“There are safe there?” asked Philip, eagerly.
“Only place where they would be safe, then,” said the spokesman.
“Unless the light-ship parts,” said an old fellow.
“Foolish, of course,” said Philip; “but it’s a dangerous shore.”
“That’s so,” was the answer. “Never saw so many lines of reef show outside, neither.”
“There’s an old saying on this shore,” said Joe:—
“When Price’s Neck goes to Brenton’s Reef,
Body and soul will come to grief.
But when Brenton’s Reef comes to Price’s Neck,
“It only means,” said somebody, “that when you see it white all the way out from the Neck to the Reef, you can’t take the inside passage.”
“But what does the last half mean?” persisted Harry.
“Don’t know as I know,” said the veteran, and relapsed into silence, in which all joined him, while the wind howled and whistled outside, and the barred windows shook.
Weary and restless with vain waiting, they looked from the doorway6 at the weather. The door went back with a slam, and the gust7 swooped8 down on them with that special blast that always seems to linger just outside on such nights, ready for the first head that shows itself. They closed the door upon the flickering9 fire and the uncouth10 shadows within, and went forth11 into the night. At first the solid blackness seemed to lay a weight on their foreheads. There was absolutely nothing to be seen but the two lights of the light-ship, glaring from the dark sea like a wolf’s eyes from a cavern12. They looked nearer and brighter than in ordinary nights, and appeared to the excited senses of the young men to dance strangely on the waves, and to be always opposite to them, as they moved along the shore with the wind almost at their backs.
“What did that old fellow mean?” said Malbone in Harry’s ear, as they came to a protected place and could hear each other, “by talking of Brenton’s Reef coming to Price’s Neck.”
“Some sailor’s doggerel,” said Harry, indifferently. “Here is Price’s Neck before us, and yonder is Brenton’s Reef.”
“Where?” said Philip, looking round bewildered.
The lights had gone, as if the wolf, weary of watching, had suddenly closed his eyes, and slumbered13 in his cave.
Harry trembled and shivered. In Heaven’s name, what could this disappearance14 mean?
Suddenly a sheet of lightning came, so white and intense, it sent its light all the way out to the horizon and exhibited far-off vessels15, that reeled and tossed and looked as if wandering without a guide. But this was not so startling as what it showed in the foreground.
There drifted heavily upon the waves, within full view from the shore, moving parallel to it, yet gradually approaching, an uncouth shape that seemed a vessel16 and yet not a vessel; two stunted18 masts projected above, and below there could be read, in dark letters that apparently19 swayed and trembled in the wan17 lightning, as the thing moved on,
BRENTON’S REEF.
Philip, leaning against a rock, gazed into the darkness where the apparition20 had been; even Harry felt a thrill of half-superstitious wonder, and listened half mechanically to a rough sailor’s voice at his ear:—
“God! old Joe was right. There’s one wreck that is bound to make many. The light-ship has parted.”
“Drifting ashore21,” said Harry, his accustomed clearness of head coming back at a flash. “Where will she strike?”
“Price’s Neck,” said the sailor.
Harry turned to Philip and spoke2 to him, shouting in his ear the explanation. Malbone’s lips moved mechanically, but he said nothing. Passively, he let Harry take him by the arm, and lead him on.
Following the sailor, they rounded a projecting point, and found themselves a little sheltered from the wind. Not knowing the region, they stumbled about among the rocks, and scarcely knew when they neared the surf, except when a wave came swashing round their very feet. Pausing at the end of a cove22, they stood beside their conductor, and their eyes, now grown accustomed, could make out vaguely23 the outlines of the waves.
The throat of the cove was so shoal and narrow, and the mass of the waves so great, that they reared their heads enormously, just outside, and spending their strength there, left a lower level within the cove. Yet sometimes a series of great billows would come straight on, heading directly for the entrance, and then the surface of the water within was seen to swell24 suddenly upward as if by a terrible inward magic of its own; it rose and rose, as if it would ingulf everything; then as rapidly sank, and again presented a mere25 quiet vestibule before the excluded waves.
They saw in glimpses, as the lightning flashed, the shingly27 beach, covered with a mass of creamy foam28, all tremulous and fluctuating in the wind; and this foam was constantly torn away by the gale29 in great shreds30, that whirled by them as if the very fragments of the ocean were fleeing from it in terror, to take refuge in the less frightful32 element of air.
Still the wild waves reared their heads, like savage33, crested34 animals, now white, now black, looking in from the entrance of the cove. And now there silently drifted upon them something higher, vaster, darker than themselves,—the doomed35 vessel. It was strange how slowly and steadily she swept in,—for her broken chain-cable dragged, as it afterwards proved, and kept her stern-on to the shore,—and they could sometimes hear amid the tumult36 a groan37 that seemed to come from the very heart of the earth, as she painfully drew her keel over hidden reefs. Over five of these (as was afterwards found) she had already drifted, and she rose and fell more than once on the high waves at the very mouth of the cove, like a wild bird hovering38 ere it pounces39.
Then there came one of those great confluences40 of waves described already, which, lifting her bodily upward, higher and higher and higher, suddenly rushed with her into the basin, filling it like an opened dry-dock, crashing and roaring round the vessel and upon the rocks, then sweeping41 out again and leaving her lodged42, still stately and steady, at the centre of the cove.
They could hear from the crew a mingled43 sound, that came as a shout of excitement from some and a shriek44 of despair from others. The vivid lightning revealed for a moment those on shipboard to those on shore; and blinding as it was, it lasted long enough to show figures gesticulating and pointing. The old sailor, Mitchell, tried to build a fire among the rocks nearest the vessel, but it was impossible, because of the wind. This was a disappointment, for the light would have taken away half the danger, and more than half the terror. Though the cove was more quiet than the ocean, yet it was fearful enough, even there. The vessel might hold together till morning, but who could tell? It was almost certain that those on board would try to land, and there was nothing to do but to await the effort. The men from the farmhouse45 had meanwhile come down with ropes.
It was simply impossible to judge with any accuracy of the distance of the ship. One of these new-comers, who declared that she was lodged very near, went to a point of rocks, and shouted to those on board to heave him a rope. The tempest suppressed his voice, as it had put out the fire. But perhaps the lightning had showed him to the dark figures on the stern; for when the next flash came, they saw a rope flung, which fell short. The real distance was more than a hundred yards.
Then there was a long interval46 of darkness. The moment the next flash came they saw a figure let down by a rope from the stern of the vessel, while the hungry waves reared like wolves to seize it. Everybody crowded down to the nearest rocks, looking this way and that for a head to appear. They pressed eagerly in every direction where a bit of plank47 or a barrel-head floated; they fancied faint cries here and there, and went aimlessly to and fro. A new effort, after half a dozen failures, sent a blaze mounting up fitfully among the rocks, startling all with the sudden change its blessed splendor48 made. Then a shrill49 shout from one of the watchers summoned all to a cleft50 in the cove, half shaded from the firelight, where there came rolling in amidst the surf, more dead than alive, the body of a man. He was the young foreigner, John Lambert’s boatman. He bore still around him the rope that was to save the rest.
How pale and eager their faces looked as they bent51 above him! But the eagerness was all gone from his, and only the pallor left. While the fishermen got the tackle rigged, such as it was, to complete the communication with the vessel, the young men worked upon the boatman, and soon had him restored to consciousness. He was able to explain that the ship had been severely52 strained, and that all on board believed she would go to pieces before morning. No one would risk being the first to take the water, and he had at last volunteered, as being the best swimmer, on condition that Emilia should be next sent, when the communication was established.
Two ropes were then hauled on board the vessel, a larger and a smaller. By the flickering firelight and the rarer flashes of lightning (the rain now falling in torrents) they saw a hammock slung53 to the larger rope; a woman’s form was swathed in it; and the smaller rope being made fast to this, they found by pulling that she could be drawn54 towards the shore. Those on board steadied the hammock as it was lowered from the ship, but the waves seemed maddened by this effort to escape their might, and they leaped up at her again and again. The rope dropped beneath her weight, and all that could be done from shore was to haul her in as fast as possible, to abbreviate55 the period of buffeting56 and suffocation57. As she neared the rocks she could be kept more safe from the water; faster and faster she was drawn in; sometimes there came some hitch58 and stoppage, but by steady patience it was overcome.
She was so near the rocks that hands were already stretched to grasp her, when there came one of the great surging waves that sometimes filled the basin. It gave a terrible lurch59 to the stranded60 vessel hitherto so erect61; the larger rope snapped instantly; the guiding rope was twitched62 from the hands that held it; and the canvas that held Emilia was caught and swept away like a shred31 of foam, and lost amid the whiteness of the seething63 froth below. Fifteen minutes after, the hammock came ashore empty, the lashings having parted.
The cold daybreak was just opening, though the wind still blew keenly, when they found the body of Emilia. It was swathed in a roll of sea-weed, lying in the edge of the surf, on a broad, flat rock near where the young boatman had come ashore. The face was not disfigured; the clothing was only torn a little, and tangled64 closely round her; but the life was gone.
It was Philip who first saw her; and he stood beside her for a moment motionless, stunned65 into an aspect of tranquility. This, then, was the end. All his ready sympathy, his wooing tenderness, his winning compliances, his self-indulgent softness, his perilous66 amiability67, his reluctance68 to give pain or to see sorrow,—all had ended in this. For once, he must force even his accommodating and evasive nature to meet the plain, blank truth. Now all his characteristics appeared changed by the encounter; it was Harry who was ready, thoughtful, attentive,—while Philip, who usually had all these traits, was paralyzed among his dreams. Could he have fancied such a scene beforehand, he would have vowed69 that no hand but his should touch the breathless form of Emilia. As it was, he instinctively70 made way for the quick gathering71 of the others, as if almost any one else had a better right to be there.
The storm had blown itself out by sunrise; the wind had shifted, beating down the waves; it seemed as if everything in nature were exhausted72. The very tide had ebbed73 away. The light-ship rested between the rocks, helpless, still at the mercy of the returning waves, and yet still upright and with that stately look of unconscious pleading which all shipwrecked vessels wear, it is wonderfully like the look I have seen in the face of some dead soldier, on whom war had done its worst. Every line of a ship is so built for motion, every part, while afloat, seems so full of life and so answering to the human life it bears, that this paralysis75 of shipwreck74 touches the imagination as if the motionless thing had once been animated76 by a soul.
And not far from the vessel, in a chamber77 of the seaside farm-house, lay the tenderer and fairer wreck of Emilia. Her storms and her passions were ended. The censure78 of the world, the anguish79 of friends, the clinging arms of love, were nothing now to her. Again the soft shelter of unconsciousness had clasped her in; but this time the trance was longer and the faintness was unto death.
From the moment of her drifting ashore, it was the young boatman who had assumed the right to care for her and to direct everything. Philip seemed stunned; Harry was his usual clear-headed and efficient self; but to his honest eyes much revealed itself in a little while; and when Hope arrived in the early morning, he said to her, “This boatman, who once saved your life, is Emilia’s Swiss lover, Antoine Marval.”
“More than lover,” said the young Swiss, overhearing. “She was my wife before God, when you took her from me. In my country, a betrothal80 is as sacred as a marriage. Then came that man, he filled her heart with illusions, and took her away in my absence. When my brother was here in the corvette, he found her for me. Then I came for her; I saved her sister; then I saw the name on the card and would not give my own. I became her servant. She saw me in the yacht, only once; she knew me; she was afraid. Then she said, ‘Perhaps I still love you,—a little; I do not know; I am in despair; take me from this home I hate.’ We sailed that day in the small boat for Narragansett,—I know not where. She hardly looked up or spoke; but for me, I cared for nothing since she was with me. When the storm came, she was frightened, and said, ‘It is a retribution.’ I said, ‘You shall never go back.’ She never did. Here she is. You cannot take her from me.”
Once on board the light-ship, she had been assigned the captain’s state-room, while Antoine watched at the door. She seemed to shrink from him whenever he went to speak to her, he owned, but she answered kindly81 and gently, begging to be left alone. When at last the vessel parted her moorings, he persuaded Emilia to come on deck and be lashed26 to the mast, where she sat without complaint.
Who can fathom the thoughts of that bewildered child, as she sat amid the spray and the howling of the blast, while the doomed vessel drifted on with her to the shore? Did all the error and sorrow of her life pass distinctly before her? Or did the roar of the surf lull82 her into quiet, like the unconscious kindness of wild creatures that toss and bewilder their prey83 into unconsciousness ere they harm it? None can tell. Death answers no questions; it only makes them needless.
The morning brought to the scene John Lambert, just arrived by land from New York.
The passion of John Lambert for his wife was of that kind which ennobles while it lasts, but which rarely outlasts84 marriage. A man of such uncongenial mould will love an enchanting85 woman with a mad, absorbing passion, where self-sacrifice is so mingled with selfishness that the two emotions seem one; he will hungrily yearn86 to possess her, to call her by his own name, to hold her in his arms, to kill any one else who claims her. But when she is once his wife, and his arms hold a body without a soul,—no soul at least for him,—then her image is almost inevitably87 profaned88, and the passion which began too high for earth ends far too low for heaven. Let now death change that form to marble, and instantly it resumes its virgin89 holiness; though the presence of life did not sanctify, its departure does. It is only the true lover to whom the breathing form is as sacred as the breathless.
That ideality of nature which love had developed in this man, and which had already drooped90 a little during his brief period of marriage, was born again by the side of death. While Philip wandered off silent and lonely with his grief, John Lambert knelt by the beautiful remains91, talking inarticulately, his eyes streaming with unchecked tears. Again was Emilia, in her marble paleness, the calm centre of a tragedy she herself had caused. The wild, ungoverned child was the image of peace; it was the stolid92 and prosperous man who was in the storm. It was not till Hope came that there was any change. Then his prostrate93 nature sought hers, as the needle leaps to the iron; the first touch of her hand, the sight of her kiss upon Emilia’s forehead, made him strong. It was the thorough subjection of a worldly man to the higher organization of a noble woman, and thenceforth it never varied94. In later years, after he had foolishly sought, as men will, to win her to a nearer tie, there was no moment when she had not full control over his time, his energies, and his wealth.
After it was all ended, Hope told him everything that had happened; but in that wild moment of his despair she told him nothing. Only she and Harry knew the story of the young Swiss; and now that Emilia was gone, her early lover had no wish to speak of her to any but these two, or to linger long where she had been doubly lost to him, by marriage and by death. The world, with all its prying95 curiosity, usually misses the key to the very incidents about which it asks most questions; and of the many who gossiped or mourned concerning Emilia, none knew the tragic96 complication which her death alone could have solved. The breaking of Hope’s engagement to Philip was attributed to every cause but the true one. And when the storm of the great Rebellion broke over the land, its vast calamity97 absorbed all minor98 griefs.
点击收听单词发音
1 steadily | |
adv.稳定地;不变地;持续地 | |
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2 spoke | |
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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3 fathom | |
v.领悟,彻底了解 | |
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4 wreck | |
n.失事,遇难;沉船;vt.(船等)失事,遇难 | |
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5 harry | |
vt.掠夺,蹂躏,使苦恼 | |
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6 doorway | |
n.门口,(喻)入门;门路,途径 | |
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7 gust | |
n.阵风,突然一阵(雨、烟等),(感情的)迸发 | |
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8 swooped | |
俯冲,猛冲( swoop的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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9 flickering | |
adj.闪烁的,摇曳的,一闪一闪的 | |
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10 uncouth | |
adj.无教养的,粗鲁的 | |
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11 forth | |
adv.向前;向外,往外 | |
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12 cavern | |
n.洞穴,大山洞 | |
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13 slumbered | |
微睡,睡眠(slumber的过去式与过去分词形式) | |
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14 disappearance | |
n.消失,消散,失踪 | |
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15 vessels | |
n.血管( vessel的名词复数 );船;容器;(具有特殊品质或接受特殊品质的)人 | |
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16 vessel | |
n.船舶;容器,器皿;管,导管,血管 | |
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17 wan | |
(wide area network)广域网 | |
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18 stunted | |
adj.矮小的;发育迟缓的 | |
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19 apparently | |
adv.显然地;表面上,似乎 | |
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20 apparition | |
n.幽灵,神奇的现象 | |
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21 ashore | |
adv.在(向)岸上,上岸 | |
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22 cove | |
n.小海湾,小峡谷 | |
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23 vaguely | |
adv.含糊地,暖昧地 | |
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24 swell | |
vi.膨胀,肿胀;增长,增强 | |
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25 mere | |
adj.纯粹的;仅仅,只不过 | |
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26 lashed | |
adj.具睫毛的v.鞭打( lash的过去式和过去分词 );煽动;紧系;怒斥 | |
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27 shingly | |
adj.小石子多的 | |
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28 foam | |
v./n.泡沫,起泡沫 | |
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29 gale | |
n.大风,强风,一阵闹声(尤指笑声等) | |
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30 shreds | |
v.撕碎,切碎( shred的第三人称单数 );用撕毁机撕毁(文件) | |
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31 shred | |
v.撕成碎片,变成碎片;n.碎布条,细片,些少 | |
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32 frightful | |
adj.可怕的;讨厌的 | |
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33 savage | |
adj.野蛮的;凶恶的,残暴的;n.未开化的人 | |
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34 crested | |
adj.有顶饰的,有纹章的,有冠毛的v.到达山顶(或浪峰)( crest的过去式和过去分词 );到达洪峰,达到顶点 | |
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35 doomed | |
命定的 | |
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36 tumult | |
n.喧哗;激动,混乱;吵闹 | |
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37 groan | |
vi./n.呻吟,抱怨;(发出)呻吟般的声音 | |
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38 hovering | |
鸟( hover的现在分词 ); 靠近(某事物); (人)徘徊; 犹豫 | |
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39 pounces | |
v.突然袭击( pounce的第三人称单数 );猛扑;一眼看出;抓住机会(进行抨击) | |
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40 confluences | |
n.(河流的)汇合处( confluence的名词复数 );汇流处;(事物的)汇合;汇流 | |
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41 sweeping | |
adj.范围广大的,一扫无遗的 | |
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42 lodged | |
v.存放( lodge的过去式和过去分词 );暂住;埋入;(权利、权威等)归属 | |
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43 mingled | |
混合,混入( mingle的过去式和过去分词 ); 混进,与…交往[联系] | |
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44 shriek | |
v./n.尖叫,叫喊 | |
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45 farmhouse | |
n.农场住宅(尤指主要住房) | |
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46 interval | |
n.间隔,间距;幕间休息,中场休息 | |
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47 plank | |
n.板条,木板,政策要点,政纲条目 | |
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48 splendor | |
n.光彩;壮丽,华丽;显赫,辉煌 | |
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49 shrill | |
adj.尖声的;刺耳的;v尖叫 | |
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50 cleft | |
n.裂缝;adj.裂开的 | |
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51 bent | |
n.爱好,癖好;adj.弯的;决心的,一心的 | |
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52 severely | |
adv.严格地;严厉地;非常恶劣地 | |
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53 slung | |
抛( sling的过去式和过去分词 ); 吊挂; 遣送; 押往 | |
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54 drawn | |
v.拖,拉,拔出;adj.憔悴的,紧张的 | |
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55 abbreviate | |
v.缩写,使...简略,缩短 | |
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56 buffeting | |
振动 | |
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57 suffocation | |
n.窒息 | |
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58 hitch | |
v.免费搭(车旅行);系住;急提;n.故障;急拉 | |
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59 lurch | |
n.突然向前或旁边倒;v.蹒跚而行 | |
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60 stranded | |
a.搁浅的,进退两难的 | |
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61 erect | |
n./v.树立,建立,使竖立;adj.直立的,垂直的 | |
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62 twitched | |
vt.& vi.(使)抽动,(使)颤动(twitch的过去式与过去分词形式) | |
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63 seething | |
沸腾的,火热的 | |
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64 tangled | |
adj. 纠缠的,紊乱的 动词tangle的过去式和过去分词 | |
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65 stunned | |
adj. 震惊的,惊讶的 动词stun的过去式和过去分词 | |
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66 perilous | |
adj.危险的,冒险的 | |
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67 amiability | |
n.和蔼可亲的,亲切的,友善的 | |
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68 reluctance | |
n.厌恶,讨厌,勉强,不情愿 | |
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69 vowed | |
起誓,发誓(vow的过去式与过去分词形式) | |
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70 instinctively | |
adv.本能地 | |
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71 gathering | |
n.集会,聚会,聚集 | |
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72 exhausted | |
adj.极其疲惫的,精疲力尽的 | |
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73 ebbed | |
(指潮水)退( ebb的过去式和过去分词 ); 落; 减少; 衰落 | |
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74 shipwreck | |
n.船舶失事,海难 | |
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75 paralysis | |
n.麻痹(症);瘫痪(症) | |
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76 animated | |
adj.生气勃勃的,活跃的,愉快的 | |
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77 chamber | |
n.房间,寝室;会议厅;议院;会所 | |
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78 censure | |
v./n.责备;非难;责难 | |
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79 anguish | |
n.(尤指心灵上的)极度痛苦,烦恼 | |
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80 betrothal | |
n. 婚约, 订婚 | |
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81 kindly | |
adj.和蔼的,温和的,爽快的;adv.温和地,亲切地 | |
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82 lull | |
v.使安静,使入睡,缓和,哄骗;n.暂停,间歇 | |
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83 prey | |
n.被掠食者,牺牲者,掠食;v.捕食,掠夺,折磨 | |
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84 outlasts | |
v.比…长久,比…活得长( outlast的第三人称单数 ) | |
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85 enchanting | |
a.讨人喜欢的 | |
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86 yearn | |
v.想念;怀念;渴望 | |
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87 inevitably | |
adv.不可避免地;必然发生地 | |
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88 profaned | |
v.不敬( profane的过去式和过去分词 );亵渎,玷污 | |
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89 virgin | |
n.处女,未婚女子;adj.未经使用的;未经开发的 | |
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90 drooped | |
弯曲或下垂,发蔫( droop的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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91 remains | |
n.剩余物,残留物;遗体,遗迹 | |
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92 stolid | |
adj.无动于衷的,感情麻木的 | |
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93 prostrate | |
v.拜倒,平卧,衰竭;adj.拜倒的,平卧的,衰竭的 | |
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94 varied | |
adj.多样的,多变化的 | |
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95 prying | |
adj.爱打听的v.打听,刺探(他人的私事)( pry的现在分词 );撬开 | |
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96 tragic | |
adj.悲剧的,悲剧性的,悲惨的 | |
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97 calamity | |
n.灾害,祸患,不幸事件 | |
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98 minor | |
adj.较小(少)的,较次要的;n.辅修学科;vi.辅修 | |
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