All at once a vague feeling of uneasiness stole over him, a curious feeling that he was not alone; and yet he did not look around, for somehow it seemed that it was the spirit of his Mary still hovering38 in the air, seeking to comfort his grieving heart; and yet the strange feeling of her nearness was different from that emotion he had experienced when he in fancy had looked at her wistful face in the heart of the nodding rose. And suddenly he held his breath as the consciousness of her physical presence grew stronger and stronger upon him; his startled eyes fixed39 themselves upon the naked stem, swaying gently on the bush—he strained his ears to hear—he knew not what—he could not tell—a trembling seized his limbs—and when he heard a sweet, low voice call “Robert,” not from the slender stalk, but somewhere behind him, he gave no start of surprise. He told himself it—it—was only imagination—the great longing40 within him had—but there it was again—it[381] could not be fancy—it—it must be—he turned slowly in the direction of the voice as if afraid to find naught41 but the empty room to mock him, for he had heard no sound to indicate a presence within the room. As his eyes grew accustomed to the gloom and his dulled vision cleared, he saw just inside the door, standing42 with hands outstretched to him—a flesh and blood reality, but oh! so pitifully changed. He gave a gasping43 cry and sprang to clasp the swaying form close to his throbbing44 breast.
Ah! the rapture of that meeting, the blissful joy which filled his aching heart and crowded out stern recollections from his memory, while all thoughts of the grim present, its bitter facts which faced him, the vain regrets, all—all were now forgotten. The lines of pain in his haggard face were smoothed out gently and deep peace settled upon their troubled souls.
“Ah, Mary!” he breathed softly, breaking the sacred stillness. “Ye have come at last. Oh, it has been so long, dearie, so long, and I have wanted ye so much,” and he held her to his heart in a strong, jealous, passionate46 embrace, as if he could never part with her again on earth, but would shield her from even the shadow of death, that he saw stamped on her pale, pinched features, and which glowed in the haunting depths of her tired blue eyes. A smile of sadness passed quickly over her face like the sun that peeps through the sudden rift47 of a cloud.
[382]
“Ye knew, laddie, I couldna’ go awa’ without seeing ye just once mair,” she whispered tenderly. A fit of coughing suddenly racked her slender frame. He led her weak and trembling to a chair and gently wiped away the beads48 of perspiration49 from her forehead, and for a moment she leaned up against him in utter exhaustion50. Presently she smiled up in his anxious face and faintly thanked him. “Dinna’ be alarmed, dearie,” she faltered51. “I’m aright noo,” and she bravely straightened up in her seat, but he would not release her altogether.
And so they sat, sad and silent, knowing the parting, the sad, final parting would come in a few quickly-fleeing moments.
Outside the clouds had been gathering52 thickly over the sky, and now and then a few shafts53 of sunlight still forced a passage through them with steady persistency54, although storm hovered55 over all, waiting the signal to burst forth. Suddenly a silver glare of lightning sprang out from beneath the black-winged cloud hanging low in the horizon, and a few large drops of rain began to fall. Mary nestled closer to him as she saw the brilliant flash, and shivered apprehensively56. They both were thinking of that other storm, when he had bidden farewell to Ayrshire in poverty and despair, to take his place in Edinburgh among the high and mighty, to claim the reward of genius—honor, fame and renown57. And now the time had come for her to say farewell, only there[383] was a difference, and such a difference! She was bidding good-by to life, to love, to everything. A happy smile broke over her wistful face as she thought of her reward; it would not be such a fleeting58 thing as riches, honor and fame. Thank God, it was more than those; it was an eternity59 of happiness. No more sorrow, no more suffering, only peace, divine peace, such as the world knoweth not, such as she had never known in her short, eventful life.
“And so, Mary,” murmured Robert brokenly, “the end of our life’s romance has come at last.”
She put her little hand in his and pressed it warmly.
“Yes, ’tis the end, Robin60 Adair. The end of all, but it had to come some time; we were but wearing our hearts out in vain longings61, in bitter regrets, ye ken29 that, dear.” She paused and idly watched the rain, which was now coming down fiercely. “It will be better for—for us—all when I am gone,” she murmured presently, with a far-away look in her eyes.
A sob of anguish caused her to turn quickly to the sorrowing man by her side. Putting her hand on his head, she continued in pathetic resignation, “I will be spared much pain and sorrow, ye ken, so dinna greet for me, laddie. I—I am content, nay62 glad to go, for I—I am so tired—so very tired of this—long, unhappy struggle.” Her voice[384] trembled and the tears rolled slowly down her sad cheeks.
“If I, too, could only end it all,” he moaned.
“Sh! laddie!” she answered in gentle reproach. “Ye mustna’ wish for death; ye have those dependent on ye, whom ye maun think of noo, Jean and the bairns.” Her voice grew very sweet and caressing63. “I saw them as I came in. Oh, they are such bonnie little lads, dearie. So like ye, too. Gilbert is o’er fond of them; he is playing wi’ them noo.”
Mrs. Dunlop had been taken ill at the last moment and had commissioned Gilbert to take her place. She had supplied him plentifully64 with money for the journey and had then sorrowfully taken her departure for Edinburgh, her kind old heart sad and heavy.
“Robbie lad,” continued Mary earnestly, “ye—ye maun take Jean close to your heart. Ye maun love her fondly for the bairns’ sake and—for her own, too, for she is a good, kind wife to ye, and ye’ll all—be very happy yet, I ken weel.”
He slipped down from his chair to his knees and buried his tear-stained face in her lap. “When ye go, Mary,” he murmured brokenly, “I’ll never know peace and happiness again.” She let him weep on in silence. Presently he raised his head and looked at her. “Ye dinna’ ken, lassie, how I have hungered for a sight of your dear face—a word from your sweet lips, this last year.” He clung to her passionately65. “An’ noo in a few minutes,” he continued[385] in anguish, “ye will pass out o’ my life forever and I maun live on here—desolate—and heart-broken.”
“Nay, nay!” she cried reproachfully. “Dinna’ say that, laddie, not alone, not alone,” and she looked compassionately66 at the door of the kitchen where Jean sat in patient misery68 holding her bairn to her aching heart. At that moment Gilbert softly opened the door and told them that they would have to start at once, that the storm would not let up and that they must catch the boat at Greenock that night.
“Ye had better say good-by, noo,” and he closed the door quietly behind him.
They looked at each other, too dazed for words. Then she started to rise to her feet, but he clasped her hands tightly, though she did not feel the pain, and pressed her into the seat again.
“Not yet, not yet, Mary!” he gasped69. “I canna’ let ye go just yet. ’Tis like tearing my heart out by its roots.”
“’Tis all my fault,” he moaned, “all thro’ my sinful weakness that ye are made to suffer noo, all my fault.”
She put her fingers on his lips. “Sh! dearie!” she remonstrated71 softly. “Dinna’ blame yoursel’. If we suffer noo, we must na’ forget how happy we have been, and we were happy, weren’t we, laddie?”[386] and she smiled in fond reminiscence, then continued a trifle unsteadily, “An—an hour’s happiness is worth a year of pain, for when we get sad an’ lonely, we can live it all over again, canna’ we?” She paused and sighed pathetically. “Only it—it isna’ real, is it, laddie?” A sudden break in her voice caused her to put her hand to her throat and look away with quivering lips. Then she went on in plaintive72, pleading gentleness, “Ye will sometimes think of me—way up—in the Highlands, won’t ye, dearie? It willna’ wrong—Jean, for—soon your Mary will be—in Heaven, in her castle grand.”
The thunder rolled along the sky in angry reverberating73 echoes, stilling the low voice, while frequent flashes of lightning leaped out like knives suddenly drawn74 from dark sheaths—yet toward the north over Greenock the sky was clearing, and streaks75 and beams of gold fell from the hidden sun, with a soothing76 promise of a clear and radiant sunset. Mary’s face brightened as she watched the sunbeams struggling through the lightened clouds, and she went on dreamily, in the prolonged lull77 of the storm:
“My home there will be so fine, much finer than the castle in Edinburgh.” She smiled tenderly and let her hand slip down from his head to his heaving shoulder, where it rested in loving quiet. “How happy I was that night,” she mused; “an’ the sweet gown was so pretty I—hated to take it off, but it[387] wasna’ mine.” She paused with quivering lips. “But—but—I was going to buy one the next day for my own, wasna’ I? A white one—all smooth and soft and shiny—for—for my wedding gown.” Her voice died away in a hushed, mournful quaver.
“Don’t, don’t, Mary!” sobbed78 Robert unrestrainedly. “I canna’ bear to think of that noo, noo when I maun give ye up forever.” He stroked her face and covered her pale, thin, toil-worn hands with heart-breaking kisses. Presently he grew calmer. “I shall never forget that night, Mary, that night with its pleasures and pain,” he went on with dreamy pathos79. “It is ever in my thoughts; e’en in my dreams your dear bonnie face haunts me with its sweet, pathetic smile, and your tender lips seem to say, ‘laddie, ye were not true to your vows80, ye have broken my heart.’” She gave a little cry of pain.
“No, no, laddie, I never thought that,” she cried, and she looked at him with gentle, pitying eyes.
“I wad try to speak, to implore81 your forgiveness for the misery I had caused ye,” continued Robert, his husky voice heard faintly above the wail82 of the wind, which shook the lattice with a sort of stealthy clatter83, like a midnight prowler striving to creep in to steal and plunder84. “And in my dumb despair and anguish I would clutch at your floating garments only to have them vanish into air, and I would awake to find myself—alone—with my bitter remorse[388] and sorrow.” A low, choked sob broke from his hollow breast—he covered his face with his hands. “Can ye ever forgive me?” he murmured.
Mary regarded him with infinite compassion67, a heroic smile on her tired, quivering lips. “Freely do I forgive everything, laddie,” she replied, “an’ when I am gone I want ye to remember always that Mary Campbell had only love, pity and forgiveness in her heart for ye.” She raised her trembling hands solemnly. “May God bring peace to your troubled heart, laddie, and may your future dreams be filled with joy and happiness, of love and prosperity.”
“The door opened and Jean quietly entered the room.”
The door opened and Jean quietly entered the room, her tense, white face full of patient sorrow. She had sat in the kitchen for an eternity it seemed to the waiting woman, while Mary was taking her farewell of her husband. She had tried to talk to Gilbert, to interest herself in the news of home, but the words simply refused to leave her lips, and so she had sat there, listlessly watching the children playing around their uncle’s knee, her ears straining to hear some sound from the other room. No one knew how she suffered, to step aside, to welcome to her home his former sweetheart, to know they were there clasped in each other’s arms; and yet she did not feel bitter toward Mary somehow, strange as it might seem. She pitied her, she pitied them both, and it filled her with a strange feeling of surprise[389] that she could feel so. Still loving Robert as fondly as she did, she could not help the feeling of despair which crept over her at times, to know, to fully5 realize, that she held only a secondary place in his affections, to hear him calling for another, for Mary. Sometimes in thought she caught herself bitterly arraigning85 him for his thoughtlessness, his apparent heartlessness; then the thought of his weak condition, his ill health, his distracted state of mind, these past months, tempered her judgment86. He was hardly responsible for his actions, and if he were conscious of his own selfishness he had lost the power, the strength of will, to restrain his feverish87 impulses. She wondered vaguely88 if it would be different when—when she had passed away forever—if her memory would still come between them. She hoped not—she prayed that it might not be so.
Gilbert had left her to her silent musings, and had gone out to harness the horses. Returning, he told her that they must start at once, so she had opened the door to tell them, and as her eyes took in the misery which was reflected in their white, drawn faces she was moved to intense pity, and the tears rained slowly down her cheeks.
“Come, Mary, Gilbert says ’tis time to start,” she faltered. They both looked up slowly at the sound of her voice, then gazed dully into each other’s eyes. Presently Mary rose from her chair and stood up unsteadily, stretching out her little, cold, white[390] hands to Robert, who clutched them in his own feverish palms as a drowning man clutches a straw.
A violent shuddering89 seized him, he did not move for a moment. Finally he staggered to his feet, and a quiver of agony passed over his face. He looked at her with dulled, glazed90 eyes and his face assumed a ghastly hue91.
“’Tis so hard, so cruel, to say good-by forever,” he breathed huskily, for his throat was dry and parched92. His swaying figure tottered93 a moment, then he drew her slowly into his arms and pressed his lips to her forehead. “’Tis the last time on earth, Mary,” he whispered brokenly. Her lips trembled, but she would not give way to the feeling of dizziness that threatened to rob her of her consciousness. She must leave him with a smile, she told herself; she must not make it harder for him. “Yes, for the last time, Robert,” she repeated slowly. “May God bless and watch over ye, Robin Adair—till—we—meet in Heaven. Good-by.” Her voice died away inarticulately, and she sank forward into his arms, where she lay motionless with closed eyes, utterly94 spent in body and spirit, and save for a shivering sob that now and then escaped her, she seemed almost insensible. Jean rushed quickly forward and drew her into a chair, while Gilbert fetched a glass of water, which he held to her white lips.
[391]
The wind shook the doors and whistled shrilly95 through the crevices96, then as though tired of its own wrath97, surged away in hoarse98 murmurs99, through the branches of the creaking old beech100, toward the Loch, and there was a short, tense silence while they waited to see signs of life appear in the face of the stricken girl. Presently she opened those azure101 blue eyes and smiled up in their anxious faces; then she struggled to her feet, but she put her hand quickly to her heart and tottered.
“Oh, my—poor—weak heart,” she gasped faintly. Jean caught her quickly in her strong arms and stroked her soft cheek with a curious yearning10 sensation of love tugging102 at her heartstrings.
“Poor dear,” she said compassionately, “you’re too weak to stand so much excitement,” and she put her back firmly in the chair. Mary attempted to rise again, but Jean would not permit her. “Gilbert shall carry you to the carriage,” she told her. Gilbert stepped to her side.
“I will be a light burden noo, Gilbert,” she faltered, smiling pathetically into his strong, rugged103 face, which bore traces of his deep, bitter grief. Jean gently put her arms about her and in silence implanted a kiss on her pure, sweet face; then she turned away and covered her face with her hands. Gilbert bent104 over and picked up the frail105 body, and in spite of his efforts to restrain his emotion, a sigh that was almost a groan106 escaped him, for she was[392] no heavier than a child of a few summers. He carried her past his brother, who was sitting with head bowed upon his breast in an attitude of absolute despair.
“Greet not for me, dearie,” whispered Mary faintly, stretching out her hand and letting it rest tenderly on his head. “God’s—will—be—done,” and her dry, burning eyes took their last look, and said their last farewell as Gilbert slowly carried her from the room and closed the door, shutting Robert out from her lingering gaze.
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1
obsession
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| n.困扰，无法摆脱的思想(或情感) | |
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repelled
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| v.击退( repel的过去式和过去分词 )；使厌恶；排斥；推开 | |
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3
forth
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| adv.向前；向外，往外 | |
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gracefully
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| ad.大大方方地；优美地 | |
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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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highland
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| n.(pl.)高地，山地 | |
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petals
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| n.花瓣( petal的名词复数 ) | |
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petal
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| n.花瓣 | |
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mighty
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| adj.强有力的；巨大的 | |
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yearning
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| a.渴望的；向往的；怀念的 | |
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splendor
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| n.光彩；壮丽，华丽；显赫，辉煌 | |
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ineffable
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| adj.无法表达的，不可言喻的 | |
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13
rapture
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| n.狂喜；全神贯注；着迷；v.使狂喜 | |
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gust
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| n.阵风，突然一阵（雨、烟等），（感情的）迸发 | |
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15
caress
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| vt./n.爱抚，抚摸 | |
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eluding
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| v.（尤指机敏地）避开( elude的现在分词 )；逃避；躲避；使达不到 | |
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17
saucy
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| adj.无礼的；俊俏的；活泼的 | |
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presaged
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| v.预示，预兆( presage的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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embittered
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| v.使怨恨，激怒( embitter的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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slumbers
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| 睡眠，安眠( slumber的名词复数 ) | |
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cramped
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| a.狭窄的 | |
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hazy
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| adj.有薄雾的，朦胧的；不肯定的，模糊的 | |
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crouching
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| v.屈膝，蹲伏( crouch的现在分词 ) | |
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luminous
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| adj.发光的，发亮的；光明的；明白易懂的；有启发的 | |
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inhaled
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| v.吸入( inhale的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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fragrant
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| adj.芬香的，馥郁的，愉快的 | |
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tightened
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| 收紧( tighten的过去式和过去分词 )； （使）变紧； （使）绷紧； 加紧 | |
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depressed
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| adj.沮丧的，抑郁的，不景气的，萧条的 | |
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ken
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| n.视野，知识领域 | |
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flakes
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| 小薄片( flake的名词复数 )； （尤指）碎片； 雪花； 古怪的人 | |
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scattered
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| adj.分散的，稀疏的；散步的；疏疏落落的 | |
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32
agonized
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| v.使（极度）痛苦，折磨( agonize的过去式和过去分词 )；苦斗；苦苦思索；感到极度痛苦 | |
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sob
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| n.空间轨道的轰炸机；呜咽，哭泣 | |
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anguish
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| n.(尤指心灵上的)极度痛苦，烦恼 | |
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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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drearily
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| 沉寂地，厌倦地，可怕地 | |
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mused
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| v.沉思，冥想( muse的过去式和过去分词 )；沉思自语说（某事） | |
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38
hovering
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| 鸟( hover的现在分词 )； 靠近（某事物）； （人）徘徊； 犹豫 | |
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39
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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40
longing
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| n.（for）渴望 | |
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naught
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| n.无，零 [=nought] | |
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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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gasping
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| adj. 气喘的, 痉挛的 动词gasp的现在分词 | |
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44
throbbing
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| a. 跳动的,悸动的 | |
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45
wan
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| (wide area network)广域网 | |
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46
passionate
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| adj.热情的，热烈的，激昂的，易动情的，易怒的，性情暴躁的 | |
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47
rift
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| n.裂口，隙缝，切口；v.裂开，割开，渗入 | |
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48
beads
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| n.（空心）小珠子( bead的名词复数 )；水珠；珠子项链 | |
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49
perspiration
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| n.汗水；出汗 | |
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50
exhaustion
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| n.耗尽枯竭，疲惫，筋疲力尽，竭尽，详尽无遗的论述 | |
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51
faltered
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| （嗓音）颤抖( falter的过去式和过去分词 )； 支吾其词； 蹒跚； 摇晃 | |
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52
gathering
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| n.集会，聚会，聚集 | |
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53
shafts
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| n.轴( shaft的名词复数 )；（箭、高尔夫球棒等的）杆；通风井；一阵（疼痛、害怕等） | |
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54
persistency
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| n. 坚持(余辉, 时间常数) | |
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55
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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56
apprehensively
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| adv.担心地 | |
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57
renown
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| n.声誉，名望 | |
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58
fleeting
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| adj.短暂的，飞逝的 | |
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59
eternity
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| n.不朽，来世；永恒，无穷 | |
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60
robin
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| n.知更鸟，红襟鸟 | |
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61
longings
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| 渴望，盼望( longing的名词复数 ) | |
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62
nay
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| adv.不；n.反对票，投反对票者 | |
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caressing
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| 爱抚的，表现爱情的，亲切的 | |
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plentifully
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| adv. 许多地，丰饶地 | |
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passionately
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| ad.热烈地，激烈地 | |
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compassionately
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| adv.表示怜悯地，有同情心地 | |
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compassion
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| n.同情，怜悯 | |
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misery
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| n.痛苦，苦恼，苦难；悲惨的境遇，贫苦 | |
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gasped
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| v.喘气( gasp的过去式和过去分词 )；喘息；倒抽气；很想要 | |
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vehemence
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| n.热切；激烈；愤怒 | |
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remonstrated
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| v.抗议( remonstrate的过去式和过去分词 )；告诫 | |
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plaintive
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| adj.可怜的，伤心的 | |
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reverberating
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| 回响，回荡( reverberate的现在分词 )； 使反响，使回荡，使反射 | |
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drawn
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| v.拖，拉，拔出；adj.憔悴的，紧张的 | |
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streaks
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| n.（与周围有所不同的）条纹( streak的名词复数 )；（通常指不好的）特征（倾向）；（不断经历成功或失败的）一段时期v.快速移动( streak的第三人称单数 )；使布满条纹 | |
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soothing
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| adj.慰藉的；使人宽心的；镇静的 | |
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lull
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| v.使安静，使入睡，缓和，哄骗；n.暂停，间歇 | |
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sobbed
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| 哭泣，啜泣( sob的过去式和过去分词 )； 哭诉，呜咽地说 | |
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pathos
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| n.哀婉，悲怆 | |
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vows
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| 誓言( vow的名词复数 )； 郑重宣布，许愿 | |
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implore
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| vt.乞求，恳求，哀求 | |
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wail
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| vt./vi.大声哀号，恸哭；呼啸，尖啸 | |
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clatter
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| v./n.(使)发出连续而清脆的撞击声 | |
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plunder
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| vt.劫掠财物，掠夺；n.劫掠物，赃物；劫掠 | |
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arraigning
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| v.告发( arraign的现在分词 )；控告；传讯；指责 | |
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judgment
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| n.审判；判断力，识别力，看法，意见 | |
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feverish
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| adj.发烧的，狂热的，兴奋的 | |
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vaguely
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| adv.含糊地，暖昧地 | |
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shuddering
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| v.战栗( shudder的现在分词 )；发抖；（机器、车辆等）突然震动；颤动 | |
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glazed
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| adj.光滑的，像玻璃的；上过釉的；呆滞无神的v.装玻璃( glaze的过去式)；上釉于，上光；（目光）变得呆滞无神 | |
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hue
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| n.色度；色调；样子 | |
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parched
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| adj.焦干的；极渴的；v.（使）焦干 | |
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tottered
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| v.走得或动得不稳( totter的过去式和过去分词 )；踉跄；蹒跚；摇摇欲坠 | |
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utterly
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| adv.完全地，绝对地 | |
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shrilly
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| 尖声的； 光亮的，耀眼的 | |
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crevices
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| n.（尤指岩石的）裂缝，缺口( crevice的名词复数 ) | |
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wrath
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| n.愤怒，愤慨，暴怒 | |
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hoarse
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| adj.嘶哑的，沙哑的 | |
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murmurs
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| n.低沉、连续而不清的声音( murmur的名词复数 )；低语声；怨言；嘀咕 | |
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beech
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| n.山毛榉；adj.山毛榉的 | |
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azure
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| adj.天蓝色的，蔚蓝色的 | |
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tugging
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| n.牵引感v.用力拉，使劲拉，猛扯( tug的现在分词 ) | |
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rugged
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| adj.高低不平的，粗糙的，粗壮的，强健的 | |
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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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frail
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| adj.身体虚弱的；易损坏的 | |
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106
groan
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| vi./n.呻吟，抱怨；(发出)呻吟般的声音 | |
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