’Tis a naughty night to swim in.
King Lear.
There was a wild uncertainty1 about Mowbray’s ideas, after he started from a feverish2 sleep on the morning succeeding this memorable3 interview, that his sister, whom he really loved as much as he was capable of loving any thing, had dishonoured4 him and her name; and the horrid5 recollection of their last interview was the first idea which his waking imagination was thrilled with. Then came Touchwood’s tale of exculpation6 — and he persuaded himself, or strove to do so, that Clara must have understood the charge he had brought against her as referring to her attachment7 to Tyrrel, and its fatal consequences. Again, still he doubted how that could be — still feared that there must be more behind than her reluctance8 to confess the fraud which had been practised on her by Bulmer; and then, again, he strengthened himself in the first and more pleasing opinion, by recollecting9 that, averse10 as she was to espouse11 the person he proposed to her, it must have appeared to her the completion of ruin, if he, Mowbray, should obtain knowledge of the clandestine13 marriage.
“Yes — O yes,” he said to himself, “she would think that this story would render me more eager in the rascal’s interest, as the best way of hushing up such a discreditable affair — faith, and she would have judged right too; for, had he actually been Lord Etherington, I do not see what else she could have done. But, not being Lord Etherington, and an anointed scoundrel into the bargain, I will content myself with cudgelling him to death so soon as I can get out of the guardianship14 of this old, meddling15, obstinate16, self-willed, busybody. — Then, what is to be done for Clara? — This mock marriage was a mere17 bubble, and both parties must draw stakes. She likes this grave Don, who proves to be the stick of the right tree, after all — so do not I, though there be something lordlike about him. I was sure a strolling painter could not have carried it off so. She may marry him, I suppose, if the law is not against it — then she has the earldom, and the Oaklands, and Nettlewood, all at once. — Gad18, we should come in winners, after all — and, I dare say, this old boy Touchwood is as rich as a Jew — worth a hundred thousand at least — He is too peremptory19 to be cut up for sixpence under a hundred thousand. — And he talks of putting me to rights — I must not wince20 — must stand still to be curried21 a little — Only, I wish the law may permit Clara’s being married to this other earl. — A woman cannot marry two brothers, that is certain:— but then, if she is not married to the one of them in good and lawful22 form, there can be no bar to her marrying the other, I should think — I hope the lawyers will talk no nonsense about it — I hope Clara will have no foolish scruples23. — But, by my word, the first thing I have to hope is, that the thing is true, for it comes through but a suspicious channel. I’ll away to Clara instantly — get the truth out of her — and consider what is to be done.”
Thus partly thought and partly spoke24 the young Laird of St. Ronan’s, hastily dressing25 himself, in order to enquire26 into the strange chaos27 of events which perplexed28 his imagination.
When he came down to the parlour where they had supped last night, and where breakfast was prepared this morning, he sent for a girl who acted as his sister’s immediate29 attendant, and asked, “if Miss Mowbray was yet stirring?”
The girl answered, “she had not rung her bell.”
“It is past her usual hour,” said Mowbray, “but she was disturbed last night. Go, Martha, tell her to get up instantly — say I have excellent good news for her — or, if her head aches, I will come and tell them to her before she rises — go like lightning.”
Martha went, and returned in a minute or two. “I cannot make my mistress hear, sir, knock as loud as I will. I wish,” she added, with that love of evil presage30 which is common in the lower ranks, “that Miss Clara may be well, for I never knew her sleep so sound.”
Mowbray jumped from the chair into which he had thrown himself, ran through the gallery, and knocked smartly at his sister’s door; there was no answer. “Clara, dear Clara! — Answer me but one word — say but you are well. I frightened you last night — I had been drinking wine — I was violent — forgive me! — Come, do not be sulky — speak but a single word — say but you are well.”
He made the pauses longer betwixt every branch of his address, knocked sharper and louder, listened more anxiously for an answer; at length he attempted to open the door, but found it locked, or otherwise secured. “Does Miss Mowbray always lock her door?” he asked the girl.
“Never knew her to do it before, sir; she leaves it open that I may call her, and open the window-shutters.”
She had too good reason for precaution last night, thought her brother, and then remembered having heard her bar the door.
“Come, Clara,” he continued, greatly agitated31, “do not be silly; if you will not open the door, I must force it, that’s all; for how can I tell but that you are sick, and unable to answer? — if you are only sullen32, say so. — She returns no answer,” he said, turning to the domestic, who was now joined by Touchwood.
Mowbray’s anxiety was so great, that it prevented his taking any notice of his guest, and he proceeded to say, without regarding his presence, “What is to be done? — she may be sick — she may be asleep — she may have swooned; if I force the door, it may terrify her to death in the present weak state of her nerves. — Clara, dear Clara! do but speak a single word, and you shall remain in your own room as long as you please.”
There was no answer. Miss Mowbray’s maid, hitherto too much fluttered and alarmed to have much presence of mind, now recollected33 a back-stair which communicated with her mistress’s room from the garden, and suggested she might have gone out that way.
“Gone out,” said Mowbray, in great anxiety, and looking at the heavy fog, or rather small rain, which blotted34 the November morning — “Gone out, and in weather like this! — But we may get into her room from the back-stair.”
So saying, and leaving his guest to follow or remain as he thought proper, he flew rather than walked to the garden, and found the private door which led into it, from the bottom of the back-stair above mentioned, was wide open. Full of vague, but fearful apprehensions36, he rushed up to the door of his sister’s apartment, which opened from her dressing-room to the landing-place of the stair; it was ajar, and that which communicated betwixt the bedroom and dressing-room was half open. “Clara, Clara!” exclaimed Mowbray, invoking37 her name rather in an agony of apprehension35, than as any longer hoping for a reply. And his apprehension was but too prophetic.
Miss Mowbray was not in that apartment; and, from the order in which it was found, it was plain she had neither undressed on the preceding night, nor occupied the bed. Mowbray struck his forehead in an agony of remorse38 and fear. “I have terrified her to death,” he said; “she has fled into the woods, and perished there!”
Under the influence of this apprehension, Mowbray, after another hasty glance around the apartment, as if to assure himself that Clara was not there, rushed again into the dressing-room, almost overturning the traveller, who, in civility, had not ventured to enter the inner apartment. “You are as mad as a Hamako,”34 said the traveller; “let us consult together, and I am sure I can contrive”——
“Oh, d — n your contrivance!” said Mowbray, forgetting all proposed respect in his natural impatience39, aggravated40 by his alarm; “if you had behaved straight-forward, and like a man of common sense, this would not have happened!”
“God forgive you, young man, if your reflections are unjust,” said the traveller, quitting the hold he had laid upon Mowbray’s coat; “and God forgive me too, if I have done wrong while endeavouring to do for the best! — But may not Miss Mowbray have gone down to the Well? I will order my horses, and set off instantly.”
“Do, do,” said Mowbray, recklessly; “I thank you, I thank you;” and hastily traversing the garden, as if desirous to get rid at once of his visitor and his own thoughts, he took the shortest road to a little postern-gate, which led into the extensive copsewood, through some part of which Clara had caused a walk to be cut to a little summer-house built of rough shingles41, covered with creeping shrubs42.
As Mowbray hastened through the garden, he met the old man by whom it was kept, a native of the south country, and an old dependent on the family. “Have you seen my sister?” said Mowbray, hurrying his words on each other with the eagerness of terror.
“What’s your wull, St. Ronan’s?” answered the old man, at once dull of hearing, and slow of apprehension.
“Have you seen Miss Clara?” shouted Mowbray, and muttered an oath or two at the gardener’s stupidity.
“In troth have I,” replied the gardener, deliberately43; “what suld ail44 me to see Miss Clara, St. Ronan’s?”
“When, and where?” eagerly demanded the querist.
“Ou, just yestreen, after tey-time — afore ye cam hame yoursell galloping45 sae fast,” said old Joseph.
“I am as stupid as he, to put off my time in speaking to such an old cabbage-stock!” said Mowbray, and hastened on to the postern-gate already mentioned, leading from the garden into what was usually called Miss Clara’s walk. Two or three domestics, whispering to each other, and with countenances46 that showed grief, fear, and suspicion, followed their master, desirous to be employed, yet afraid to force their services on the fiery47 young man.
At the little postern he found some trace of her he sought. The pass-key of Clara was left in the lock. It was then plain that she must have passed that way; but at what hour, or for what purpose, Mowbray dared not conjecture48. The path, after running a quarter of a mile or more through an open grove49 of oaks and sycamores, attained50 the verge51 of the large brook52, and became there steep and rocky, difficult to the infirm, and alarming to the nervous; often approaching the brink53 of a precipitous ledge12 of rock, which in this place overhung the stream, in some places brawling54 and foaming55 in hasty current, and in others seeming to slumber56 in deep and circular eddies57. The temptations which this dangerous scene must have offered an excited and desperate spirit, came on Mowbray like the blight58 of the Simoom, and he stood a moment to gather breath and overcome these horrible anticipations59, ere he was able to proceed. His attendants felt the same apprehension. “Puir thing — puir thing! — O, God send she may not have been left to hersell! — God send she may have been upholden!” were whispered by Patrick to the maidens60, and by them to each other.
At this moment the old gardener was heard behind them, shouting, “Master — St. Ronan’s — Master — I have fund — I have fund”——
“Have you found my sister?” exclaimed the brother, with breathless anxiety.
The old man did not answer till he came up, and then, with his usual slowness of delivery, he replied to his master’s repeated enquiries, “Na, I haena fund Miss Clara, but I hae fund something ye wad be wae to lose — your braw hunting-knife.”
He put the implement61 into the hand of its owner, who, recollecting the circumstances under which he had flung it from him last night, and the now too probable consequences of that interview, bestowed62 on it a deep imprecation, and again hurled63 it from him into the brook. The domestics looked at each other, and recollecting each at the same time that the knife was a favourite tool of their master, who was rather curious in such articles, had little doubt that his mind was affected64, in a temporary way at least, by his anxiety on his sister’s account. He saw their confused and inquisitive65 looks, and assuming as much composure and presence of mind as he could command, directed Martha, and her female companions, to return and search the walks on the other side of Shaws-Castle; and, finally, ordered Patrick back to ring the bell, “which,” he said, assuming a confidence that he was far from entertaining, “might call Miss Mowbray home from some of her long walks.” He farther desired his groom66 and horses might meet him at the Clattering67 Brig, so called from a noisy cascade68 which was formed by the brook, above which was stretched a small foot-bridge of planks69. Having thus shaken off his attendants, he proceeded himself, with all the speed he was capable of exerting, to follow out the path in which he was at present engaged, which, being a favourite walk with his sister, she might perhaps have adopted from mere habit, when in a state of mind, which, he had too much reason to fear, must have put choice out of the question.
He soon reached the summer-house, which was merely a seat covered overhead and on the sides, open in front, and neatly70 paved with pebbles71. This little bower72 was perched, like a hawk’s nest, almost upon the edge of a projecting crag, the highest point of the line of rock which we have noticed; and had been selected by poor Clara, on account of the prospect73 which it commanded down the valley. One of her gloves lay on the small rustic74 table in the summer-house. Mowbray caught it eagerly up. It was drenched75 with wet — the preceding day had been dry; so that, had she forgot it there in the morning, or in the course of the day, it could not have been in that state. She had certainly been there during the night, when it rained heavily.
Mowbray, thus assured that Clara had been in this place, while her passions and fears were so much afloat as they must have been at her flight from her father’s house, cast a hurried and terrified glance from the brow of the precipice76 into the deep stream that eddied77 below. It seemed to him that, in the sullen roar of the water, he heard the last groans78 of his sister — the foam-flakes caught his eye, as if they were a part of her garments. But a closer examination showed that there was no appearance of such a catastrophe79. Descending80 the path on the other side of the bower, he observed a foot-print in a place where the clay was moist and tenacious81, which, from the small size, and the shape of the shoe, it appeared to him must be a trace of her whom he sought. He hurried forward, therefore, with as much speed, as yet permitted him to look out keenly for similar impressions, of which it seemed to him he remarked several, although less perfect than the former, being much obliterated82 by the quantity of rain that had since fallen — a circumstance seeming to prove that several hours had elapsed since the person had passed.
At length, through the various turnings and windings84 of a long and romantic path, Mowbray found himself, without having received any satisfactory intelligence, by the side of the brook, called St. Ronan’s Burn, at the place where it was crossed by foot-passengers, by the Clattering Brig, and by horsemen through a ford85 a little lower. At this point the fugitive86 might have either continued her wanderings through her paternal87 woods, by a path which, after winding83 about a mile, returned to Shaws-Castle, or she might have crossed the bridge, and entered a broken horse-way, common to the public, leading to the Aultoun of St. Ronan’s.
Mowbray, after a moment’s consideration, concluded that the last was her most probable option. — He mounted his horse, which the groom had brought down according to order, and commanding the man to return by the footpath88, which he himself could not examine, he proceeded to ride towards the ford. The brook was swollen89 during the night, and the groom could not forbear intimating to his master, that there was considerable danger in attempting to cross it. But Mowbray’s mind and feelings were too high-strung to permit him to listen to cautious counsel. He spurred the snorting and reluctant horse into the torrent90, though the water, rising high on the upper side, broke both over the pommel and the croupe of his saddle. It was by exertion91 of great strength and sagacity, that the good horse kept the ford-way. Had the stream forced him down among the rocks, which lie below the crossing-place, the consequences must have been fatal. Mowbray, however, reached the opposite side in safety, to the joy and admiration92 of the servant, who stood staring at him during the adventure. He then rode hastily towards the Aultoun, determined93, if he could not hear tidings of his sister in that village, that he would spread the alarm, and institute a general search after her, since her elopement from Shaws-Castle could, in that case, no longer be concealed94. We must leave him, however, in his present state of uncertainty, in order to acquaint our readers with the reality of those evils, which his foreboding mind and disturbed conscience could only anticipate.
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1
uncertainty
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| n.易变，靠不住，不确知，不确定的事物 | |
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feverish
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| adj.发烧的，狂热的，兴奋的 | |
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3
memorable
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| adj.值得回忆的，难忘的，特别的，显著的 | |
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4
dishonoured
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| a.不光彩的，不名誉的 | |
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5
horrid
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| adj.可怕的；令人惊恐的；恐怖的；极讨厌的 | |
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6
exculpation
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| n.使无罪，辩解 | |
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attachment
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| n.附属物，附件；依恋；依附 | |
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8
reluctance
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| n.厌恶，讨厌，勉强，不情愿 | |
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9
recollecting
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| v.记起，想起( recollect的现在分词 ) | |
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10
averse
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| adj.厌恶的；反对的，不乐意的 | |
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11
espouse
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| v.支持，赞成，嫁娶 | |
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ledge
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| n.壁架，架状突出物；岩架，岩礁 | |
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13
clandestine
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| adj.秘密的，暗中从事的 | |
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14
guardianship
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| n. 监护, 保护, 守护 | |
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15
meddling
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| v.干涉，干预（他人事务）( meddle的现在分词 ) | |
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16
obstinate
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| adj.顽固的，倔强的，不易屈服的，较难治愈的 | |
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mere
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| adj.纯粹的；仅仅，只不过 | |
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gad
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| n.闲逛；v.闲逛 | |
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peremptory
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| adj.紧急的，专横的，断然的 | |
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20
wince
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| n.畏缩，退避，（因痛苦，苦恼等)面部肌肉抽动；v.畏缩，退缩，退避 | |
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21
curried
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| adj.加了咖喱（或咖喱粉的），用咖哩粉调理的 | |
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lawful
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| adj.法律许可的，守法的，合法的 | |
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23
scruples
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| n.良心上的不安( scruple的名词复数 )；顾虑，顾忌v.感到于心不安，有顾忌( scruple的第三人称单数 ) | |
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24
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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dressing
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| n.(食物)调料；包扎伤口的用品，敷料 | |
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enquire
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| v.打听，询问；调查，查问 | |
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chaos
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| n.混乱，无秩序 | |
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perplexed
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| adj.不知所措的 | |
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immediate
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| adj.立即的；直接的，最接近的；紧靠的 | |
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presage
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| n.预感，不祥感；v.预示 | |
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agitated
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| adj.被鼓动的，不安的 | |
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sullen
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| adj.愠怒的，闷闷不乐的，(天气等)阴沉的 | |
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recollected
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| adj.冷静的；镇定的；被回忆起的；沉思默想的v.记起，想起( recollect的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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blotted
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| 涂污( blot的过去式和过去分词 )； （用吸墨纸）吸干 | |
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apprehension
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| n.理解，领悟；逮捕，拘捕；忧虑 | |
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apprehensions
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| 疑惧 | |
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invoking
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| v.援引( invoke的现在分词 )；行使（权利等）；祈求救助；恳求 | |
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remorse
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| n.痛恨，悔恨，自责 | |
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impatience
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| n.不耐烦，急躁 | |
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40
aggravated
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| 使恶化( aggravate的过去式和过去分词 )； 使更严重； 激怒； 使恼火 | |
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41
shingles
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| n.带状疱疹；（布满海边的）小圆石( shingle的名词复数 )；屋顶板；木瓦（板）；墙面板 | |
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shrubs
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| 灌木( shrub的名词复数 ) | |
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43
deliberately
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| adv.审慎地；蓄意地；故意地 | |
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44
ail
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| v.生病，折磨，苦恼 | |
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45
galloping
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| adj. 飞驰的, 急性的 动词gallop的现在分词形式 | |
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countenances
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| n.面容( countenance的名词复数 )；表情；镇静；道义支持 | |
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fiery
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| adj.燃烧着的，火红的；暴躁的；激烈的 | |
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conjecture
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| n./v.推测，猜测 | |
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49
grove
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| n.林子，小树林，园林 | |
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50
attained
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| （通常经过努力）实现( attain的过去式和过去分词 )； 达到； 获得； 达到（某年龄、水平、状况） | |
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verge
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| n.边，边缘；v.接近，濒临 | |
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52
brook
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| n.小河，溪；v.忍受，容让 | |
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brink
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| n.(悬崖、河流等的)边缘，边沿 | |
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brawling
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| n.争吵，喧嚷 | |
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55
foaming
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| adj.布满泡沫的；发泡 | |
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56
slumber
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| n.睡眠，沉睡状态 | |
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eddies
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| （水、烟等的）漩涡，涡流( eddy的名词复数 ) | |
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blight
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| n.枯萎病；造成破坏的因素；vt.破坏，摧残 | |
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59
anticipations
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| 预期( anticipation的名词复数 )； 预测； （信托财产收益的）预支； 预期的事物 | |
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maidens
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| 处女( maiden的名词复数 )； 少女； 未婚女子； （板球运动）未得分的一轮投球 | |
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implement
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| n.(pl.)工具，器具；vt.实行，实施，执行 | |
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bestowed
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| 赠给，授予( bestow的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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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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affected
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| adj.不自然的，假装的 | |
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inquisitive
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| adj.求知欲强的，好奇的，好寻根究底的 | |
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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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clattering
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| 发出咔哒声（clatter的现在分词形式） | |
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cascade
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| n.小瀑布，喷流；层叠；vi.成瀑布落下 | |
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planks
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| （厚）木板( plank的名词复数 )； 政纲条目，政策要点 | |
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neatly
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| adv.整洁地，干净地，灵巧地，熟练地 | |
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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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bower
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| n.凉亭，树荫下凉快之处；闺房；v.荫蔽 | |
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prospect
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| n.前景，前途；景色，视野 | |
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rustic
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| adj.乡村的，有乡村特色的；n.乡下人，乡巴佬 | |
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drenched
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| adj.湿透的；充满的v.使湿透( drench的过去式和过去分词 )；在某人（某物）上大量使用（某液体） | |
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precipice
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| n.悬崖，危急的处境 | |
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eddied
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| 起漩涡，旋转( eddy的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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groans
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| n.呻吟，叹息( groan的名词复数 )；呻吟般的声音v.呻吟( groan的第三人称单数 )；发牢骚；抱怨；受苦 | |
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catastrophe
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| n.大灾难，大祸 | |
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descending
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| n. 下行 adj. 下降的 | |
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tenacious
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| adj.顽强的，固执的，记忆力强的，粘的 | |
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obliterated
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| v.除去( obliterate的过去式和过去分词 )；涂去；擦掉；彻底破坏或毁灭 | |
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winding
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| n.绕，缠，绕组，线圈 | |
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windings
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| （道路、河流等）蜿蜒的，弯曲的( winding的名词复数 )； 缠绕( wind的现在分词 )； 卷绕； 转动（把手） | |
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Ford
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| n.浅滩，水浅可涉处；v.涉水，涉过 | |
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fugitive
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| adj.逃亡的，易逝的；n.逃犯，逃亡者 | |
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paternal
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| adj.父亲的，像父亲的，父系的，父方的 | |
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footpath
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| n.小路，人行道 | |
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swollen
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| adj.肿大的，水涨的；v.使变大，肿胀 | |
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torrent
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| n.激流，洪流；爆发，(话语等的)连发 | |
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exertion
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| n.尽力，努力 | |
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admiration
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| n.钦佩，赞美，羡慕 | |
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determined
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| adj.坚定的；有决心的 | |
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concealed
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| a.隐藏的，隐蔽的 | |
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