It was nothing but a bad dream then, after all, this horror which still hung round me, leaving me incapable6 of effort, almost of thought. I remembered the cabinet, and looked swiftly in that direction. There it stood, closed as usual, closed as it had been the evening before, as it had been for the last three hundred years, except in my dreams.
Yes, that was it; nothing but a dream,—a gruesome, haunting dream. With an instinct of wiping out the dreadful memory, I raised my hand wearily to my forehead. As I did so, I became conscious again of how it hurt me. I looked at it. It was covered with half-dried blood, and two straight clean cuts appeared, one across the palm and one across the inside of the fingers just below the knuckles7. I looked again towards the bed, and, in the place where my hand had rested during my faint, a small patch of red blood was to be seen.
Then it was true! Then it had all happened! With a low shuddering8 sob9 I threw myself down upon the couch at the foot of the bed, and lay there for some minutes, my limbs trembling, and my soul shrinking within me. A mist of evil, fearful and loathsome10, had descended11 upon my girlhood's life, sullying its ignorant innocence12, saddening its brightness, as I felt, for ever. I lay there till my teeth began to chatter13, and I realized that I was bitterly cold. To return to that accursed bed was impossible, so I pulled a rug which hung at one end of the sofa over me, and, utterly14 worn out in mind and body, fell uneasily asleep.
I was roused by the entrance of my maid. I stopped her exclamations15 and questions by shortly stating that I had had a bad night, had been unable to rest in bed, and had had an accident with my hand,—without further specifying16 of what description.
"I didn't know that you had been feeling unwell when you went to bed last night, miss," she said.
"When I went to bed last night? Unwell? What do you mean?"
"Only Mr. Alan has just asked me to let him know how you find yourself this morning," she answered.
Then he expected something, dreaded17 something. Ah! why had he yielded and allowed me to sleep here, I asked myself bitterly, as the incidents of the day before flashed through my mind.
"Tell him," I said, "what I have told you; and say that I wish to speak to him directly after breakfast." I could not confide18 my story to any one else, but speak of it I must to some one or go mad.
Every moment passed in that place was an added misery19. Much to my maid's surprise I said that I would dress in her room—the little one which, as I have said, was close to my own. I felt better there; but my utter fatigue20 and my wounded hand combined to make my toilet slow, and I found that most of the party had finished breakfast when I reached the dining-room. I was glad of this, for even as it was I found it difficult enough to give coherent answers to the questions which my white face and bandaged hand called forth21. Alan helped me by giving a resolute22 turn to the conversation. Once only our eyes met across the table. He looked as haggard and worn as I did: I learned afterwards that he had passed most of that fearful night pacing the passage outside my door, though he listened in vain for any indication of what was going on within the room.
The moment I had finished breakfast he was by my side. "You wish to speak to me? now?" he asked in a low tone.
"Yes; now," I answered, breathlessly, and without raising my eyes from the ground.
"Where shall we go? Outside? It is a bright day, and we shall be freer there from interruption."
I assented23; and then looking up at him appealingly, "Will you fetch my things for me? I CANNOT go up to that room again."
He seemed to understand me, nodded, and was gone. A few minutes later we left the house, and made our way in silence towards a grassy24 spot on the side of the ravine where we had already indulged in more than one friendly talk.
As we went, the Dead Stone came for a moment into view. I seized Alan's arm in an almost convulsive grip. "Tell me," I whispered,— "you refused to tell me yesterday, but you must now,—who is buried beneath that rock?"
There was now neither timidity nor embarrassment25 in my tone. The horrors of that house had become part of my life for ever, and their secrets were mine by right. Alan, after a moment's pause, a questioning glance at my face, tacitly accepted the position.
"I told you the truth," he replied, "when I said that I did not know; but I can tell you the popular tradition on the subject, if you like. They say that Margaret Mervyn, the woman who murdered her husband, is buried there, and that Dame26 Alice had the rock placed over her grave,—whether to save it from insult or to mark it out for opprobrium27, I never heard. The poor people about here do not care to go near the place after dark, and among the older ones there are still some, I believe, who spit at the suicide's grave as they pass."
"Poor woman, poor woman!" I exclaimed, in a burst of uncontrollable compassion28.
"Why should you pity her?" demanded he with sudden sternness; "she WAS a suicide and a murderess too. It would be better for the public conscience, I believe, if such were still hung in chains, or buried at the cross-roads with a stake through their bodies."
"Hush29, Alan, hush!" I cried hysterically30, as I clung to him; "don't speak harshly of her: you do not know, you cannot tell, how terribly she was tempted31. How can you?"
He looked down at me in bewildered surprise. "How can I?" he repeated. "You speak as if YOU could. What do you mean?"
"Don't ask me," I answered, turning towards him my face,—white, quivering, tear-stained. "Don't ask me. Not now. You must answer my questions first, and after that I will tell you. But I cannot talk of it now. Not yet."
We had reached the place we were in search of as I spoke32. There, where the spreading roots of a great beech-tree formed a natural resting place upon the steep side of the ravine, I took my seat, and Alan stretched himself upon the grass beside me. Then looking up at me—"I do not know what questions you would ask," he said, quietly; "but I will answer them, whatever they may be."
But I did not ask them yet. I sat instead with my hands clasping my knee, looking opposite at the glory of harmonious33 color, or down the glen at the vista34 of far-off, dream-like loveliness, on which it opened out. The yellow autumn sunshine made everything golden, the fresh autumn breezes filled the air with life; but to me a loathsome shadow seemed to rest upon all, and to stretch itself out far beyond where my eyes could reach, befouling the beauty of the whole wide world. At last I spoke. "You have known of it all, I suppose; of this curse that is in the world,—sin and suffering, and what such words mean."
"Yes," he said, looking at me with wondering pity, "I am afraid so."
"But have you known them as they are known to some,—agonized, hopeless suffering, and sin that is all but inevitable35? Some time in your life probably you have realized that such things are: it has come home to you, and to every one else, no doubt, except a few ignorant girls such as I was yesterday. But there are some,—yes, thousands and thousands,—who even now, at this moment, are feeling sorrow like that, are sinking deep, deeper into the bottomless pit of their soul's degradation36. And yet men who know this, who have seen it, laugh, talk, are happy, amuse themselves—how can they, how can they?" I stopped with a catch in my voice, and then stretching out my arms in front of me—"And it is not only men. Look how beautiful the earth is, and God has made it, and lets the sun crown it every day with a new glory, while this horror of evil broods over and poisons it all. Oh, why is it so? I cannot understand it."
My arms drooped37 again as I finished, and my eyes sought Alan's. His were full of tears, but there was almost a smile quivering at the corners of his lips as he replied: "When you have found an answer to that question, Evie, come and tell me and mankind at large: it will be news to us all." Then he continued—"But, after all, the earth is beautiful, and the sun does shine: we have our own happiness to rejoice in, our own sorrows to bear, the suffering that is near to us to grapple with. For the rest, for this blackness of evil which surrounds us, and which we can do nothing to lighten, it will soon, thank God, become vague and far off to you as it is to others: your feeling of it will be dulled, and, except at moments, you too will forget."
"But that is horrible," I exclaimed, passionately38; "the evil will be there all the same, whether I feel it or not. Men and women will be struggling in their misery and sin, only I shall be too selfish to care."
"We cannot go outside the limits of our own nature," he replied; "our knowledge is shallow and our spiritual insight dark, and God in His mercy has made our hearts shallow too, and our imagination dull. If, knowing and trusting only as men do, we were to feel as angels feel, earth would be hell indeed."
It was cold comfort, but at that moment anything warmer or brighter would have been unreal and utterly repellent to me. I hardly took in the meaning of his words, but it was as if a hand had been stretched out to me, struggling in the deep mire39, by one who himself felt solid ground beneath him. Where he stood I also might some day stand, and that thought seemed to make patience possible.
It was he who first broke the silence which followed. "You were saying that you had questions to ask me. I am impatient to put mine in return, so please go on."
It had been a relief to me to turn even to generalizations40 of despair from the actual horror which had inspired them, and to which my mind was thus recalled. With an effort I replied, "Yes, I want to ask you about that room—the room in which I slept, and— and the murder which was committed there." In spite of all that I could do, my voice sank almost to a whisper as I concluded, and I was trembling from head to foot.
"Who told you that a murder was committed there?" Something in my face as he asked the question made him add quickly, "Never mind. You are right. That is the room in which Hugh Mervyn was murdered by his wife. I was surprised at your question, for I did not know that anyone but my brothers and myself were aware of the fact. The subject is never mentioned: it is closely connected with one intensely painful to our family, and besides, if spoken of, there would be inconveniences arising from the superstitious41 terrors of servants, and the natural dislike of guests to sleep in a room where such a thing had happened. Indeed it was largely with the view of wiping out the last memory of the crime's locality, that my father renewed the interior of the room some twenty years ago. The only tradition which has been adhered to in connection with it is the one which has now been violated in your person—the one which precludes42 any unmarried woman from sleeping there. Except for that, the room has, as you know, lost all sinister43 reputation, and its title of 'haunted' has become purely44 conventional. Nevertheless, as I said, you are right—that is undoubtedly45 the room in which the murder was committed."
He stopped and looked up at me, waiting for more.
"Go on; tell me about it, and what followed." My lips formed the words; my heart beat too faintly for my breath to utter them.
"About the murder itself there is not much to tell. The man, I believe, was an inhuman46 scoundrel, and the woman first killed him in desperation, and afterwards herself in despair. The only detail connected with the actual crime of which I have ever heard, was the gale47 that was blowing that night—the fiercest known to this countryside in that generation; and it has always been said since that any misfortune to the Mervyns—especially any misfortune connected with the curse—comes with a storm of wind. That was why I so disliked your story of the imaginary tempests which have disturbed your nights since you slept there. As to what followed,"—he gave a sigh,—"that story is long enough and full of incident. On the morning after the murder, so runs the tale, Dame Alice came down to the Grange from the tower to which she had retired48 when her son's wickednesses had driven her from his house, and there in the presence of the two corpses49 she foretold50 the curse which should rest upon their descendants for generations to come. A clergyman who was present, horrified51, it is said at her words, adjured52 her by the mercy of Heaven to place some term to the doom53 which she had pronounced. She replied that no mortal might reckon the fruit of a plant which drew its life from hell; that a term there should be, but as it passed the wisdom of man to fix it, so it should pass the wit of man to discover it. She then placed in the room this cabinet, constructed by herself and her Italian follower54, and said that the curse should not depart from the family until the day when its doors were unlocked and its legend read.
"Such is the story. I tell it to you as it was told to me. One thing only is certain, that the doom thus traditionally foretold has been only too amply fulfilled."
"And what was the doom?"
Alan hesitated a little, and when he spoke his voice was almost awful in its passionless sternness, in its despairing finality; it seemed to echo the irrevocable judgment55 which his words pronounced: "That the crimes against God and each other which had destroyed the parents' life should enter into the children's blood, and that never thereafter should there fail a Mervyn to bring shame or death upon one generation of his father's house.
"There were two sons of that ill-fated marriage," he went on after a pause, "boys at the time of their parents' death. When they grew up they both fell in love with the same woman, and one killed the other in a duel56. The story of the next generation was a peculiarly sad one. Two brothers took opposite sides during the civil troubles; but so fearful were they of the curse which lay upon the family, that they chiefly made use of their mutual57 position in order to protect and guard each other. After the wars were over, the younger brother, while traveling upon some parliamentary commission, stopped a night at the Grange. There, through a mistake, he exchanged the report which he was bringing to London for a packet of papers implicating58 his brother and several besides in a royalist plot. He only discovered his error as he handed the papers to his superior, and was but just able to warn his brother in time for him to save his life by flight. The other men involved were taken and executed, and as it was known by what means information had reached the Government, the elder Mervyn was universally charged with the vilest59 treachery. It is said that when after the Restoration his return home was rumored60 the neighboring gentry61 assembled, armed with riding whips, to flog him out of the country if he should dare to show his face there. He died abroad, shame-stricken and broken-hearted. It was his son, brought up by his uncle in the sternest tenets of Puritanism, who, coming home after a lengthened62 journey, found that during his absence his sister had been shamefully63 seduced64. He turned her out of doors, then and there, in the midst of a bitter January night, and the next morning her dead body and that of her new-born infant were found half buried in the fresh-fallen snow on the top of the wolds. The 'white lady' is still supposed by the villagers to haunt that side of the glen. And so it went on. A beautiful, heartless Mervyn in Queen Anne's time enticed65 away the affections of her sister's betrothed66, and on the day of her own wedding with him, her forsaken67 sister was found drowned by her own act in the pond at the bottom of the garden. Two brothers were soldiers together in some Continental68 war, and one was involuntarily the means of discovering and exposing the treason of the other. A girl was betrayed into a false marriage, and her life ruined by a man who came into the house as her brother's friend, and whose infamous69 designs were forwarded and finally accomplished70 by that same brother's active though unsuspecting assistance. Generation after generation, men or women, guilty or innocent, through the action of their own will or in spite of it, the curse has never yet failed of its victims."
"Never yet? But surely in our own time—your father?" I did not dare to put the question which was burning my lips.
"Have you never heard of the tragic71 end of my poor young uncles?" he replied. "They were several years older than my father. When boys of fourteen and fifteen they were sent out with the keeper for their first shooting lesson, and the elder shot his brother through the heart. He himself was delicate, and they say that he never entirely72 recovered from the shock. He died before he was twenty, and my father, then a child of seven years old, became the heir. It was partly, no doubt, owing to this calamity73 having thus occurred before he was old enough to feel it, that his comparative skepticism on the whole subject was due. To that I suppose, and to the fact that he grew up in an age of railways and liberal culture."
"He didn't believe, then, in the curse?"
"Well, rather, he thought nothing about it. Until, that is, the time came when it took effect, to break his heart and end his life."
"How do you mean?"
There was silence for a little. Alan had turned away his head, so that I could not see his face. Then—
"No. Was he—is he—?"
"He is one victim of the curse in this generation, and I, God help me, am the other, and perhaps more wretched one."
His voice trembled and broke, and for the first time that day I almost forgot the mysterious horror of the night before, in my pity for the actual, tangible75 suffering before me. I stretched out my hand to his, and his fingers closed on mine with a sudden, painful grip. Then quietly—
"I will tell you the story," he said, "though since that miserable76 time I have spoken of it to no one."
There was a pause before he began. He lay there by my side, his gaze turned across me up the sunbright, autumn-tinted glen, but his eyes shadowed by the memories which he was striving to recall and arrange in due order in his mind. And when he did speak it was not directly to begin the promised recital77.
"Hardly," I acquiesced79. "I remember thinking him very handsome."
"There could not be two opinions as to that," he answered. "And a man who could have done anything he liked with life, had things gone differently. His abilities were fine, but his strength lay above all in his character: he was strong,—strong in his likes and in his dislikes, resolute, fearless, incapable of half measures—a man, every inch of him. He was not generally popular—stiff, hard, unsympathetic, people called him. From one point of view, and one only, he perhaps deserved the epithets80. If a woman lost his respect she seemed to lose his pity too. Like a mediaeval monk81, he looked upon such rather as the cause than the result of male depravity, and his contempt for them mingled82 with anger, almost, as I sometimes thought, with hatred83. And this attitude was, I have no doubt, resented by the men of his own class and set, who shared neither his faults nor his virtues84. But in other ways he was not hard. He could love; I, at least, have cause to know it. If you would hear his story rightly from my lips, Evie, you must try and see him with my eyes. The friend who loved me, and whom I loved with the passion which, if not the strongest, is certainly, I believe, the most enduring of which men are capable,—that perfect brother's love, which so grows into our being that when it is at peace we are scarcely conscious of its existence, and when it is wounded our very life-blood seems to flow at the stroke. Brothers do not always love like that: I can only wish that we had not done so.
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numbed
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| v.使麻木，使麻痹( numb的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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intensity
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| n.强烈，剧烈；强度；烈度 | |
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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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weird
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| adj.古怪的，离奇的；怪诞的，神秘而可怕的 | |
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clenched
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| v.紧握，抓紧，咬紧( clench的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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incapable
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| adj.无能力的，不能做某事的 | |
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knuckles
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| n.（指人）指关节( knuckle的名词复数 )；（指动物）膝关节，踝v.（指人）指关节( knuckle的第三人称单数 )；（指动物）膝关节，踝 | |
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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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sob
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| n.空间轨道的轰炸机；呜咽，哭泣 | |
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loathsome
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| adj.讨厌的，令人厌恶的 | |
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descended
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| a.为...后裔的，出身于...的 | |
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innocence
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| n.无罪；天真；无害 | |
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chatter
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| vi.／n.喋喋不休；短促尖叫；(牙齿)打战 | |
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utterly
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| adv.完全地，绝对地 | |
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exclamations
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| n.呼喊( exclamation的名词复数 )；感叹；感叹语；感叹词 | |
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specifying
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| v.指定( specify的现在分词 )；详述；提出…的条件；使具有特性 | |
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dreaded
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| adj.令人畏惧的；害怕的v.害怕，恐惧，担心( dread的过去式和过去分词) | |
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confide
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| v.向某人吐露秘密 | |
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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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fatigue
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| n.疲劳，劳累 | |
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forth
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| adv.向前；向外，往外 | |
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resolute
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| adj.坚决的，果敢的 | |
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assented
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| 同意，赞成( assent的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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grassy
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| adj.盖满草的；长满草的 | |
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embarrassment
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| n.尴尬；使人为难的人(事物)；障碍；窘迫 | |
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dame
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| n.女士 | |
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opprobrium
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| n.耻辱，责难 | |
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compassion
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| n.同情，怜悯 | |
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hush
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| int.嘘，别出声；n.沉默，静寂；v.使安静 | |
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hysterically
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| ad. 歇斯底里地 | |
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tempted
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| v.怂恿（某人）干不正当的事；冒…的险（tempt的过去分词） | |
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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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harmonious
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| adj.和睦的，调和的，和谐的，协调的 | |
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vista
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| n.远景，深景，展望，回想 | |
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inevitable
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| adj.不可避免的，必然发生的 | |
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degradation
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| n.降级；低落；退化；陵削；降解；衰变 | |
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drooped
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| 弯曲或下垂，发蔫( droop的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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passionately
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| ad.热烈地，激烈地 | |
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mire
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| n.泥沼，泥泞；v.使...陷于泥泞，使...陷入困境 | |
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generalizations
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| 一般化( generalization的名词复数 )； 普通化； 归纳； 概论 | |
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superstitious
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| adj.迷信的 | |
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precludes
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| v.阻止( preclude的第三人称单数 )；排除；妨碍；使…行不通 | |
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sinister
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| adj.不吉利的，凶恶的，左边的 | |
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purely
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| adv.纯粹地，完全地 | |
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undoubtedly
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| adv.确实地，无疑地 | |
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inhuman
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| adj.残忍的，不人道的，无人性的 | |
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gale
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| n.大风，强风，一阵闹声（尤指笑声等） | |
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retired
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| adj.隐退的，退休的，退役的 | |
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corpses
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| n.死尸，尸体( corpse的名词复数 ) | |
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foretold
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| v.预言，预示( foretell的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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horrified
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| a.(表现出)恐惧的 | |
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adjured
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| v.（以起誓或诅咒等形式）命令要求( adjure的过去式和过去分词 )；祈求；恳求 | |
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doom
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| n.厄运，劫数；v.注定，命定 | |
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follower
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| n.跟随者；随员；门徒；信徒 | |
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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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duel
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| n./v.决斗；(双方的)斗争 | |
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mutual
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| adj.相互的，彼此的；共同的，共有的 | |
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implicating
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| vt.牵涉，涉及（implicate的现在分词形式） | |
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vilest
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| adj.卑鄙的( vile的最高级 )；可耻的；极坏的；非常讨厌的 | |
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rumored
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| adj.传说的，谣传的v.传闻( rumor的过去式和过去分词 )；[古]名誉；咕哝；[古]喧嚷 | |
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gentry
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| n.绅士阶级，上层阶级 | |
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lengthened
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| （时间或空间）延长，伸长( lengthen的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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shamefully
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| 可耻地； 丢脸地； 不体面地； 羞耻地 | |
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seduced
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| 诱奸( seduce的过去式和过去分词 )； 勾引； 诱使堕落； 使入迷 | |
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enticed
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| 诱惑，怂恿( entice的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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betrothed
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| n. 已订婚者 动词betroth的过去式和过去分词 | |
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Forsaken
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| adj. 被遗忘的, 被抛弃的 动词forsake的过去分词 | |
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continental
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| adj.大陆的，大陆性的，欧洲大陆的 | |
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infamous
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| adj.声名狼藉的，臭名昭著的，邪恶的 | |
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accomplished
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| adj.有才艺的；有造诣的；达到了的 | |
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tragic
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| adj.悲剧的，悲剧性的，悲惨的 | |
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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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calamity
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| n.灾害，祸患，不幸事件 | |
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jack
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| n.插座，千斤顶，男人；v.抬起，提醒，扛举；n.（Jake）杰克 | |
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tangible
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| adj.有形的，可触摸的，确凿的，实际的 | |
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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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recital
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| n.朗诵，独奏会，独唱会 | |
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abruptly
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| adv.突然地，出其不意地 | |
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acquiesced
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| v.默认，默许( acquiesce的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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epithets
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| n.（表示性质、特征等的）词语( epithet的名词复数 ) | |
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monk
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| n.和尚，僧侣，修道士 | |
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mingled
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| 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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hatred
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| n.憎恶，憎恨，仇恨 | |
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virtues
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| 美德( virtue的名词复数 )； 德行； 优点； 长处 | |
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