. In the woods there are several pretty flowers,–the side-saddle flower, the anemone129; violets are plentiful130 in spring, and make the whole hill-side blue. But this hill-top, with its soil strewn over a heap of pebble-stones, is no place for flowers."
"The soil is fit," said the maiden, "but the flower has not sprung up."
"What flower do you speak of?" asked Septimius.
"One that is not here," said the pale girl. "No matter. I will look for it again next spring."
"Do you, then, dwell hereabout?" inquired Septimius.
"Surely," said the maiden, with a look of surprise; "where else should I dwell? My home is on this hilltop."
It not a little startled Septimius, as may be supposed, to find his paternal131 inheritance, of which he and his forefathers132 had been the only owners since the world began (for they held it by an Indian deed), claimed as a home and abiding-place by this fair, pale, strange-acting maiden, who spoke as if she had as much right there as if she had grown up out of the soil like one of the wild, indigenous133 flowers which she had been gazing at and handling. However that might be, the maiden seemed now about to depart, rising, giving a farewell touch or two to the little verdant134 hillock, which looked much the neater for her ministrations.
"Are you going?" said Septimius, looking at her in wonder.
"For a time," said she.
"And shall I see you again?" asked he.
"Surely," said the maiden, "this is my walk, along the brow of the hill."
It again smote135 Septimius with a strange thrill of surprise to find the walk which he himself had made, treading it, and smoothing it, and beating it down with the pressure of his continual feet, from the time when the tufted grass made the sides all uneven136, until now, when it was such a pathway as you may see through a wood, or over a field, where many feet pass every day,–to find this track and exemplification of his own secret thoughts and plans and emotions, this writing of his body, impelled137 by the struggle and movement of his soul, claimed as her own by a strange girl with melancholy eyes and voice, who seemed to have such a sad familiarity with him.
"You are welcome to come here," said he, endeavoring at least to keep such hold on his own property as was implied in making a hospitable138 surrender of it to another.
"Yes," said the girl, "a person should always be welcome to his own."
A faint smile seemed to pass over her face as she said this, vanishing, however, immediately into the melancholy of her usual expression. She went along Septimius's path, while he stood gazing at her till she reached the brow where it sloped towards Robert Hagburn's house; then she turned, and seemed to wave a slight farewell towards the young man, and began to descend139. When her figure had entirely140 sunk behind the brow of the hill, Septimius slowly followed along the ridge, meaning to watch from that elevated station the course she would take; although, indeed, he would not have been surprised if he had seen nothing, no trace of her in the whole nearness or distance; in short, if she had been a freak, an illusion, of a hard-working mind that had put itself ajar by deeply brooding on abstruse141 matters, an illusion of eyes that he had tried too much by poring over the inscrutable manuscript, and of intellect that was mystified and bewildered by trying to grasp things that could not be grasped. A thing of witchcraft142, a sort of fungus-growth out of the grave, an unsubstantiality altogether; although, certainly, she had weeded the grave with bodily fingers, at all events. Still he had so much of the hereditary143 mysticism of his race in him, that he might have held her supernatural, only that on reaching the brow of the hill he saw her feet approach the dwelling144 of Robert Hagburn's mother, who, moreover, appeared at the threshold beckoning145 her to come, with a motherly, hospitable air, that denoted she knew the strange girl, and recognized her as human.
It did not lessen146 Septimius's surprise, however, to think that such a singular being was established in the neighborhood without his knowledge; considered as a real occurrence of this world, it seemed even more unaccountable than if it had been a thing of ghostology and witchcraft. Continually through the day the incident kept introducing its recollection among his thoughts and studies; continually, as he paced along his path, this form seemed to hurry along by his side on the track that she had claimed for her own, and he thought of her singular threat or promise, whichever it were to be held, that he should have a companion there in future. In the decline of the day, when he met the schoolmistress coming home from her little seminary, he snatched the first opportunity to mention the apparition147 of the morning, and ask Rose if she knew anything of her.
"Very little," said Rose, "but she is flesh and blood, of that you may be quite sure. She is a girl who has been shut up in Boston by the siege; perhaps a daughter of one of the British officers, and her health being frail148, she requires better air than they have there, and so permission was got for her, from General Washington, to come and live in the country; as any one may see, our liberties have nothing to fear from this poor brain-stricken girl. And Robert Hagburn, having to bring a message from camp to the selectmen here, had it in charge to bring the girl, whom his mother has taken to board."
"Then the poor thing is crazy?" asked Septimius.
"A little brain-touched, that is all," replied Rose, "owing to some grief that she has had; but she is quite harmless, Robert was told to say, and needs little or no watching, and will get a kind of fantastic happiness for herself, if only she is allowed to ramble149 about at her pleasure. If thwarted, she might be very wild and miserable150."
"Have you spoken with her?" asked Septimius.
"A word or two this morning, as I was going to my school," said Rose. "She took me by the hand, and smiled, and said we would be friends, and that I should show her where the flowers grew; for that she had a little spot of her own that she wanted to plant with them. And she asked me if the Sanguinea sanguinissima grew hereabout. I should not have taken her to be ailing151 in her wits, only for a kind of free-spokenness and familiarity, as if we had been acquainted a long while; or as if she had lived in some country where there are no forms and impediments in people's getting acquainted."
"Did you like her?" inquired Septimius.
"Yes; almost loved her at first sight," answered Rose, "and I hope may do her some little good, poor thing, being of her own age, and the only companion, hereabouts, whom she is likely to find. But she has been well educated, and is a lady, that is easy to see."
"It is very strange," said Septimius, "but I fear I shall be a good deal interrupted in my thoughts and studies, if she insists on haunting my hill-top as much as she tells me. My meditations153 are perhaps of a little too much importance to be shoved aside for the sake of gratifying a crazy girl's fantasies."
"Ah, that is a hard thing to say!" exclaimed Rose, shocked at her lover's cold egotism, though not giving it that title. "Let the poor thing glide154 quietly along in the path, though it be yours. Perhaps, after a while, she will help your thoughts."
"My thoughts," said Septimius, "are of a kind that can have no help from any one; if from any, it would only be from some wise, long-studied, and experienced scientific man, who could enlighten me as to the bases and foundation of things, as to mystic writings, as to chemical elements, as to the mysteries of language, as to the principles and system on which we were created. Methinks these are not to be taught me by a girl touched in the wits."
"I fear," replied Rose Garfield with gravity, and drawing imperceptibly apart from him, "that no woman can help you much. You despise woman's thought, and have no need of her affection."
Septimius said something soft and sweet, and in a measure true, in regard to the necessity he felt for the affection and sympathy of one woman at least–the one now by his side–to keep his life warm and to make the empty chambers155 of his heart comfortable. But even while he spoke, there was something that dragged upon his tongue; for he felt that the solitary156 pursuit in which he was engaged carried him apart from the sympathy of which he spoke, and that he was concentrating his efforts and interest entirely upon himself, and that the more he succeeded the more remotely he should be carried away, and that his final triumph would be the complete seclusion157 of himself from all that breathed,–the converting him, from an interested actor into a cold and disconnected spectator of all mankind's warm and sympathetic life. So, as it turned out, this interview with Rose was one of those in which, coming no one knows from whence, a nameless cloud springs up between two lovers, and keeps them apart from one another by a cold, sullen158 spell. Usually, however, it requires only one word, spoken out of the heart, to break that spell, and compel the invisible, unsympathetic medium which the enemy of love has stretched cunningly between them, to vanish, and let them come closer together than ever; but, in this case, it might be that the love was the illusive159 state, and the estrangement160 the real truth, the disenchanted verity161. At all events, when the feeling passed away, in Rose's heart there was no reaction, no warmer love, as is generally the case. As for Septimius, he had other things to think about, and when he next met Rose Garfield, had forgotten that he had been sensible of a little wounded feeling, on her part, at parting.
By dint162 of continued poring over the manuscript, Septimius now began to comprehend that it was written in a singular mixture of Latin and ancient English, with constantly recurring163 paragraphs of what he was convinced was a mystic writing; and these recurring passages of complete unintelligibility164 seemed to be necessary to the proper understanding of any part of the document. What was discoverable was quaint152, curious, but thwarting and perplexing, because it seemed to imply some very great purpose, only to be brought out by what was hidden.
Septimius had read, in the old college library during his pupilage, a work on ciphers165 and cryptic166 writing, but being drawn167 to it only by his curiosity respecting whatever was hidden, and not expecting ever to use his knowledge, he had obtained only the barest idea of what was necessary to the deciphering a secret passage. Judging by what he could pick out, he would have thought the whole essay was upon the moral conduct; all parts of that he could make out seeming to refer to a certain ascetic168 rule of life; to denial of pleasures; these topics being repeated and insisted on everywhere, although without any discoverable reference to religious or moral motives; and always when the author seemed verging50 towards a definite purpose, he took refuge in his cipher. Yet withal, imperfectly (or not at all, rather) as Septimius could comprehend its purport, this strange writing had a mystic influence, that wrought169 upon his imagination, and with the late singular incidents of his life, his continual thought on this one subject, his walk on the hill-top, lonely, or only interrupted by the pale shadow of a girl, combined to set him outside of the living world. Rose Garfield perceived it, knew and felt that he was gliding170 away from her, and met him with a reserve which she could not overcome.
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1
ridge
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| n.山脊；鼻梁；分水岭 | |
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brook
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| n.小河，溪；v.忍受，容让 | |
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torpid
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| adj.麻痹的，麻木的，迟钝的 | |
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bosom
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| n.胸，胸部；胸怀；内心；adj.亲密的 | |
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sling
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| vt.扔；悬挂；n.挂带；吊索，吊兜；弹弓 | |
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erect
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| n./v.树立，建立，使竖立；adj.直立的，垂直的 | |
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middle-aged
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| adj.中年的 | |
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rustic
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| adj.乡村的，有乡村特色的；n.乡下人，乡巴佬 | |
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uncouthness
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lout
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| n.粗鄙的人；举止粗鲁的人 | |
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enlisted
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| adj.应募入伍的v.（使）入伍， （使）参军( enlist的过去式和过去分词 )；获得（帮助或支持） | |
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12
wither
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| vt.使凋谢，使衰退，(用眼神气势等)使畏缩；vi.枯萎，衰退，消亡 | |
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13
intimacy
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| n.熟悉，亲密，密切关系，亲昵的言行 | |
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balked
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| v.畏缩不前，犹豫( balk的过去式和过去分词 )；（指马）不肯跑 | |
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15
vapor
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| n.蒸汽，雾气 | |
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16
misgiving
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| n.疑虑，担忧，害怕 | |
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17
forth
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| adv.向前；向外，往外 | |
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crabbed
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| adj.脾气坏的；易怒的；（指字迹）难辨认的；（字迹等）难辨认的v.捕蟹( crab的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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19
interspersed
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| adj.[医]散开的；点缀的v.intersperse的过去式和过去分词 | |
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fully
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| adv.完全地，全部地，彻底地；充分地 | |
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21
unintelligible
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| adj.无法了解的，难解的，莫明其妙的 | |
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labor
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| n.劳动，努力，工作，劳工；分娩；vi.劳动，努力，苦干；vt.详细分析；麻烦 | |
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23
emanating
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| v.从…处传出，传出( emanate的现在分词 )；产生，表现，显示 | |
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24
cipher
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| n.零；无影响力的人；密码 | |
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25
destined
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| adj.命中注定的；(for)以…为目的地的 | |
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26
bloody
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| adj.非常的的；流血的；残忍的；adv.很；vt.血染 | |
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27
legacy
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| n.遗产，遗赠；先人(或过去)留下的东西 | |
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28
demonstrations
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| 证明( demonstration的名词复数 )； 表明； 表达； 游行示威 | |
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incited
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| 刺激，激励，煽动( incite的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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motives
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| n.动机，目的( motive的名词复数 ) | |
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slayer
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| n. 杀人者，凶手 | |
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32
providence
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| n.深谋远虑，天道，天意；远见；节约；上帝 | |
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momentary
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| adj.片刻的，瞬息的；短暂的 | |
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34
densest
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| 密集的( dense的最高级 )； 密度大的； 愚笨的； （信息量大得）难理解的 | |
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35
reverence
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| n.敬畏，尊敬，尊严；Reverence:对某些基督教神职人员的尊称；v.尊敬，敬畏，崇敬 | |
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peremptorily
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| adv.紧急地，不容分说地，专横地 | |
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homely
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| adj.家常的，简朴的；不漂亮的 | |
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38
symbolizing
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| v.象征，作为…的象征( symbolize的现在分词 ) | |
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39
grumbling
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| adj. 喃喃鸣不平的, 出怨言的 | |
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40
groaning
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| adj. 呜咽的, 呻吟的 动词groan的现在分词形式 | |
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41
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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42
consistency
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| n.一贯性，前后一致，稳定性；(液体的)浓度 | |
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43
likeness
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| n.相像，相似（之处） | |
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44
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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45
illuminated
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| adj.被照明的；受启迪的 | |
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46
determined
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| adj.坚定的；有决心的 | |
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47
victorious
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| adj.胜利的，得胜的 | |
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48
apparently
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| adv.显然地；表面上，似乎 | |
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49
converging
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| adj.收敛[缩]的，会聚的，趋同的v.（线条、运动的物体等）会于一点( converge的现在分词 )；（趋于）相似或相同；人或车辆汇集；聚集 | |
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50
verging
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| 接近，逼近（verge的现在分词形式） | |
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51
labors
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| v.努力争取(for)( labor的第三人称单数 )；苦干；详细分析；（指引擎）缓慢而困难地运转 | |
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52
purport
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| n.意义，要旨，大要；v.意味著，做为...要旨，要领是... | |
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53
blur
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| n.模糊不清的事物；vt.使模糊，使看不清楚 | |
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54
blurred
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| v.（使）变模糊( blur的过去式和过去分词 )；（使）难以区分；模模糊糊；迷离 | |
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55
possessed
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| adj.疯狂的；拥有的，占有的 | |
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56
glibly
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| adv.流利地，流畅地；满口 | |
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57
rapture
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| n.狂喜；全神贯注；着迷；v.使狂喜 | |
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58
lucid
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| adj.明白易懂的，清晰的，头脑清楚的 | |
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59
scrawl
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| vt.潦草地书写；n.潦草的笔记，涂写 | |
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60
scatter
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| vt.撒，驱散，散开；散布/播；vi.分散，消散 | |
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61
hearth
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| n.壁炉炉床，壁炉地面 | |
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62
realization
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| n.实现；认识到，深刻了解 | |
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63
conscientious
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| adj.审慎正直的，认真的，本着良心的 | |
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64
slumberer
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| 睡眠者，微睡者 | |
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65
testimony
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| n.证词；见证，证明 | |
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66
pestering
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| 使烦恼，纠缠( pester的现在分词 ) | |
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67
mere
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| adj.纯粹的；仅仅，只不过 | |
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68
tormented
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| 饱受折磨的 | |
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cultivation
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| n.耕作，培养，栽培（法），养成 | |
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70
unwilling
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| adj.不情愿的 | |
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71
rumor
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| n.谣言，谣传，传说 | |
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72
valor
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| n.勇气，英勇 | |
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73
babbling
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| n.胡说，婴儿发出的咿哑声adj.胡说的v.喋喋不休( babble的现在分词 )；作潺潺声（如流水）；含糊不清地说话；泄漏秘密 | |
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74
mortars
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| n.迫击炮( mortar的名词复数 )；砂浆；房产；研钵 | |
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75
battalions
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| n.（陆军的）一营（大约有一千兵士）( battalion的名词复数 )；协同作战的部队；军队；（组织在一起工作的）队伍 | |
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76
enveloped
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| v.包围，笼罩，包住( envelop的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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77
gunpowder
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| n.火药 | |
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78
persecutor
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| n. 迫害者 | |
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79
cannons
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| n.加农炮，大炮，火炮( cannon的名词复数 ) | |
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80
babble
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| v.含糊不清地说，胡言乱语地说，儿语 | |
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81
vigor
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| n.活力，精力，元气 | |
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82
meditation
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| n.熟虑，（尤指宗教的）默想，沉思，（pl.）冥想录 | |
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83
sufficiently
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| adv.足够地，充分地 | |
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84
persuasion
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| n.劝说；说服；持有某种信仰的宗派 | |
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85
temperaments
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| 性格( temperament的名词复数 )； （人或动物的）气质； 易冲动； （性情）暴躁 | |
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86
tormenting
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| 使痛苦的，使苦恼的 | |
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87
morbid
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| adj.病的；致病的；病态的；可怕的 | |
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mien
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| n.风采；态度 | |
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89
valiant
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| adj.勇敢的，英勇的；n.勇士，勇敢的人 | |
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90
regiment
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| n.团，多数，管理；v.组织，编成团，统制 | |
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91
foe
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| n.敌人，仇敌 | |
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92
exhortations
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| n.敦促( exhortation的名词复数 )；极力推荐；（正式的）演讲；（宗教仪式中的）劝诫 | |
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93
impel
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| v.推动；激励，迫使 | |
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94
strife
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| n.争吵，冲突，倾轧，竞争 | |
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95
thwarting
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| 阻挠( thwart的现在分词 )； 使受挫折； 挫败； 横过 | |
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96
trifling
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| adj.微不足道的；没什么价值的 | |
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97
purely
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| adv.纯粹地，完全地 | |
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98
opposition
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| n.反对，敌对 | |
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99
counteraction
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| 反对的行动，抵抗，反动 | |
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100
thwarted
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| 阻挠( thwart的过去式和过去分词 )； 使受挫折； 挫败； 横过 | |
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101
amiable
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| adj.和蔼可亲的，友善的，亲切的 | |
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102
immortal
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| adj.不朽的；永生的，不死的；神的 | |
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103
impede
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| v.妨碍，阻碍，阻止 | |
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104
simplicity
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| n.简单，简易；朴素；直率，单纯 | |
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105
softened
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| （使）变软( soften的过去式和过去分词 )； 缓解打击； 缓和； 安慰 | |
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106
stoniness
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| 冷漠，一文不名 | |
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107
gathering
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| n.集会，聚会，聚集 | |
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108
delightful
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| adj.令人高兴的，使人快乐的 | |
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109
touching
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| adj.动人的，使人感伤的 | |
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110
plighted
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| vt.保证，约定（plight的过去式与过去分词形式） | |
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111
pouts
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| n.撅嘴，生气( pout的名词复数 )v.撅（嘴）( pout的第三人称单数 ) | |
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reluctance
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| n.厌恶，讨厌，勉强，不情愿 | |
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enticement
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| n.诱骗，诱人 | |
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114
plunged
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| v.颠簸( plunge的过去式和过去分词 )；暴跌；骤降；突降 | |
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115
concocted
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| v.将（尤指通常不相配合的）成分混合成某物( concoct的过去式和过去分词 )；调制；编造；捏造 | |
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116
ascended
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| v.上升，攀登( ascend的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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117
shrubs
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| 灌木( shrub的名词复数 ) | |
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118
conceal
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| v.隐藏，隐瞒，隐蔽 | |
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119
enjoyment
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| n.乐趣；享有；享用 | |
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pallid
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| adj.苍白的，呆板的 | |
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melancholy
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| n.忧郁，愁思；adj.令人感伤（沮丧）的，忧郁的 | |
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attire
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| v.穿衣，装扮[同]array；n.衣着；盛装 | |
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elastic
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| n.橡皮圈，松紧带；adj.有弹性的；灵活的 | |
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drooping
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| adj. 下垂的，无力的 动词droop的现在分词 | |
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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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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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127
abound
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| vi.大量存在；(in，with)充满，富于 | |
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margin
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| n.页边空白；差额；余地，余裕；边，边缘 | |
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anemone
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| n.海葵 | |
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plentiful
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| adj.富裕的，丰富的 | |
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paternal
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| adj.父亲的，像父亲的，父系的，父方的 | |
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forefathers
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| n.祖先，先人；祖先，祖宗( forefather的名词复数 )；列祖列宗；前人 | |
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indigenous
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| adj.土产的，土生土长的，本地的 | |
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verdant
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| adj.翠绿的，青翠的，生疏的，不老练的 | |
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smote
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| v.猛打，重击，打击( smite的过去式 ) | |
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uneven
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| adj.不平坦的，不规则的，不均匀的 | |
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impelled
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| v.推动、推进或敦促某人做某事( impel的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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138
hospitable
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| adj.好客的；宽容的；有利的，适宜的 | |
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139
descend
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| vt./vi.传下来，下来，下降 | |
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entirely
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| ad.全部地，完整地；完全地，彻底地 | |
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abstruse
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| adj.深奥的，难解的 | |
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witchcraft
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| n.魔法，巫术 | |
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hereditary
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| adj.遗传的，遗传性的，可继承的，世袭的 | |
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dwelling
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| n.住宅，住所，寓所 | |
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beckoning
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| adj.引诱人的，令人心动的v.（用头或手的动作）示意，召唤( beckon的现在分词 ) | |
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lessen
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| vt.减少，减轻；缩小 | |
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apparition
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| n.幽灵，神奇的现象 | |
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frail
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| adj.身体虚弱的；易损坏的 | |
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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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miserable
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| adj.悲惨的，痛苦的；可怜的，糟糕的 | |
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ailing
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| v.生病 | |
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quaint
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| adj.古雅的，离奇有趣的，奇怪的 | |
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153
meditations
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| 默想( meditation的名词复数 )； 默念； 沉思； 冥想 | |
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glide
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| n./v.溜，滑行；(时间)消逝 | |
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chambers
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| n.房间( chamber的名词复数 )；（议会的）议院；卧室；会议厅 | |
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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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seclusion
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| n.隐遁，隔离 | |
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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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illusive
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| adj.迷惑人的，错觉的 | |
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estrangement
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| n.疏远，失和，不和 | |
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161
verity
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| n.真实性 | |
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dint
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| n.由于，靠；凹坑 | |
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recurring
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| adj.往复的，再次发生的 | |
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unintelligibility
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| 不可懂度，不清晰性 | |
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165
ciphers
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| n.密码( cipher的名词复数 )；零；不重要的人；无价值的东西 | |
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cryptic
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| adj.秘密的，神秘的，含义模糊的 | |
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167
drawn
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| v.拖，拉，拔出；adj.憔悴的，紧张的 | |
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ascetic
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| adj.禁欲的；严肃的 | |
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169
wrought
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| v.引起；以…原料制作；运转；adj.制造的 | |
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gliding
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| v. 滑翔 adj. 滑动的 | |
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