“Guide! Where are we?”
“I can’t say for certain.”
“Have you lost your way?”
The guide looks slowly all round him, and then looks at me. That is his answer to my question. And that is enough.
The lost persons are three in number. My traveling companion, myself, and the guide. We are seated on three Shetland ponies1 — so small in stature2, that we two strangers were at first literally3 ashamed to get on their backs. We are surrounded by dripping white mist so dense4 that we become invisible to one another at a distance of half a dozen yards. We know that we are somewhere on the mainland of the Shetland Isles5. We see under the feet of our ponies a mixture of moorland and bog7 — here, the strip of firm ground that we are standing8 on, and there, a few feet off, the strip of watery9 peat-bog, which is deep enough to suffocate10 us if we step into it. Thus far, and no further, our knowledge extends. This question of the moment is, What are we to do next?
The guide lights his pipe, and reminds me that he warned us against the weather before we started for our ride. My traveling companion looks at me resignedly, with an expression of mild reproach. I deserve it. My rashness is to blame for the disastrous11 position in which we now find ourselves.
In writing to my mother, I have been careful to report favorably of my health and spirits. But I have not confessed that I still remember the day when I parted with the one hope and renounced12 the one love which made life precious to me. My torpid13 condition of mind, at home, has simply given place to a perpetual restlessness, produced by the excitement of my new life. I must now always be doing something — no matter what, so long as it diverts me from my own thoughts. Inaction is unendurable; solitude14 has become horrible to me. While the other members of the party which has accompanied Sir James on his voyage of inspection15 among the lighthouses are content to wait in the harbor of Lerwick for a favorable change in the weather, I am obstinately16 bent17 on leaving the comfortable shelter of the vessel18 to explore some inland ruin of prehistoric19 times, of which I never heard, and for which I care nothing. The movement is all I want; the ride will fill the hateful void of time. I go, in defiance20 of sound advice offered to me on all sides. The youngest member of our party catches the infection of my recklessness (in virtue21 of his youth) and goes with me. And what has come of it? We are blinded by mist; we are lost on a moor6; and the treacherous22 peat-bogs are round us in every direction!
What is to be done?
“Just leave it to the pownies,” the guide says.
“Do you mean leave the ponies to find the way?”
“That’s it,” says the guide. “drop the bridle23, and leave it to the pownies. See for yourselves. I’m away on my powny.”
He drops his bridle on the pommel of his saddle, whistles to his pony24, and disappears in the mist; riding with his hands in his pockets, and his pipe in his mouth, as composedly as if he were sitting by his own fireside at home.
We have no choice but to follow his example, or to be left alone on the moor. The intelligent little animals, relieved from our stupid supervision25, trot26 off with their noses to the ground, like hounds on the scent27. Where the intersecting tract28 of bog is wide, they skirt round it. Where it is narrow enough to be leaped over, they cross it by a jump. Trot! trot! — away the hardy29 little creatures go; never stopping, never hesitating. Our “superior intelligence,” perfectly30 useless in the emergency, wonders how it will end. Our guide, in front of us, answers that it will end in the ponies finding their way certainly to the nearest village or the nearest house. “Let the bridles31 be,” is his one warning to us. “Come what may of it, let the bridles be!”
It is easy for the guide to let his bridle be — he is accustomed to place himself in that helpless position under stress of circumstances, and he knows exactly what his pony can do.
To us, however, the situation is a new one; and it looks dangerous in the extreme. More than once I check myself, not without an effort, in the act of resuming the command of my pony on passing the more dangerous points in the journey. The time goes on; and no sign of an inhabited dwelling32 looms33 through the mist. I begin to get fidgety and irritable34; I find myself secretly doubting the trustworthiness of the guide. While I am in this unsettled frame of mind, my pony approaches a dim, black, winding35 line, where the bog must be crossed for the hundredth time at least. The breadth of it (deceptively enlarged in appearance by the mist) looks to my eyes beyond the reach of a leap by any pony that ever was foaled. I lose my presence of mind. At the critical moment before the jump is taken, I am foolish enough to seize the bridle, and suddenly check the pony. He starts, throws up his head, and falls instantly as if he had been shot. My right hand, as we drop on the ground together, gets twisted under me, and I feel that I have sprained36 my wrist.
If I escape with no worse injury than this, I may consider myself well off. But no such good fortune is reserved for me. In his struggles to rise, before I have completely extricated37 myself from him, the pony kicks me; and, as my ill-luck will have it, his hoof38 strikes just where the poisoned spear struck me in the past days of my service in India. The old wound opens again — and there I lie bleeding on the barren Shetland moor!
This time my strength has not been exhausted39 in attempting to breast the current of a swift-flowing river with a drowning woman to support. I preserve my senses; and I am able to give the necessary directions for bandaging the wound with the best materials which we have at our disposal. To mount my pony again is simply out of the question. I must remain where I am, with my traveling companion to look after me; and the guide must trust his pony to discover the nearest place of shelter to which I can be removed.
Before he abandons us on the moor, the man (at my suggestion) takes our “bearings,” as correctly as he can by the help of my pocket-compass. This done, he disappears in the mist, with the bridle hanging loose, and the pony’s nose to the ground, as before. I am left, under my young friend’s care, with a cloak to lie on, and a saddle for a pillow. Our ponies composedly help themselves to such grass as they can find on the moor; keeping always near us as companionably as if they were a couple of dogs. In this position we wait events, while the dripping mist hangs thicker than ever all round us.
The slow minutes follow each other wearily in the majestic40 silence of the moor. We neither of us acknowledge it in words, but we both feel that hours may pass before the guide discovers us again. The penetrating41 damp slowly strengthens its clammy hold on me. My companion’s pocket-flask of sherry has about a teaspoonful42 of wine left in the bottom of it. We look at one another — having nothing else to look at in the present state of the weather — and we try to make the best of it. So the slow minutes follow each other, until our watches tell us that forty minutes have elapsed since the guide and his pony vanished from our view.
My friend suggests that we may as well try what our voices can do toward proclaiming our situation to any living creature who may, by the barest possibility, be within hearing of us. I leave him to try the experiment, having no strength to spare for vocal43 efforts of any sort. My companion shouts at the highest pitch of his voice. Silence follows his first attempt. He tries again; and, this time, an answering hail reaches us faintly through the white fog. A fellow-creature of some sort, guide or stranger, is near us — help is coming at last!
An interval44 passes; and voices reach our ears — the voices of two men. Then the shadowy appearance of the two becomes visible in the mist. Then the guide advances near enough to be identified. He is followed by a sturdy fellow in a composite dress, which presents him under the double aspect of a groom45 and a gardener. The guide speaks a few words of rough sympathy. The composite man stands by impenetrably silent; the sight of a disabled stranger fails entirely46 either to surprise or to interest the gardener-groom.
After a little private consultation47, the two men decide to cross their hands, and thus make a seat for me between them. My arms rest on their shoulders; and so they carry me off. My friend trudges48 behind them, with the saddle and the cloak. The ponies caper49 and kick, in unrestrained enjoyment50 of their freedom; and sometimes follow, sometimes precede us, as the humor of the moment inclines them. I am, fortunately for my bearers, a light weight. After twice resting, they stop altogether, and set me down on the driest place they can find. I look eagerly through the mist for some signs of a dwelling-house — and I see nothing but a little shelving beach, and a sheet of dark water beyond. Where are we?
The gardener-groom vanishes, and appears again on the water, looming51 large in a boat. I am laid down in the bottom of the boat, with my saddle-pillow; and we shove off, leaving the ponies to the desolate52 freedom of the moor. They will pick up plenty to eat (the guide says); and when night comes on they will find their own way to shelter in a village hard by. The last I see of the hardy little creatures they are taking a drink of water, side by side, and biting each other sportively in higher spirits than ever!
Slowly we float over the dark water — not a river, as I had at first supposed, but a lake — until we reach the shores of a little island; a flat, lonely, barren patch of ground. I am carried along a rough pathway made of great flat stones, until we reach the firmer earth, and discover a human dwelling-place at last. It is a long, low house of one story high; forming (as well as I can see) three sides of a square. The door stands hospitably53 open. The hall within is bare and cold and dreary54. The men open an inner door, and we enter a long corridor, comfortably warmed by a peat fire. On one wall I notice the closed oaken doors of rooms; on the other, rows on rows of well-filled book-shelves meet my eye. Advancing to the end of the first passage, we turn at right angles into a second. Here a door is opened at last: I find myself in a spacious55 room, completely and tastefully furnished, having two beds in it, and a large fire burning in the grate. The change to this warm and cheerful place of shelter from the chilly56 and misty57 solitude of the moor is so luxuriously58 delightful59 that I am quite content, for the first few minutes, to stretch myself on a bed, in lazy enjoyment of my new position; without caring to inquire into whose house we have intruded60; without even wondering at the strange absence of master, mistress, or member of the family to welcome our arrival under their hospitable61 roof.
After a while, the first sense of relief passes away. My dormant62 curiosity revives. I begin to look about me.
The gardener-groom has disappeared. I discover my traveling companion at the further end of the room, evidently occupied in questioning the guide. A word from me brings him to my bedside. What discoveries has he made? whose is the house in which we are sheltered; and how is it that no member of the family appears to welcome us?
My friend relates his discoveries. The guide listens as attentively63 to the second-hand64 narrative65 as if it were quite new to him.
The house that shelters us belongs to a gentleman of ancient Northern lineage, whose name is Dunross. He has lived in unbroken retirement66 on the barren island for twenty years past, with no other companion than a daughter, who is his only child. He is generally believed to be one of the most learned men living. The inhabitants of Shetland know him far and wide, under a name in their dialect which means, being interpreted, “The Master of Books.” The one occasion on which he and his daughter have been known to leave their island retreat was at a past time when a terrible epidemic67 disease broke out among the villages in the neighborhood. Father and daughter labored68 day and night among their poor and afflicted69 neighbors, with a courage which no danger could shake, with a tender care which no fatigue70 could exhaust. The father had escaped infection, and the violence of the epidemic was beginning to wear itself out, when the daughter caught the disease. Her life had been preserved, but she never completely recovered her health. She is now an incurable71 sufferer from some mysterious nervous disorder72 which nobody understands, and which has kept her a prisoner on the island, self-withdrawn from all human observation, for years past. Among the poor inhabitants of the district, the father and daughter are worshiped as semi-divine beings. Their names come after the Sacred Name in the prayers which the parents teach to their children.
Such is the household (so far as the guide’s story goes) on whose privacy we have intruded ourselves! The narrative has a certain interest of its own, no doubt, but it has one defect — it fails entirely to explain the continued absence of Mr. Dunross. Is it possible that he is not aware of our presence in the house? We apply the guide, and make a few further inquiries73 of him.
“Are we here,” I ask, “by permission of Mr. Dunross?”
The guide stares. If I had spoken to him in Greek or Hebrew, I could hardly have puzzled him more effectually. My friend tries him with a simpler form of words.
“Did you ask leave to bring us here when you found your way to the house?”
The guide stares harder than ever, with every appearance of feeling perfectly scandalized by the question.
“Do you think,” he asks, sternly, “‘that I am fool enough to disturb the Master over his books for such a little matter as bringing you and your friend into this house?”
“Do you mean that you have brought us here without first asking leave?” I exclaim in amazement74.
The guide’s face brightens; he has beaten the true state of the case into our stupid heads at last! “That’s just what I mean!” he says, with an air of infinite relief.
The door opens before we have recovered the shock inflicted75 on us by this extraordinary discovery. A little, lean, old gentleman, shrouded76 in a long black dressing-gown, quietly enters the room. The guide steps forward, and respectfully closes the door for him. We are evidently in the presence of The Master of Books!
点击
收听单词发音
收听单词发音 |
1
ponies
|
|
| 矮种马，小型马( pony的名词复数 )； ￡25 25 英镑 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
2
stature
|
|
| n.（高度）水平，（高度）境界，身高，身材 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
3
literally
|
|
| adv.照字面意义，逐字地；确实 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
4
dense
|
|
| a.密集的，稠密的，浓密的；密度大的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
5
isles
|
|
| 岛( isle的名词复数 ) | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
6
moor
|
|
| n.荒野，沼泽；vt.(使)停泊；vi.停泊 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
7
bog
|
|
| n.沼泽；室...陷入泥淖 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
8
standing
|
|
| n.持续，地位；adj.永久的，不动的，直立的，不流动的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
9
watery
|
|
| adj.有水的，水汪汪的；湿的，湿润的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
10
suffocate
|
|
| vt.使窒息，使缺氧，阻碍；vi.窒息，窒息而亡，阻碍发展 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
11
disastrous
|
|
| adj.灾难性的，造成灾害的；极坏的，很糟的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
12
renounced
|
|
| v.声明放弃( renounce的过去式和过去分词 )；宣布放弃；宣布与…决裂；宣布摒弃 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
13
torpid
|
|
| adj.麻痹的，麻木的，迟钝的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
14
solitude
|
|
| n. 孤独; 独居,荒僻之地,幽静的地方 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
15
inspection
|
|
| n.检查，审查，检阅 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
16
obstinately
|
|
| ad.固执地，顽固地 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
17
bent
|
|
| n.爱好，癖好；adj.弯的；决心的，一心的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
18
vessel
|
|
| n.船舶；容器，器皿；管，导管，血管 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
19
prehistoric
|
|
| adj.（有记载的）历史以前的，史前的，古老的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
20
defiance
|
|
| n.挑战，挑衅，蔑视，违抗 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
21
virtue
|
|
| n.德行，美德；贞操；优点；功效，效力 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
22
treacherous
|
|
| adj.不可靠的，有暗藏的危险的；adj.背叛的，背信弃义的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
23
bridle
|
|
| n.笼头，束缚；vt.抑制，约束；动怒 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
24
pony
|
|
| adj.小型的；n.小马 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
25
supervision
|
|
| n.监督，管理 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
26
trot
|
|
| n.疾走，慢跑；n.老太婆；现成译本；(复数）trots:腹泻（与the 连用）；v.小跑，快步走，赶紧 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
27
scent
|
|
| n.气味，香味，香水，线索，嗅觉；v.嗅，发觉 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
28
tract
|
|
| n.传单，小册子，大片(土地或森林) | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
29
hardy
|
|
| adj.勇敢的，果断的，吃苦的；耐寒的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
30
perfectly
|
|
| adv.完美地，无可非议地，彻底地 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
31
bridles
|
|
| 约束( bridle的名词复数 )； 限动器； 马笼头； 系带 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
32
dwelling
|
|
| n.住宅，住所，寓所 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
33
looms
|
|
| n.织布机( loom的名词复数 )v.隐约出现，阴森地逼近( loom的第三人称单数 )；隐约出现，阴森地逼近 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
34
irritable
|
|
| adj.急躁的；过敏的；易怒的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
35
winding
|
|
| n.绕，缠，绕组，线圈 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
36
sprained
|
|
| v.&n. 扭伤 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
37
extricated
|
|
| v.使摆脱困难，脱身( extricate的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
38
hoof
|
|
| n.(马，牛等的)蹄 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
39
exhausted
|
|
| adj.极其疲惫的，精疲力尽的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
40
majestic
|
|
| adj.雄伟的，壮丽的，庄严的，威严的，崇高的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
41
penetrating
|
|
| adj.（声音）响亮的，尖锐的adj.（气味）刺激的adj.（思想）敏锐的，有洞察力的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
42
teaspoonful
|
|
| n.一茶匙的量；一茶匙容量 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
43
vocal
|
|
| adj.直言不讳的；嗓音的；n.[pl.]声乐节目 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
44
interval
|
|
| n.间隔，间距；幕间休息，中场休息 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
45
groom
|
|
| vt.给（马、狗等）梳毛，照料，使...整洁 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
46
entirely
|
|
| ad.全部地，完整地；完全地，彻底地 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
47
consultation
|
|
| n.咨询；商量；商议；会议 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
48
trudges
|
|
| n.跋涉，长途疲劳的步行( trudge的名词复数 ) | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
49
caper
|
|
| v.雀跃，欢蹦；n.雀跃，跳跃；续随子，刺山柑花蕾；嬉戏 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
50
enjoyment
|
|
| n.乐趣；享有；享用 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
51
looming
|
|
| n.上现蜃景（光通过低层大气发生异常折射形成的一种海市蜃楼）v.隐约出现，阴森地逼近( loom的现在分词 )；隐约出现，阴森地逼近 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
52
desolate
|
|
| adj.荒凉的，荒芜的；孤独的，凄凉的；v.使荒芜，使孤寂 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
53
hospitably
|
|
| 亲切地，招待周到地，善于款待地 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
54
dreary
|
|
| adj.令人沮丧的，沉闷的，单调乏味的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
55
spacious
|
|
| adj.广阔的，宽敞的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
56
chilly
|
|
| adj.凉快的，寒冷的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
57
misty
|
|
| adj.雾蒙蒙的，有雾的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
58
luxuriously
|
|
| adv.奢侈地，豪华地 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
59
delightful
|
|
| adj.令人高兴的，使人快乐的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
60
intruded
|
|
| n.侵入的，推进的v.侵入，侵扰，打扰( intrude的过去式和过去分词 )；把…强加于 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
61
hospitable
|
|
| adj.好客的；宽容的；有利的，适宜的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
62
dormant
|
|
| adj.暂停活动的；休眠的；潜伏的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
63
attentively
|
|
| adv.聚精会神地；周到地；谛；凝神 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
64
second-hand
|
|
| adj.用过的，旧的，二手的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
65
narrative
|
|
| n.叙述，故事；adj.叙事的，故事体的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
66
retirement
|
|
| n.退休，退职 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
67
epidemic
|
|
| n.流行病；盛行；adj.流行性的，流传极广的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
68
labored
|
|
| adj.吃力的，谨慎的v.努力争取(for)( labor的过去式和过去分词 )；苦干；详细分析；（指引擎）缓慢而困难地运转 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
69
afflicted
|
|
| 使受痛苦，折磨( afflict的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
70
fatigue
|
|
| n.疲劳，劳累 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
71
incurable
|
|
| adj.不能医治的，不能矫正的，无救的；n.不治的病人，无救的人 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
72
disorder
|
|
| n.紊乱，混乱；骚动，骚乱；疾病，失调 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
73
inquiries
|
|
| n.调查( inquiry的名词复数 )；疑问；探究；打听 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
74
amazement
|
|
| n.惊奇，惊讶 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
75
inflicted
|
|
| 把…强加给，使承受，遭受( inflict的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
76
shrouded
|
|
| v.隐瞒( shroud的过去式和过去分词 )；保密 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
| 欢迎访问英文小说网 |