We kept up the dancing till Lucy discovered with a shock that midnight had struck, and that Sunday had begun, and we were all sent off to bed. I was not long in making my nightly preparations, and had scarcely inserted myself between the sheets when, with a few long moans, the wind began again, more violently even than the night before. It had been a calm, fine day, and I made wise reflections as I listened upon the uncertainty12 of the north-country climate. What a tempest it was! How it moaned, and howled, and shrieked13! Where had I heard the superstition14 which now came to my mind, that borne upon the wind come the spirits of the drowned, wailing15 and crying for the sepulture which had been denied them? But there were other sounds in that wind, too. Evil, murderous thoughts, perhaps, which had never taken body in deeds, but which, caught up in the air, now hurled16 themselves in impotent fury through the world. How I wished the wind would stop. It seemed full of horrible fancies, and it kept knocking them into my head, and it wouldn't leave off. Fancies, or memories—which?—and my mind reverted17 with a flash to the fearful thoughts which had haunted it the day before in Dame18 Alice's tower. It was dark now. Those ghastly intangible shapes must have taken full form and color, peopling the old ruin with their ageless hideousness19. And the storm had found them there and borne them along with it as it blew through the creviced walls. That was why the wind's sound struck so strangely on my brain. Ah! I could hear them now, those still living memories of dead horror. Through the window crannies they came shrieking20 and wailing. They filled the chimney with spirit sobs21, and now they were pressing on, crowding through the room,—eager, eager to reach their prey22. Nearer they came;—nearer still! They were round my bed now! Through my closed eyelids23 I could almost see their dreadful shapes; in all my quivering flesh I felt their terrors as they bent24 over me,—lower, lower. . . .
With a start I aroused myself and sat up. Was I asleep or awake? I was trembling all over still, and it required the greatest effort of courage I had ever made to enable me to spring from my bed and strike a light. What a state my nerves or my digestion25 must be in! From my childhood the wind had always affected26 me strangely, and I blamed myself now for allowing my imagination to run away with me at the first. I found a novel which I had brought up to my room with me, one of the modern, Chinese-American school, where human nature is analyzed27 with the patient, industrious28 indifference29 of the true Celestial30. I took the book to bed with me, and soon under its soothing31 influences fell asleep. I dreamt a good deal,— nightmares, the definite recollection of which, as is so often the case, vanished from my mind as soon as I awoke, leaving only a vague impression of horror. They had been connected with the wind, of that alone I was conscious, and I went down to breakfast, maliciously32 hoping that others' rest had been as much disturbed as my own.
To my surprise, however, I found that I had again been the only sufferer. Indeed, so impressed were most of the party with the quiet in which their night had been passed, that they boldly declared my storm to have been the creature of my dreams. There is nothing more annoying when you feel yourself aggrieved33 by fate than to be told that your troubles have originated in your own fancy; so I dropped the subject. Though the discussion spread for a few minutes round the whole table, Alan took no part in it. Neither did George, except for what I thought a rather unnecessarily rough expression of his disbelief in the cause of my night's disturbance34. As we rose from breakfast I saw Alan glance towards his brother, and make a movement, evidently with the purpose of speaking to him. Whether or not George was aware of the look or action, I cannot say; but at the same moment he made rapidly across the room to where one of his principal guests was standing, and at once engaged him in conversation. So earnestly and so volubly was he borne on, that they were still talking together when we ladies appeared again some minutes later, prepared for our walk to church. That was not the only occasion during the day on which I witnessed as I thought the same by-play going on. Again and again Alan appeared to be making efforts to engage George in private conversation, and again and again the latter successfully eluded35 him.
The church was about a mile away from the house, and as Lucy did not like having the carriages out on a Sunday, one service a week as a rule contented36 the household. In the afternoon we took the usual Sunday walk. On returning from it, I had just taken off my outdoor things, and was issuing from my bedroom, when I found myself face to face with Alan. He was coming out of George's study, and had succeeded apparently37 in obtaining that interview for which he had been all day seeking. One glance at his face told me what its nature had been. We paused opposite each other for a moment, and he looked at me earnestly.
"No," I answered, with some surprise. "I did not know that any one was going this evening."
"Will you come with me?"
"Yes, certainly; if you don't mind waiting a moment for me to put my things on."
"There's plenty of time," he answered; "meet me in the hall."
A few minutes later we started.
It was a calm, cloudless night, and although the moon was not yet half-full, and already past her meridian39, she filled the clear air with gentle light. Not a word broke our silence. Alan walked hurriedly, looking straight before him, his head upright, his lips twitching40 nervously41, while every now and then a half-uttered moan escaped unconsciously from between them. At last I could bear it no longer, and burst forth42 with the first remark which occurred to me. We were passing a big, black, queer-shaped stone standing in rather a lonely uncultivated spot at one end of the garden. It was an old acquaintance of my childhood; but my thoughts had been turned towards it now from the fact that I could see it from my bedroom window, and had been struck afresh by its uncouth43, incongruous appearance.
"Isn't there some story connected with that stone?" I asked. "I remember that we always called it the Dead Stone as children."
Alan cast a quick, sidelong glance in that direction, and his brows contracted in an irritable44 frown. "I don't know," he answered shortly; "they say that there is a woman buried beneath it, I believe."
"A woman buried there!" I exclaimed in surprise; "but who?"
"How should I know? They know nothing whatever about it. The place is full of stupid traditions of that kind." Then, looking suspiciously round at me, "Why do you ask?"
"I don't know; it was just something to say," I answered plaintively45. His strange mood so worked upon my nerves, that it was all that I could do to restrain my tears. I think that my tone struck his conscience, for he made a few feverish46 attempts at conversation after that. But they were so entirely47 abortive48 that he soon abandoned the effort, and we finished our walk to church as speechlessly as we had begun it.
The service was bright, and the sermon perhaps a little commonplace, but sensible as it seemed to me in matter, and adequate in style. The peaceful evening hymn49 which followed, the short solemn pause of silent prayer at the end, soothed50 and refreshed my spirit. A hasty glance at my companion's face as he stood waiting for me in the porch, with the full light from the church streaming round him, assured me that the same influence had touched him too. Haggard and sad he still looked, it is true; but his features were composed, and the expression of actual pain had left his eyes.
Silent as we had come we started homeward through the waning51 moonlight, but this silence was of a very different nature to the other, and after a minute or two I did not hesitate to break it.
"It was a good sermon?" I observed, interrogatively.
"Yes," he assented52, "I suppose you would call it so; but I confess that I should have found the text more impressive without its exposition."
"Poor man!"
"But don't you often find it so?" he asked. "Do you not often wish, to take this evening's instance, that clergymen would infuse themselves with something of St. Paul's own spirit? Then perhaps they would not water all the strength out of his words in their efforts to explain them."
"That is rather a large demand to make upon them, is it not?"
"Is it?" he questioned. "I don't ask them to be inspired saints. I don't expect St. Paul's breadth and depth of thought. But could they not have something of his vigorous completeness, something of the intensity53 of his feeling and belief? Look at the text of to- night. Did not the preacher's examples and applications take something from its awful unqualified strength?"
"Awful!" I exclaimed, in surprise; "that is hardly the expression I should have used in connection with those words."
"Why not?"
"Oh, I don't know. The text is very beautiful, of course, and at times, when people are tiresome54 and one ought to be nice to them, it is very difficult to act up to. But—"
"But you think that 'awful' is rather a big adjective to use for so small a duty," interposed Alan, and the moonlight showed the flicker55 of a smile upon his face. Then he continued, gravely, "I doubt whether you yourself realize the full import of the words. The precept56 of charity is not merely a code of rules by which to order our conduct to our neighbors; it is the picture of a spiritual condition, and such, where it exists in us, must by its very nature be roused into activity by anything that affects us. So with this particular injunction, every circumstance in our lives is a challenge to it, and in presence of all alike it admits of one attitude only: 'Beareth all things, endureth all things.' I hope it will be long before that 'all' sticks in your gizzard, Evie,— before you come face to face with things which nature cannot bear, and yet which must be borne."
He stopped, his voice quivering; and then after a pause went on again more calmly, "And throughout it is the same. Moral precepts57 everywhere, which will admit of no compromise, no limitation, and yet which are at war with our strongest passions. If one could only interpose some 'unless,' some 'except,' even an 'until,' which should be short of the grave. But we cannot. The law is infinite, universal, eternal; there is no escape, no repose58. Resist, strive, endure, that is the recurring59 cry; that is existence."
"And peace," I exclaimed, appealingly. "Where is there room for peace, if that be true?"
He sighed for answer, and then in a changed and lower tone added, "However thickly the clouds mass, however vainly we search for a coming glimmer60 in their midst, we never doubt that the sky IS still beyond—beyond and around us, infinite and infinitely61 restful."
He raised his eyes as he spoke62, and mine followed his. We had entered the wooded glen. Through the scanty63 autumn foliage64 we could see the stars shining faintly in the dim moonlight, and beyond them the deep illimitable blue. A dark world it looked, distant and mysterious, and my young spirit rebelled at the consolation65 offered me.
"Peace seems a long way off," I whispered.
"It is for me," he answered, gently; "not necessarily for you."
"Oh, but I am worse and weaker than you are. If life is to be all warfare66, I must be beaten. I cannot always be fighting."
"Cannot you? Evie, what I have been saying is true of every moral law worth having, of every ideal of life worth striving after, that men have yet conceived. But it is only half the truth of Christianity. You know that. We must strive, for the promise is to him that overcometh; but though our aim be even higher than is that of others, we cannot in the end fail to reach it. The victory of the Cross is ours. You know that? You believe that?"
"Yes" I answered, softly, too surprised to say more. In speaking of religion he, as a rule, showed to the full the reserve which is characteristic of his class and country, and this sudden outburst was in itself astonishing; but the eager anxiety with which he emphasized the last words of appeal impressed and bewildered me still further. We walked on for some minutes in silence. Then suddenly Alan stopped, and turning, took my hand in his. In what direction his mind had been working in the interval67 I could not divine; but the moment he began to speak I felt that he was now for the first time giving utterance68 to what had been really at the bottom of his thoughts the whole evening. Even in that dim light I could see the anxious look upon his face, and his voice shook with restrained emotion.
"Evie," he said, "have you ever thought of the world in which our spirits dwell, as our bodies do in this one of matter and sense, and of how it may be peopled? I know," he went on hurriedly, "that it is the fashion nowadays to laugh at such ideas. I envy those who have never had cause to be convinced of their reality, and I hope that you may long remain among the number. But should that not be so, should those unseen influences ever touch your life, I want you to remember then, that, as one of the race for whom Christ died, you have as high a citizenship69 in that spirit land as any creature there: that you are your own soul's warden70, and that neither principalities nor powers can rob you of that your birthright."
I think my face must have shown my bewilderment, for he dropped my hand, and walked on with an impatient sigh.
"You don't understand me. Why should you? I dare-say that I am talking nonsense—only—only—"
His voice expressed such an agony of doubt and hesitation71 that I burst out—
"I think that I do understand you a little, Alan. You mean that even from unearthly enemies there is nothing that we need really fear—at least, that is, I suppose, nothing worse than death. But that is surely enough!"
"Why should you fear death?" he said, abruptly; "your soul will live."
"What is life after all but one long death?" he went on, with sudden violence. "Our pleasures, our hopes, our youth are all dying; ambition dies, and even desire at last; our passions and tastes will die, or will live only to mourn their dead opportunity. The happiness of love dies with the loss of the loved, and, worst of all, love itself grows old in our hearts and dies. Why should we shrink only from the one death which can free us from all the others?"
"It is not true, Alan!" I cried, hotly. "What you say is not true. There are many things even here which are living and shall live; and if it were otherwise, in everything, life that ends in death is better than no life at all."
"You say that," he answered, "because for you these things are yet living. To leave life now, therefore, while it is full and sweet, untainted by death, surely that is not a fate to fear. Better, a thousand times better, to see the cord cut with one blow while it is still whole and strong, and to launch out straight into the great ocean, than to sit watching through the slow years, while strand73 after strand, thread by thread, loosens and unwinds itself,— each with its own separate pang74 breaking, bringing the bitterness of death without its release.
His manner, the despairing ring in his voice, alarmed me even more than his words. Clinging to his arm with both hands, while the tears sprang to my eyes—
"Alan," I cried, "don't say such things,—don't talk like that.
He stopped short at my words, with bent head, his features hidden in the shadow thus cast upon them,—nothing in his motionless form to show what was passing within him. Then he looked up, and turned his face to the moonlight and to me, laying his hand on one of mine.
"Don't be afraid," he said; "it is all right, my little David. You have driven the evil spirit away." And lifting my hand, he pressed it gently to his lips. Then drawing it within his arm, he went on, as he walked forward, "And even when it was on me at its worst, I was not meditating76 suicide, as I think you imagine. I am a very average specimen77 of humanity,—neither brave enough to defy the possibilities of eternity78 nor cowardly enough to shirk those of time. No, I was only trying idiotically to persuade a girl of eighteen that life was not worth living; and more futilely79 still, myself, that I did not wish her to live. I am afraid, that in my mind philosophy and fact have but small connection with each other; and though my theorizing for your welfare may be true enough, yet,— I cannot help it, Evie,—it would go terribly hard with me if anything were to happen to you."
His voice trembled as he finished. My fear had gone with his return to his natural manner, but my bewilderment remained.
"Why SHOULD there anything happen to me?" I asked.
"That is just it," he answered, after a pause, looking straight in front of him and drawing his hand wearily over his brow. "I know of no reason why there should." Then giving a sigh, as if finally to dismiss from his mind a worrying subject—"I have acted for the best," he said, "and may God forgive me if I have done wrong."
There was a little silence after that, and then he began to talk again, steadily80 and quietly. The subject was deep enough still, as deep as any that we had touched upon, but both voice and sentiment were calm, bringing peace to my spirit, and soon making me forget the wonder and fear of a few moments before. Very openly did he talk as we passed on across the long trunk shadows and through the glades81 of silver light; and I saw farther then into the most sacred recesses82 of his soul than I have ever done before or since.
When we reached home the moon had already set; but some of her beams seemed to have been left behind within my heart, so pure and peaceful was the light which filled it.
The same feeling continued with me all through that evening. After dinner some of the party played and sang. As it was Sunday, and Lucy was rigid83 in her views, the music was of a sacred character. I sat in a low armchair in a dark corner of the room, my mind too dreamy to think, and too passive to dream. I hardly interchanged three words with Alan, who remained in a still darker spot, invisible and silent the whole time. Only as we left the room to go to bed, I heard Lucy ask him if he had a headache. I did not hear his answer, and before I could see his face he had turned back again into the drawing-room.
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1
chattering
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| n. （机器振动发出的）咔嗒声，(鸟等)鸣，啁啾 adj. 喋喋不休的，啾啾声的 动词chatter的现在分词形式 | |
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2
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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extravagant
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| adj.奢侈的；过分的；(言行等)放肆的 | |
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fixed
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| adj.固定的，不变的，准备好的；(计算机)固定的 | |
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5
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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peculiarities
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| n. 特质, 特性, 怪癖, 古怪 | |
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plaintive
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| adj.可怜的，伤心的 | |
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enjoyment
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| n.乐趣；享有；享用 | |
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impulsive
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| adj.冲动的，刺激的；有推动力的 | |
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passionately
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| ad.热烈地，激烈地 | |
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determined
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| adj.坚定的；有决心的 | |
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12
uncertainty
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| n.易变，靠不住，不确知，不确定的事物 | |
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13
shrieked
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| v.尖叫( shriek的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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superstition
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| n.迷信，迷信行为 | |
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15
wailing
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| v.哭叫，哀号( wail的现在分词 )；沱 | |
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16
hurled
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| v.猛投，用力掷( hurl的过去式和过去分词 )；大声叫骂 | |
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reverted
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| 恢复( revert的过去式和过去分词 )； 重提； 回到…上； 归还 | |
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dame
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| n.女士 | |
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19
hideousness
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20
shrieking
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| v.尖叫( shriek的现在分词 ) | |
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21
sobs
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| 啜泣（声），呜咽（声）( sob的名词复数 ) | |
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22
prey
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| n.被掠食者，牺牲者，掠食；v.捕食，掠夺，折磨 | |
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23
eyelids
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| n.眼睑( eyelid的名词复数 )；眼睛也不眨一下；不露声色；面不改色 | |
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24
bent
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| n.爱好，癖好；adj.弯的；决心的，一心的 | |
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digestion
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| n.消化，吸收 | |
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affected
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| adj.不自然的，假装的 | |
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analyzed
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| v.分析( analyze的过去式和过去分词 )；分解；解释；对…进行心理分析 | |
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28
industrious
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| adj.勤劳的，刻苦的，奋发的 | |
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indifference
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| n.不感兴趣，不关心，冷淡，不在乎 | |
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celestial
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| adj.天体的；天上的 | |
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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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maliciously
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| adv.有敌意地 | |
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33
aggrieved
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| adj.愤愤不平的，受委屈的；悲痛的；（在合法权利方面）受侵害的v.令委屈，令苦恼，侵害( aggrieve的过去式)；令委屈，令苦恼，侵害( aggrieve的过去式和过去分词) | |
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34
disturbance
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| n.动乱，骚动；打扰，干扰；(身心)失调 | |
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35
eluded
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| v.（尤指机敏地）避开( elude的过去式和过去分词 )；逃避；躲避；使达不到 | |
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36
contented
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| adj.满意的，安心的，知足的 | |
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apparently
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| adv.显然地；表面上，似乎 | |
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abruptly
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| adv.突然地，出其不意地 | |
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39
meridian
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| adj.子午线的；全盛期的 | |
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40
twitching
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| n.颤搐 | |
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41
nervously
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| adv.神情激动地，不安地 | |
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42
forth
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| adv.向前；向外，往外 | |
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43
uncouth
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| adj.无教养的，粗鲁的 | |
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44
irritable
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| adj.急躁的；过敏的；易怒的 | |
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45
plaintively
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| adv.悲哀地，哀怨地 | |
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46
feverish
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| adj.发烧的，狂热的，兴奋的 | |
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47
entirely
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| ad.全部地，完整地；完全地，彻底地 | |
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48
abortive
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| adj.不成功的，发育不全的 | |
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49
hymn
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| n.赞美诗，圣歌，颂歌 | |
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50
soothed
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| v.安慰( soothe的过去式和过去分词 )；抚慰；使舒服；减轻痛苦 | |
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51
waning
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| adj.（月亮）渐亏的，逐渐减弱或变小的n.月亏v.衰落( wane的现在分词 )；（月）亏；变小；变暗淡 | |
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52
assented
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| 同意，赞成( assent的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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53
intensity
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| n.强烈，剧烈；强度；烈度 | |
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54
tiresome
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| adj.令人疲劳的，令人厌倦的 | |
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55
flicker
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| vi./n.闪烁，摇曳，闪现 | |
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56
precept
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| n.戒律；格言 | |
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57
precepts
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| n.规诫，戒律，箴言( precept的名词复数 ) | |
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58
repose
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| v.(使)休息；n.安息 | |
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59
recurring
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| adj.往复的，再次发生的 | |
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60
glimmer
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| v.发出闪烁的微光；n.微光，微弱的闪光 | |
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61
infinitely
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| adv.无限地，无穷地 | |
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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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63
scanty
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| adj.缺乏的，仅有的，节省的，狭小的，不够的 | |
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64
foliage
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| n.叶子，树叶，簇叶 | |
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65
consolation
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| n.安慰，慰问 | |
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66
warfare
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| n.战争(状态)；斗争；冲突 | |
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67
interval
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| n.间隔，间距；幕间休息，中场休息 | |
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68
utterance
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| n.用言语表达，话语，言语 | |
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69
citizenship
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| n.市民权，公民权，国民的义务(身份) | |
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70
warden
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| n.监察员，监狱长，看守人，监护人 | |
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71
hesitation
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| n.犹豫，踌躇 | |
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72
shudder
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| v.战粟，震动，剧烈地摇晃；n.战粟，抖动 | |
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73
strand
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| vt.使（船）搁浅，使（某人）困于（某地） | |
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pang
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| n.剧痛，悲痛，苦闷 | |
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75
miserable
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| adj.悲惨的，痛苦的；可怜的，糟糕的 | |
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meditating
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| a.沉思的，冥想的 | |
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77
specimen
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| n.样本，标本 | |
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eternity
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| n.不朽，来世；永恒，无穷 | |
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79
futilely
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| futile（无用的）的变形； 干 | |
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steadily
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| adv.稳定地；不变地；持续地 | |
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81
glades
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| n.林中空地( glade的名词复数 ) | |
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82
recesses
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| n.壁凹( recess的名词复数 )；（工作或业务活动的）中止或暂停期间；学校的课间休息；某物内部的凹形空间v.把某物放在墙壁的凹处( recess的第三人称单数 )；将（墙）做成凹形，在（墙）上做壁龛；休息，休会，休庭 | |
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rigid
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| adj.严格的，死板的；刚硬的，僵硬的 | |
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