We meet as shadows in the land of dreams,
Which speak not but in signs.
Anonymous1.
Behind one of the old oaks which we have described in the preceding chapter, shrouding2 himself from observation like a hunter watching for his game, or an Indian for his enemy, but with different, very different purpose, Tyrrel lay on his breast near the Buck-stane, his eye on the horse-road which winded down the valley, and his ear alertly awake to every sound which mingled3 with the passing breeze, or with the ripple4 of the brook5.
“To have met her in yonder congregated6 assembly of brutes7 and fools”— such was a part of his internal reflections — “had been little less than an act of madness — madness almost equal in its degree to that cowardice8 which has hitherto prevented my approaching her, when our eventful meeting might have taken place unobserved. — But now — now — my resolution is as fixed11 as the place is itself favourable12. I will not wait till some chance again shall throw us together, with an hundred malignant13 eyes to watch, and wonder, and stare, and try in vain to account for the expression of feelings which I might find it impossible to suppress. — Hark — hark! — I hear the tread of a horse — No — it was the changeful sound of the water rushing over the pebbles14. Surely she cannot have taken the other road to Shaws-Castle! — No — the sounds become distinct — her figure is visible on the path, coming swiftly forward. — Have I the courage to show myself? — I have — the hour is come, and what must be shall be.”
Yet this resolution was scarcely formed ere it began to fluctuate, when he reflected upon the fittest manner of carrying it into execution. To show himself at a distance, might give the lady an opportunity of turning back and avoiding the interview which he had determined16 upon — to hide himself till the moment when her horse, in rapid motion, should pass his lurking-place, might be attended with danger to the rider — and while he hesitated which course to pursue, there was some chance of his missing the opportunity of presenting himself to Miss Mowbray at all. He was himself sensible of this, formed a hasty and desperate resolution not to suffer the present moment to escape, and, just as the ascent17 induced the pony18 to slacken its pace, Tyrrel stood in the middle of the defile19, about six yards distant from the young lady.
She pulled up the reins20, and stopped as if arrested by a thunderbolt. —“Clara!”—“Tyrrel!” These were the only words which were exchanged between them, until Tyrrel, moving his feet as slowly as if they had been of lead, began gradually to diminish the distance which lay betwixt them. It was then that, observing his closer approach, Miss Mowbray called out with great eagerness — “No nearer — no nearer! — So long have I endured your presence, but if you approach me more closely, I shall be mad indeed!”
“What do you fear?” said Tyrrel, in a hollow voice —“What can you fear?” and he continued to draw nearer, until they were within a pace of each other.
Clara, meanwhile, dropping her bridle22, clasped her hands together, and held them up towards Heaven, muttering, in a voice scarcely audible, “Great God! — If this apparition23 be formed by my heated fancy, let it pass away; if it be real, enable me to bear its presence! — Tell me, I conjure24 you, are you Francis Tyrrel in blood and body, or is this but one of those wandering visions, that have crossed my path and glared on me, but without daring to abide25 my steadfast27 glance?”
“I am Francis Tyrrel,” answered he, “in blood and body, as much as she to whom I speak is Clara Mowbray.”
“Then God have mercy on us both!” said Clara, in a tone of deep feeling.
“Amen!” said Tyrrel. —“But what avails this excess of agitation28? — You saw me but now, Miss Mowbray — Your voice still rings in my ears — You saw me but now — you spoke29 to me — and that when I was among strangers — Why not preserve your composure, when we are where no human eye can see — no human ear can hear?”
“Is it so?” said Clara; “and was it indeed yourself whom I saw even now? — I thought so, and something I said at the time — but my brain has been but ill settled since we last met — But I am well now — quite well — I have invited all the people yonder to come to Shaws-Castle — my brother desired me to do it — I hope I shall have the pleasure of seeing Mr. Tyrrel there — though I think there is some old grudge30 between my brother and you.”
“Alas31! Clara, you mistake. Your brother I have scarcely seen,” replied Tyrrel, much distressed32, and apparently33 uncertain in what tone to address her, which might soothe34, and not irritate her mental malady35, of which he could now entertain no doubt.
“True — true,” she said, after a moment’s reflection, “my brother was then at college. It was my father, my poor father, whom you had some quarrel with. — But you will come to Shaws-Castle on Thursday, at two o’clock? — John will be glad to see you — he can be kind when he pleases — and then we will talk of old times — I must get on, to have things ready — Good evening.”
She would have passed him, but he took gently hold of the rein21 of her bridle. —“I will walk with you, Clara,” he said; “the road is rough and dangerous — you ought not to ride fast. — I will walk along with you, and we will talk of former times now, more conveniently than in company.”
“True — true — very true, Mr. Tyrrel — it shall be as you say. My brother obliges me sometimes to go into company at that hateful place down yonder; and I do so because he likes it, and because the folks let me have my own way, and come and go as I list. Do you know, Tyrrel, that very often when I am there, and John has his eye on me, I can carry it on as gaily36 as if you and I had never met?”
“I would to God we never had,” said Tyrrel, in a trembling voice, “since this is to be the end of all!”
“And wherefore should not sorrow be the end of sin and of folly37? And when did happiness come of disobedience? — And when did sound sleep visit a bloody38 pillow? That is what I say to myself, Tyrrel, and that is what you must learn to say too, and then you will bear your burden as cheerfully as I endure mine. If we have no more than our deserts, why should we complain? — You are shedding tears, I think — Is not that childish? — They say it is a relief — if so, weep on, and I will look another way.”
Tyrrel walked on by the pony’s side, in vain endeavouring to compose himself so as to reply.
“Poor Tyrrel,” said Clara, after she had remained silent for some time —“Poor Frank Tyrrel! — Perhaps you will say in your turn, Poor Clara — but I am not so poor in spirit as you — the blast may bend, but it shall never break me.”
There was another long pause; for Tyrrel was unable to determine with himself in what strain he could address the unfortunate young lady, without awakening40 recollections equally painful to her feelings, and dangerous, when her precarious41 state of health was considered. At length she herself proceeded:—
“What needs all this, Tyrrel? — and indeed, why came you here? — Why did I find you but now brawling42 and quarrelling among the loudest of the brawlers and quarrellers of yonder idle and dissipated debauchees? — You were used to have more temper — more sense. Another person — ay, another that you and I once knew — he might have committed such a folly, and he would have acted perhaps in character. — But you, who pretend to wisdom — for shame, for shame! — And indeed, when we talk of that, what wisdom was there in coming hither at all? — or what good purpose can your remaining here serve? — Surely you need not come, either to renew your own unhappiness or to augment43 mine?”
“To augment yours — God forbid!” answered Tyrrel. “No — I came hither only because, after so many years of wandering, I longed to revisit the spot where all my hopes lay buried.”
“Ay — buried is the word,” she replied, “crushed down and buried when they budded fairest. I often think of it, Tyrrel; and there are times when, Heaven help me! I can think of little else. — Look at me — you remember what I was — see what grief and solitude44 have made me.”
She flung back the veil which surrounded her riding-hat, and which had hitherto hid her face. It was the same countenance45 which he had formerly46 known in all the bloom of early beauty; but though the beauty remained, the bloom was fled for ever. Not the agitation of exercise — not that which arose from the pain and confusion of this unexpected interview, had called to poor Clara’s cheek even the momentary47 semblance48 of colour. Her complexion49 was marble-white, like that of the finest piece of statuary.
“Is it possible?” said Tyrrel; “can grief have made such ravages50?”
“Grief,” replied Clara, “is the sickness of the mind, and its sister is the sickness of the body — they are twin-sisters, Tyrrel, and are seldom long separate. Sometimes the body’s disease comes first, and dims our eyes and palsies our hands, before the fire of our mind and of our intellect is quenched51. But mark me — soon after comes her cruel sister with her urn15, and sprinkles cold dew on our hopes and on our loves, our memory, our recollections, and our feelings, and shows us that they cannot survive the decay of our bodily powers.”
“Alas!” said Tyrrel, “is it come to this?”
“To this,” she replied, speaking from the rapid and irregular train of her own ideas, rather than comprehending the purport52 of his sorrowful exclamation53 — “to this it must ever come, while immortal54 souls are wedded55 to the perishable56 substance of which our bodies are composed. There is another state, Tyrrel, in which it will be otherwise — God grant our time of enjoying it were come!”
She fell into a melancholy57 pause, which Tyrrel was afraid to disturb. The quickness with which she spoke, marked but too plainly the irregular succession of thought, and he was obliged to restrain the agony of his own feelings, rendered more acute by a thousand painful recollections, lest, by giving way to his expressions of grief, he should throw her into a still more disturbed state of mind.
“I did not think,” she proceeded, “that after so horrible a separation, and so many years, I could have met you thus calmly and reasonably. But although what we were formerly to each other can never be forgotten, it is now all over, and we are only friends — Is it not so?”
Tyrrel was unable to reply.
“But I must not remain here,” she said, “till the evening grows darker on me. — We shall meet again, Tyrrel — meet as friends — nothing more — You will come up to Shaws-Castle and see me? — no need of secrecy58 now — my poor father is in his grave, and his prejudices sleep with him — my brother John is kind, though he is stern and severe sometimes — Indeed, Tyrrel, I believe he loves me, though he has taught me to tremble at his frown when I am in spirits, and talk too much — But he loves me, at least I think so, for I am sure I love him; and I try to go down amongst them yonder, and to endure their folly, and, all things considered, I do carry on the farce59 of life wonderfully well — We are but actors, you know, and the world but a stage.”
“And ours has been a sad and tragic60 scene,” said Tyrrel, in the bitterness of his heart, unable any longer to refrain from speech.
“It has indeed — but, Tyrrel, when was it otherwise with engagements formed in youth and in folly? You and I would, you know, become men and women, while we were yet scarcely more than children — We have run, while yet in our nonage, through the passions and adventures of youth, and therefore we are now old before our day, and the winter of our life has come on ere its summer was well begun. — O Tyrrel! often and often have I thought of this! — Thought of it often? Alas, when will the time come that I shall be able to think of any thing else!”
The poor young woman sobbed61 bitterly, and her tears began to flow with a freedom which they had not probably enjoyed for a length of time. Tyrrel walked on by the side of her horse, which now prosecuted62 its road homewards, unable to devise a proper mode of addressing the unfortunate young lady, and fearing alike to awaken39 her passions and his own. Whatever he might have proposed to say, was disconcerted by the plain indications that her mind was clouded, more or less slightly, with a shade of insanity63, which deranged64, though it had not destroyed, her powers of judgment65.
At length he asked her, with as much calmness as he could assume — if she was contented66 — if aught could be done to render her situation more easy — if there was aught of which she could complain which he might be able to remedy? She answered gently, that she was calm and resigned, when her brother would permit her to stay at home; but that when she was brought into society, she experienced such a change as that which the water of the brook that slumbers67 in a crystalline pool of the rock may be supposed to feel, when, gliding68 from its quiet bed, it becomes involved in the hurry of the cataract69.
“But my brother Mowbray,” she said, “thinks he is right — and perhaps he is so. There are things on which we may ponder too long; — and were he mistaken, why should I not constrain70 myself in order to please him — there are so few left to whom I can now give either pleasure or pain? — I am a gay girl, too, in conversation, Tyrrel — still as gay for a moment, as when you used to chide71 me for my folly. So, now I have told you all — I have one question to ask on my part — one question — if I had but breath to ask it — Is he still alive?”
“He lives,” answered Tyrrel, but in a tone so low, that nought72 but the eager attention which Miss Mowbray paid could possibly have caught such feeble sounds.
“Lives!” she exclaimed — “lives! — he lives, and the blood on your hand is not then indelibly imprinted73 — O Tyrrel, did you but know the joy which this assurance gives to me!”
“Joy!” replied Tyrrel —“joy, that the wretch74 lives who has poisoned our happiness for ever? — lives, perhaps, to claim you for his own?”
“Never, never shall he — dare he do so,” replied Clara, wildly, “while water can drown, while cords can strangle, steel pierce — while there is a precipice75 on the hill, a pool in the river — never — never!”
“Be not thus agitated76, my dearest Clara,” said Tyrrel; “I spoke I know not what — he lives indeed — but far distant, and, I trust, never again to revisit Scotland.”
He would have said more, but that, agitated with fear or passion, she struck her horse impatiently with her riding-whip. The spirited animal, thus stimulated77 and at the same time restrained, became intractable, and reared so much, that Tyrrel, fearful of the consequences, and trusting to Clara’s skill as a horsewoman, thought he best consulted her safety in letting go the rein. The animal instantly sprung forward on the broken and hilly path at a very rapid pace, and was soon lost to Tyrrel’s anxious eyes.
As he stood pondering whether he ought not to follow Miss Mowbray towards Shaws-Castle, in order to be satisfied that no accident had befallen her on the road, he heard the tread of a horse’s feet advancing hastily in the same direction, leading from the hotel. Unwilling78 to be observed at this moment, he stepped aside under shelter of the underwood, and presently afterwards saw Mr. Mowbray of St. Ronan’s, followed by a groom79, ride hastily past his lurking-place, and pursue the same road which had been just taken by his sister. The presence of her brother seemed to assure Miss Mowbray’s safety, and so removed Tyrrel’s chief reason for following her. Involved in deep and melancholy reflection upon what had passed, nearly satisfied that his longer residence in Clara’s vicinity could only add to her unhappiness and his own, yet unable to tear himself from that neighbourhood, or to relinquish80 feelings which had become entwined with his heart-strings, he returned to his lodgings81 in the Aultoun, in a state of mind very little to be envied.
Tyrrel, on entering his apartment, found that it was not lighted, nor were the Abigails of Mrs. Dods quite so alert as a waiter at Long’s might have been, to supply him with candles. Unapt at any time to exact much personal attendance, and desirous to shun82 at that moment the necessity of speaking to any person whatever, even on the most trifling83 subject, he walked down into the kitchen to supply himself with what he wanted. He did not at first observe that Mrs. Dods herself was present in this the very centre of her empire, far less that a lofty air of indignation was seated on the worthy84 matron’s brow. At first it only vented9 itself in broken soliloquy and interjections; as, for example, “Vera bonny wark this! — vera creditable wark, indeed! — a decent house to be disturbed at these hours — Keep a public — as weel keep a bedlam85!”
Finding these murmurs86 attracted no attention, the dame87 placed herself betwixt her guest and the door, to which he was now retiring with his lighted candle, and demanded of him what was the meaning of such behaviour.
“Of what behaviour, madam?” said her guest, repeating her question in a tone of sternness and impatience88 so unusual with him, that perhaps she was sorry at the moment that she had provoked him out of his usual patient indifference89; nay90, she might even feel intimidated91 at the altercation92 she had provoked, for the resentment93 of a quiet and patient person has always in it something formidable to the professed94 and habitual95 grumbler96. But her pride was too great to think of a retreat, after having sounded the signal for contest, and so she continued, though in a tone somewhat lowered.
“Maister Tirl, I wad but just ask you, that are a man of sense, whether I hae ony right to take your behaviour weel? Here have you been these ten days and mair, eating the best, and drinking the best, and taking up the best room in my house; and now to think of your gaun doun and taking up with yon idle harebrained cattle at the Waal — I maun e’en be plain wi’ ye — I like nane of the fair-fashioned folk that can say My Jo and think it no; and therefore”——
“Mrs. Dods,” said Tyrrel, interrupting her, “I have no time at present for trifles. I am obliged to you for your attention while I have been in your house; but the disposal of my time, here or elsewhere, must be according to my own ideas of pleasure or business — If you are tired of me as a guest, send in your bill tomorrow.”
“My bill!” said Mrs. Dods; “my bill tomorrow! And what for no wait till Saturday, when it may be cleared atween us, plack and bawbee, as it was on Saturday last?”
“Well — we will talk of it tomorrow, Mrs. Dods — Good-night.” And he withdrew accordingly.
Luckie Dods stood ruminating97 for a moment. “The deil’s in him,” she said, “for he winna bide26 being thrawn. And I think the deil’s in me too for thrawing him, sic a canny98 lad, and sae gude a customer; — and I am judging he has something on his mind — want of siller it canna be — I am sure if I thought that, I wadna care about my small thing. — But want o’ siller it canna be — he pays ower the shillings as if they were sclate stanes, and that’s no the way that folk part with their siller when there’s but little on’t — I ken10 weel eneugh how a customer looks that’s near the grund of the purse. — Weel! I hope he winna mind ony thing of this nonsense the morn, and I’ll try to guide my tongue something better. — Hegh, sirs! but, as the minister says, it’s an unruly member — troth, I am whiles ashamed o’t mysell.”
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1
anonymous
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| adj.无名的；匿名的；无特色的 | |
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shrouding
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| n.覆盖v.隐瞒( shroud的现在分词 )；保密 | |
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3
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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ripple
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| n.涟波，涟漪，波纹，粗钢梳；vt.使...起涟漪，使起波纹； vi.呈波浪状，起伏前进 | |
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brook
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| n.小河，溪；v.忍受，容让 | |
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congregated
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| （使）集合，聚集( congregate的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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brutes
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| 兽( brute的名词复数 )； 畜生； 残酷无情的人； 兽性 | |
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cowardice
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| n.胆小，怯懦 | |
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vented
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| 表达，发泄（感情，尤指愤怒）( vent的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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ken
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| n.视野，知识领域 | |
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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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favourable
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| adj.赞成的，称赞的，有利的，良好的，顺利的 | |
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malignant
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| adj.恶性的，致命的；恶意的，恶毒的 | |
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pebbles
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| [复数]鹅卵石； 沙砾； 卵石，小圆石( pebble的名词复数 ) | |
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urn
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| n.（有座脚的）瓮；坟墓；骨灰瓮 | |
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determined
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| adj.坚定的；有决心的 | |
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ascent
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| n.(声望或地位)提高；上升，升高；登高 | |
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pony
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| adj.小型的；n.小马 | |
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defile
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| v.弄污，弄脏；n.(山间)小道 | |
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reins
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| 感情，激情； 缰( rein的名词复数 )； 控制手段； 掌管； （成人带着幼儿走路以防其走失时用的）保护带 | |
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rein
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| n.疆绳，统治，支配；vt.以僵绳控制，统治 | |
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bridle
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| n.笼头，束缚；vt.抑制，约束；动怒 | |
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apparition
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| n.幽灵，神奇的现象 | |
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conjure
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| v.恳求，祈求；变魔术，变戏法 | |
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abide
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| vi.遵守；坚持；vt.忍受 | |
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bide
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| v.忍耐；等候；住 | |
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steadfast
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| adj.固定的，不变的，不动摇的；忠实的；坚贞不移的 | |
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agitation
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| n.搅动；搅拌；鼓动，煽动 | |
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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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grudge
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| n.不满，怨恨，妒嫉；vt.勉强给，不情愿做 | |
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alas
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| int.唉(表示悲伤、忧愁、恐惧等) | |
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distressed
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| 痛苦的 | |
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apparently
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| adv.显然地；表面上，似乎 | |
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soothe
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| v.安慰；使平静；使减轻；缓和；奉承 | |
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malady
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| n.病，疾病(通常做比喻) | |
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gaily
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| adv.欢乐地，高兴地 | |
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folly
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| n.愚笨，愚蠢，蠢事，蠢行，傻话 | |
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bloody
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| adj.非常的的；流血的；残忍的；adv.很；vt.血染 | |
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awaken
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| vi.醒，觉醒；vt.唤醒，使觉醒，唤起，激起 | |
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awakening
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| n.觉醒，醒悟 adj.觉醒中的；唤醒的 | |
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precarious
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| adj.不安定的，靠不住的；根据不足的 | |
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brawling
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| n.争吵，喧嚷 | |
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43
augment
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| vt.(使)增大，增加，增长，扩张 | |
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solitude
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| n. 孤独; 独居,荒僻之地,幽静的地方 | |
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45
countenance
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| n.脸色，面容；面部表情；vt.支持，赞同 | |
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46
formerly
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| adv.从前，以前 | |
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momentary
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| adj.片刻的，瞬息的；短暂的 | |
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semblance
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| n.外貌，外表 | |
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complexion
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| n.肤色；情况，局面；气质，性格 | |
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50
ravages
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| 劫掠后的残迹，破坏的结果，毁坏后的残迹 | |
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51
quenched
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| 解（渴）( quench的过去式和过去分词 )； 终止（某事物）； （用水）扑灭（火焰等）； 将（热物体）放入水中急速冷却 | |
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purport
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| n.意义，要旨，大要；v.意味著，做为...要旨，要领是... | |
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exclamation
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| n.感叹号，惊呼，惊叹词 | |
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immortal
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| adj.不朽的；永生的，不死的；神的 | |
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wedded
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| adj.正式结婚的；渴望…的，执著于…的v.嫁，娶，（与…）结婚( wed的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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perishable
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| adj.（尤指食物）易腐的，易坏的 | |
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melancholy
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| n.忧郁，愁思；adj.令人感伤（沮丧）的，忧郁的 | |
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secrecy
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| n.秘密，保密，隐蔽 | |
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farce
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| n.闹剧，笑剧，滑稽戏；胡闹 | |
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tragic
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| adj.悲剧的，悲剧性的，悲惨的 | |
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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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prosecuted
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| a.被起诉的 | |
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insanity
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| n.疯狂，精神错乱；极端的愚蠢，荒唐 | |
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deranged
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| adj.疯狂的 | |
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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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contented
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| adj.满意的，安心的，知足的 | |
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slumbers
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| 睡眠，安眠( slumber的名词复数 ) | |
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gliding
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| v. 滑翔 adj. 滑动的 | |
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cataract
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| n.大瀑布，奔流，洪水，白内障 | |
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constrain
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| vt.限制，约束；克制，抑制 | |
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chide
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| v.叱责；谴责 | |
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nought
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| n.／adj.无，零 | |
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imprinted
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| v.盖印（imprint的过去式与过去分词形式） | |
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wretch
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| n.可怜的人，不幸的人；卑鄙的人 | |
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precipice
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| n.悬崖，危急的处境 | |
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agitated
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| adj.被鼓动的，不安的 | |
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stimulated
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| a.刺激的 | |
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unwilling
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| adj.不情愿的 | |
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groom
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| vt.给（马、狗等）梳毛，照料，使...整洁 | |
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relinquish
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| v.放弃，撤回，让与，放手 | |
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lodgings
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| n. 出租的房舍, 寄宿舍 | |
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shun
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| vt.避开，回避，避免 | |
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trifling
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| adj.微不足道的；没什么价值的 | |
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worthy
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| adj.(of)值得的，配得上的；有价值的 | |
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bedlam
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| n.混乱，骚乱；疯人院 | |
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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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dame
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| n.女士 | |
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impatience
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| n.不耐烦，急躁 | |
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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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nay
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| adv.不；n.反对票，投反对票者 | |
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intimidated
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| v.恐吓；威胁adj.害怕的；受到威胁的 | |
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altercation
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| n.争吵，争论 | |
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resentment
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| n.怨愤，忿恨 | |
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professed
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| 公开声称的，伪称的，已立誓信教的 | |
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habitual
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| adj.习惯性的；通常的，惯常的 | |
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grumbler
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| 爱抱怨的人，发牢骚的人 | |
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ruminating
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| v.沉思( ruminate的现在分词 )；反复考虑；反刍；倒嚼 | |
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canny
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| adj.谨慎的，节俭的 | |
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