“It’s nothing to laugh at, my lord,” said old Symington, “though I’m not one—and I make no question but your lordship is not one—to lose my presence o’ mind. Yon’s the phenomenon that they wanted me to call your lordship’s attention to,” he added, jerking his arm, but without turning his head, in the direction of the tower.
“The light?” Walter said. He had been about to ask what the meaning of it might be. It had not been visible at all when they started, but for the last moment or two had been growing steadily13. The daylight was waning14 every minute, and no doubt (he thought) it was this that made the light more evident. It shone from the balcony or high roof-terrace which surrounded the old tower. It was difficult to distinguish what it was, or identify any lamp or beacon15 as the origin of it. It seemed to come from the terrace generally, a soft, extended light, with nothing fiery16 in it, no appearance of any blaze or burning, but a motionless, clear shining, which threw a strange glimmer17 upwards18 upon the solid mass of the tower, and downwards19 upon the foliage20, which was black and glistening21, and upon the surface of the water. “Yon’s the phenomenon,” said Symington, pointing with a jerk of his elbow. The light brought out the whole mass of rugged22 masonry23 and trees from the rest of the landscape, and softly defined it against the darker background.
“How is it done?” said the young man, simply. He perceived the moment after that his tone was like that of the bagman on the coach, and shivered at the thought. So soft and steady was the light that it had not seemed to him extraordinary at all.
“What do you mean by a phenomenon?” he asked, hastily. He remembered suddenly that the young lady on the coach had spoken of this light, and taken it, so to speak, under her protection.
“If your lordship has ainy desire to inquire into my opinion,” said old Symington, “though I doubt that’s little likely, I would say it was just intended to work on the imagination. Now and then, indeed, it’s useful in the way of a sign—like a person waving to you to come and speak; but to work on the imagination, that’s what I would say.”
Walter looked up at the light which threw a faint glimmer across the dark water, showing the blackness of the roughened ripple24, over which they were making their way, and bringing into curious prominence25 the dark mass of the building rising out of it. It was not like the moon, it was more distinct than starlight, it was paler than a torch: nor was there any apparent central point from which it came. There was no electric light in those days, nor was Loch Houran a probable spot for its introduction: but the clear colourless light was of that description. It filled the visitor with a vague curiosity, but nothing more.
“To work on—whose imagination? and with what object?” he said.
But as he asked the question the boat shot forward into the narrow part of the loch, and rounded the corner of the ruin. Anything more hopeless as a place to which living passengers, with the usual encumbrances26 of luggage, were going, could not well be conceived; but after a few minutes’ rowing, the boat ran in to some rude steps on the other side of the castle, where there were traces of a path leading up across the rough grass to a partially28 visible door. All was so dark by this time that it was with difficulty that Walter found the landing; when he had got ashore29, and his portmanteau had been put out on the bank, the men in the boat pushed off with an energy and readiness which proved their satisfaction in getting clear of the castle and its traditions. To find himself left there, with an apparently30 ruined house behind him, his property at his feet, his old servant by his side, night closing in around, and the dark glistening water lapping up on the stones at his feet, was about as forlorn a situation as could be imagined.
“Are we to pass the night here?” he said, in a voice which could not help being somewhat querulous.
The sound of a door opening behind interrupted his words, and turning round he saw an old man standing31 in the doorway32, with a small lamp in his hand. He held it up high over his head to see who the new-comers were; and Walter, looking round, saw a bowed and aged33 figure—a pale old face, which might have been made out of ivory, so bloodless was it, the forehead polished and shining, some grey locks escaping at the side of a black skull-cap, and eyes looking out keenly into the darkness.
“It is just his lordship, Macalister,” said old Symington.
The young man, who was so strange to it all, stood with a sort of helplessness between the two old men who were familiar with each other and the place and all its customs.
“Come away, then, come away,” cried the guardian34 of the house, with a shrill35 voice that penetrated36 the stillness sharply. “What are ye biding37 there for in the dark?”
“And who’s to carry up my lord’s portmanteau?” said Symington.
“His portmanteau!” cried the other, with a sort of eldritch laugh. “Has he come to bide38?”
This colloquy39 held over him exasperated40 Walter, and he seized the portmanteau hastily, forgetting his dignity.
“Lend a hand, Symington, and let us have no more talk,” he said.
There is a moment when the most forlorn sensations and the most dismal41 circumstances become either ludicrous or irritating. The young man shook off his sense of oppression and repugnance42 as he hastened up the slope to the door, while the lantern, flashing fitfully about, showed now the broken path, now the rough red masonry of the ruin, which was scarcely less unlike a ruin on this side than on the other. The door gave admittance into a narrow passage only, out of which a spiral staircase ascended43 close to the entrance, the passage itself apparently leading away into the darkness to a considerable distance. At the end of it stood a woman with a lighted candle peering out at the stranger as the man had done. He seemed to realise the stones which every one has read of a belated traveller unwillingly44 received into some desolate45 inn, which turns out to be the headquarters of a robber-band, and where the intruder must be murdered ere the morning.
“This is your way, my lord,” said the shrill old man, leading the way up the spiral stair. The whole scene was like a picture. The woman holding up her light at the end of the long passage, the old man with his lamp, the dark corners full of silence and mystery, the cold wind blowing as through an icy ravine. And the sensations of the young man, who had not even had those experiences of adventure which most young men have in these travelling days, whom poverty and idleness had kept at home in tame domestic comfort, were very strange and novel. He seemed to himself to be walking into a romance, not into any real place, but into some old storybook, a mystery of Udolpho, an antiquated46 and conventional region of gloom and artificial alarms.
“Come this way, my lord; come this way,” said the old man; “the steps are a bit worn, for they’re auld47, auld—as auld as the house. But we hope you’ll find everything as comfortable as the circumstances will permit. We have had just twa three days to prepare, my mistress and me; but we’ve done our best, as far,” he added, “as the circumstances will permit. This way, this way, my lord.”
At the head of the stair everything was black as night. The old man’s lamp threw his own somewhat fantastic shadow upon the wall of a narrow corridor as he held it up to guide the new-comer. Close to the top of the staircase, however, there opened a door, through which a warm light was showing, and Walter, to his surprise, found himself in a comfortably-furnished room with a cheerful fire, and a table covered for dinner, a welcome end to the discomfort48 and gloom of the arrival. The room was low, but large, and there were candles on the mantelpiece and table which made a sort of twinkling illumination in the midst of the dark panelled walls and dark furniture. The room was lined with books at one end. It was furnished with comfortable sofas and chairs of modern manufacture. There was a curious dim mirror over the mantelshelf in a heavy gilt49 frame of old carving50, one or two dim old portraits hung opposite, the curtains were drawn51, the fire was bright, the white tablecloth52 with an old-fashioned silver vase in the middle, and the candles burning, made a cheerful centre of light. At the further end was another door, open, which admitted to a bed-room, dim, but comfortable in the firelight. All this was encouraging. Walter threw himself into a chair with a sense that the situation altogether was improving. Things cannot be so very bad when there is a fire and lights, and a prospect53 of dinner. He began to laugh at himself, when he had taken off his coat, and felt the warmth of the glowing fire. Everything around him was adapted for comfort. There was a little want of light which left all the corners mysterious, and showed the portraits dimly, like half-seen spectators, looking down from the wall; but the comfortable was much more present than the weird54 and uncanny which had so much predominated on his arrival. And when a dinner, which was very good and carefully cooked, and a bottle of wine, which, though he had not very much skill in that subject, Walter knew to be costly55 and fine, had been served with noiseless care by Symington, the young man began to recover his spirits, and to think of the tradition which required his presence here, as silly indeed, but without harm. After dinner he seated himself by the fire to think over the whole matter. It was not yet a fortnight since this momentous56 change had happened in his life. Before that he had been without importance, without use in the world, with little hope, with nothing he cared for sufficiently57 to induce him to exert himself one way or another. Now after he had passed this curious probation58, whatever it was, what a life opened before him! He did not even know how important it was, how much worth living. It shone before him indistinctly as a sort of vague, general realisation of all dreams. Wealth—that was the least of it; power to do whatever he pleased; to affect other people’s lives, to choose for himself almost whatever pleased him. He thought of Parliament, even of government, in his ignorance: he thought of travel, he thought of great houses full of gaiety and life. It was not as yet sufficiently realised to make him decide on one thing or another. He preferred it as it was, vague—an indefinite mass of good things and glories to come. Only this ordeal59, or whatever it was—those few days more or less that he was bound to remain at Kinloch Houran, stood between him and his magnificent career. And after all, Kinloch Houran was nothing very terrible. It might be like the mysteries of Udolpho outside; but all the mysteries of Udolpho turned out, he remembered, quite explainable, and not so very alarming after all; and these rooms, which bore the traces of having been lived in very lately, and which were quite adapted to be lived in, did not seem to afford much scope for the mysterious. There were certain points, indeed, in which they were defective60, a want of air, something which occasionally caught at his respiration61, and gave him a sort of choked and stifled62 sensation; but that was natural enough, so carefully closed as everything was, curtains drawn, every draught63 warded64 off. Sometimes he had an uneasy feeling as if somebody had come in behind him and was hanging about the back of his chair. On one occasion he even went so far as to ask sharply, “Is it you, Symington?” but, looking back, was ashamed of himself, for of course there was nobody there. He changed his seat, however, so as to face the door, and even went the length of opening it, and looking out to see if there was any one about. The little corridor seemed to ramble65 away into a darkness so great that the light of his candle did no more than touch its surface—the spiral staircase looked like a well of gloom. This made him shiver slightly, and a half-wish to lock his door came over him, of which he felt ashamed as he turned back into the cheerful light.
After all, it was nothing but the sensation of loneliness which made this impression. He went back to his chair and once more resumed his thoughts—or rather was it not his thoughts—nay, his fancies—that resumed him, and fluttered about and around, presenting to him a hundred swiftly changing scenes? He saw visions of his old life, detached scenes which came suddenly up through the darkness and presented themselves before him—a bit of Sloebury High Street, with a group of his former acquaintances now so entirely66 separated from him; the little drawing-room at the cottage, with Julia Herbert singing him a song; Underwood’s rooms on that particular night when he had gone in, in search of something like excitement, and had found everything so dull and flat. None of these scenes had any connection with his new beginning in life. They all belonged to the past, which was so entirely past and over. But these were the scenes which came with a sort of perversity67, all broken, changing like badly managed views in a magic lantern, produced before him without any will of his. There was a sort of bewildering effect in the way in which they swept along, one effacing68 another, all of them so alien to the scene in which he found himself. He had to get up at last, shaking himself as free of the curious whirl of unwonted imagination as he could. No doubt his imagination was excited; but happily not, he said to himself, by anything connected with the present scene in which he found himself. Had it been roused by these strange surroundings, by the darkness and silence that were about him, by the loneliness to which he was so unused, he felt that there was no telling what he might see or think he saw; but fortunately it was not in this way that his imagination worked. His pulse was quick, however, his heart beating, a quite involuntary excitement in all his bodily faculties. He got up hastily and went to the bookshelves, where he found, to his surprise, a large collection of novels and light literature. It seemed to Walter that his predecessor69, whom he had never seen—the former Lord Erradeen, who inhabited these rooms not very long ago—had been probably, like himself, anxious to quench70 the rising of his fancy in the less exciting course of a fictitious71 drama, the conventional excitements of a story. He looked over the shelves with a curious sympathy for this unknown person, whom indeed he had never thought much upon before. Did that unknown know who was to succeed him? Did he ever speculate upon Walter as Walter was now doing upon him? He turned over the books with a strange sense of examining the secrets of his predecessor’s mind. They were almost all books of adventure and excitement. He took down, after a moment, a volume of Dumas, and returned to his easy-chair by the fire, to lose himself in the breathless ride of d’Artagnan and the luckless fortunes of the three companions. It answered the purpose admirably. A sudden lull72 came over his restless fancy. He was in great comfort externally, warmed and fed and reposing73 after a somewhat weary day, and the spell of the great story-teller got hold of him. He was startled out of this equable calm when Symington came in to light the candles in his bed-room and bring hot water, and offer his services generally. Symington regarded him with an approval which he did not think it worth his while to dissemble.
“That’s right, my lord, that’s right,” he said. “Reading’s a very fine thing when you have too much to occupy your thoughts.”
Walter was amused by this deliverance, and happily not impatient of it. “That is a new reason for reading,” he said.
“But it is a real just one, if your lordship will permit me to say so. Keep you to your book, my lord; it’s just fine for putting other things out of your head. It’s Dumas’s you’re reading? I’ve tried that French fellow myself, but I cannot say that I made head or tail of him. He would have it that all that has happened in history was just at the mercy of a wheen adventurers, two or three vagrants74 of Frenchmen. No, no. I may believe a great deal, but I’m not likely to believe that.”
“I see you are a critic, Symington; and do you read for the same reason that you have been suggesting to me?—because you have too much to occupy your thoughts?”
“Well, pairtly, my lord, and pairtly just in my idle hours to pass the time. I have made up your fire and lighted the candles, and everything is in order. Will I wait upon your lordship till you’re inclined for your bed? or will I——” Symington made a significant pause, which it was not very difficult to interpret.
“You need not wait,” Walter said; and then, with an instinct which he was half ashamed of, he asked hurriedly, “Whereabouts do you sleep?”
“That is just about the difficulty,” said old Symington. “I’m rather out of call if your lordship should want anything. The only way will just be to come down the stairs, if your lordship will take the trouble, and ring the big bell. It would waken a’ the seven sleepers75 if it was rung at their lug27: and I’m not so ill to waken when there is noise enough. But ye have everything to your hand, my lord. If you’ll just give a glance into the other room, I can let you see where everything is. There is the spirit-lamp, not to say a small kettle by the fire, and there’s——”
“That will do,” said Walter. “I shall not want anything more to-night.”
The old servant went away with a glance round the room, in which Walter thought there was some anxiety, and stopped again at the door to say “Good night, my lord. It’s not that I am keen for my bed—if your lordship would like me to bide, or even to take a doze76 upon a chair——”
“Go to bed, old Sym.,” said the young man with a laugh. The idea of finding a protector in Symington was somewhat ludicrous. But these interruptions disturbed him once more, and brought back his excitement: he felt a sort of pang77 as he heard the old servant’s heavy step going down the winding78 stair, and echoing far away, as it seemed, into the bowels79 of the earth. Then that extreme and blighting80 silence which is like a sort of conscious death came upon the place. The thick curtains shut out every sound of wind and water outside as they shut out every glimpse of light. Walter heard his pulse in his ears, his heart thumping82 like the hammer of a machine. The whole universe seemed concentrated in that only living breathing thing, which was himself. He tried to resume his book, but the spell of the story was broken. He could no longer follow the fortunes of Athos, Porthos, and Aramis. Walter Methven thrust himself in front of these personages, and, though he was not half so amusing, claimed a superior importance by right of those pulses that clanged in his head like drums beating. He said to himself that he was very comfortable, that he had never expected to be so well off. But he could not regain83 his composure or sense of well-being84. It was a little better when he went into his bed-room, the mere85 movement and passage from one room to another being of use to him. The sense of oppression and stagnation86, however, soon became almost greater here than in the sitting-room87. One side of the room was entirely draped in close-drawn curtains, so that it was impossible to make out even where the windows were. He drew them aside with some trouble, for the draperies were very heavy, but not to much advantage. At first it seemed to him that there were no windows at all; then he caught sight of something like a recess88 high in the wall; and climbing up, found the hasp of a rough shutter89, which covered a small square window built into a cave of the deep masonry. That this should be the only means of lighting81 an almost luxurious90 sleeping chamber3, bewildered him more and more; but it would not open, and let in no air, and the atmosphere felt more stifling91 than ever in this revelation of the impossibility of renewing it. Finally, he went to bed with a sort of rueful sense that there was the last citadel92 and refuge of a stranger beset93 by imaginations in so weird and mysterious a place. He did not expect to sleep, but he determined94 that he would not, at least, be the sport of his own fancies.
It astonished Walter beyond measure to find himself waking in broad daylight, with Symington moving softly about the room, and a long window, the existence of which he had never suspected, facing him as he looked up from his pillows, after a comfortable night’s sleep. Mingled95 shame and amusement made him burst into an uneasy laugh, as he realised this exceedingly easy end of his tribulations96.
“Mrs. Macalister,” said Symington, “would like well to know when your lordship is likely to be ready, to put down the trout97 at the right moment: for it’s an awful pity to spoil a Loch Houran trout.”
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1
ivy
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| n.常青藤，常春藤 | |
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deserted
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| adj.荒芜的，荒废的，无人的，被遗弃的 | |
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3
chamber
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| n.房间，寝室；会议厅；议院；会所 | |
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chambers
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| n.房间( chamber的名词复数 )；（议会的）议院；卧室；会议厅 | |
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hoarse
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| adj.嘶哑的，沙哑的 | |
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oar
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| n.桨，橹，划手；v.划行 | |
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faculties
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| n.能力( faculty的名词复数 )；全体教职员；技巧；院 | |
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8
lashing
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| n.鞭打；痛斥；大量；许多v.鞭打( lash的现在分词 )；煽动；紧系；怒斥 | |
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mimic
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| v.模仿，戏弄；n.模仿他人言行的人 | |
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10
poked
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| v.伸出( poke的过去式和过去分词 )；戳出；拨弄；与（某人）性交 | |
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disapproval
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| n.反对，不赞成 | |
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bonnets
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| n.童帽( bonnet的名词复数 )；（烟囱等的）覆盖物；（苏格兰男子的）无边呢帽；（女子戴的）任何一种帽子 | |
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13
steadily
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| adv.稳定地；不变地；持续地 | |
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waning
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| adj.（月亮）渐亏的，逐渐减弱或变小的n.月亏v.衰落( wane的现在分词 )；（月）亏；变小；变暗淡 | |
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beacon
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| n.烽火，（警告用的）闪火灯，灯塔 | |
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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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glimmer
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| v.发出闪烁的微光；n.微光，微弱的闪光 | |
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upwards
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downwards
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foliage
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| n.叶子，树叶，簇叶 | |
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glistening
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| adj.闪耀的，反光的v.湿物闪耀，闪亮( glisten的现在分词 ) | |
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rugged
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| adj.高低不平的，粗糙的，粗壮的，强健的 | |
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masonry
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| n.砖土建筑；砖石 | |
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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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prominence
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| n.突出；显著；杰出；重要 | |
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encumbrances
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| n.负担( encumbrance的名词复数 )；累赘；妨碍；阻碍 | |
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lug
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| n.柄，突出部，螺帽；(英）耳朵；（俚）笨蛋；vt.拖，拉，用力拖动 | |
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partially
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ashore
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apparently
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| adv.显然地；表面上，似乎 | |
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standing
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| n.持续，地位；adj.永久的，不动的，直立的，不流动的 | |
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doorway
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| n.门口，(喻)入门；门路，途径 | |
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aged
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| adj.年老的，陈年的 | |
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guardian
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| n.监护人；守卫者，保护者 | |
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shrill
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| adj.尖声的；刺耳的；v尖叫 | |
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penetrated
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| adj. 击穿的，鞭辟入里的 动词penetrate的过去式和过去分词形式 | |
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biding
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| v.等待，停留( bide的现在分词 )；居住；（过去式用bided）等待；面临 | |
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bide
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| v.忍耐；等候；住 | |
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colloquy
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| n.谈话，自由讨论 | |
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exasperated
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| adj.恼怒的 | |
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dismal
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| adj.阴沉的，凄凉的，令人忧郁的，差劲的 | |
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42
repugnance
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| n.嫌恶 | |
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43
ascended
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| v.上升，攀登( ascend的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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44
unwillingly
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| adv.不情愿地 | |
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45
desolate
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| adj.荒凉的，荒芜的；孤独的，凄凉的；v.使荒芜，使孤寂 | |
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46
antiquated
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| adj.陈旧的，过时的 | |
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auld
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| adj.老的，旧的 | |
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48
discomfort
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| n.不舒服，不安，难过，困难，不方便 | |
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49
gilt
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| adj.镀金的；n.金边证券 | |
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50
carving
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| n.雕刻品，雕花 | |
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drawn
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| v.拖，拉，拔出；adj.憔悴的，紧张的 | |
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tablecloth
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| n.桌布，台布 | |
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prospect
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| n.前景，前途；景色，视野 | |
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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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costly
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| adj.昂贵的，价值高的，豪华的 | |
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momentous
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| adj.重要的，重大的 | |
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sufficiently
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| adv.足够地，充分地 | |
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probation
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| n.缓刑(期)，(以观后效的)察看；试用(期) | |
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ordeal
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| n.苦难经历，（尤指对品格、耐力的）严峻考验 | |
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defective
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| adj.有毛病的，有问题的，有瑕疵的 | |
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respiration
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| n.呼吸作用；一次呼吸；植物光合作用 | |
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stifled
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| （使）窒息， （使）窒闷( stifle的过去式和过去分词 )； 镇压，遏制； 堵 | |
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draught
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| n.拉，牵引，拖；一网（饮，吸，阵)；顿服药量，通风；v.起草，设计 | |
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warded
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| 有锁孔的，有钥匙榫槽的 | |
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ramble
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| v.漫步，漫谈，漫游；n.漫步，闲谈，蔓延 | |
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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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perversity
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| n.任性；刚愎自用 | |
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effacing
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| 谦逊的 | |
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predecessor
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| n.前辈，前任 | |
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quench
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| vt.熄灭，扑灭；压制 | |
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fictitious
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| adj.虚构的，假设的；空头的 | |
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lull
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| v.使安静，使入睡，缓和，哄骗；n.暂停，间歇 | |
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reposing
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| v.将（手臂等）靠在某人（某物）上( repose的现在分词 ) | |
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vagrants
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| 流浪者( vagrant的名词复数 )； 无业游民； 乞丐； 无赖 | |
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sleepers
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| n.卧铺（通常以复数形式出现）；卧车( sleeper的名词复数 )；轨枕；睡觉（呈某种状态）的人；小耳环 | |
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doze
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| v.打瞌睡；n.打盹，假寐 | |
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pang
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| n.剧痛，悲痛，苦闷 | |
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winding
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| n.绕，缠，绕组，线圈 | |
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bowels
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| n.肠，内脏，内部；肠( bowel的名词复数 )；内部，最深处 | |
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blighting
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| 使凋萎( blight的现在分词 )； 使颓丧； 损害； 妨害 | |
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lighting
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| n.照明，光线的明暗，舞台灯光 | |
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thumping
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| adj.重大的，巨大的；重击的；尺码大的；极好的adv.极端地；非常地v.重击(thump的现在分词)；狠打；怦怦地跳；全力支持 | |
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regain
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| vt.重新获得，收复，恢复 | |
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well-being
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| n.安康，安乐，幸福 | |
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mere
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| adj.纯粹的；仅仅，只不过 | |
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stagnation
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| n. 停滞 | |
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sitting-room
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| n.（BrE）客厅，起居室 | |
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recess
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| n.短期休息，壁凹（墙上装架子，柜子等凹处） | |
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shutter
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| n.百叶窗；(照相机)快门；关闭装置 | |
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luxurious
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| adj.精美而昂贵的；豪华的 | |
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stifling
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| a.令人窒息的 | |
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citadel
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| n.城堡；堡垒；避难所 | |
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beset
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| v.镶嵌；困扰，包围 | |
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determined
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| adj.坚定的；有决心的 | |
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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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tribulations
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| n.苦难( tribulation的名词复数 )；艰难；苦难的缘由；痛苦 | |
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trout
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| n.鳟鱼；鲑鱼(属) | |
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