Walter followed her so closely when she went upon that mission that she could not escape him. They stood together in the grey of the evening light, upon the beach, while Hamish prepared the boat, Oona’s mind in a tumult2 of apprehension3 and resistance, with an insidious4 softness behind, which she felt with despair was betraying her over again into the folly5 she had surmounted6. He had not the same commotion7 in his mind; his thoughts were altogether bent8 on what was coming. She was his confidant, his support in it, though he had not said a word to her. He took her into account in the matter as a man takes his wife. She was a part of it all, though it was not of her he was thinking. He spoke9 after a moment in a tone full of this curious claim, which seemed to him at the moment incontestable.
“It will never come to an end unless you stand by me,” he said. “Everything can be done if you will stand by me.”
Oona, in her strange agitation10, felt as if she had surprised him thinking aloud; as if he did not address her, but merely repeated to himself a fact which was beyond dispute. He said no more, neither did she make any reply. And once more, as if in repetition of the former scene, he turned round as he stepped into the heavy boat, and looked back upon her as Hamish began to ply11 the oars12. She stood and watched him from the beach; there was no wave of the hand, no word of farewell. They were both too much moved for expression of any kind; and everything was different though the same. On the former occasion he had been escaping, and was eager to get free, to get out of reach of an oppression he could not bear; but now was going to his trial, to meet the tyrant13, with a certainty that escape was impossible. And for Oona there had been the sensation of a loss unspeakable—a loss which she could neither confess nor explain, which took the heart out of her life; whereas now there was a re-awakening, a mysterious beginning which she could not account for or understand. She stood on the beach till the boat had disappeared, and even till the sound of the oars died out in the distance, in an agitation indescribable. The first despairing sense that the influence against which she had struggled was regaining14 possession of her, was for the moment lost in an overwhelming tide of sympathy and response to the claim he had made. He had no right to make that claim, and it was intolerable that she should have so little power over herself as to yield to it, and allow herself to become thus the subject of another. Her pride, her reason, had been in arms against any such thraldom15; but for this moment Oona was again overcome. She had no power of resistance—her very being seemed to go with him, to add itself to his, as he disappeared across the darkling loch. Stand by him! The words went breathing about her in the air, and in her mind, and everything in her echoed and responded—Stand by him! Yes, to the death. This excitement failed in a sudden chill and shiver, and sense of shame which covered her face with blushes which no one saw, as startled by the gathering16 dark, and the sound of Mysie’s step hastening down to the landing-place with a shawl for her, Oona turned again and ran swiftly up the winding17 way.
The loch was like lead, with a ripple18 of mysterious changing lights in the darkness, as the boat shot round under the shadow of Kinloch Houran. All was as still as in a world of dreams, the sound of Hamish’s oars in their regular sweep alone breaking the intense stillness. Here and there among the trees a light glimmered21 on the shore—a window of the Manse—the door of the little inn standing22 open and betraying the ruddy warmth within: but no sound near enough to interrupt the stillness. Walter felt as though he parted with a certain protection when he stepped upon the bit of mossed causeway which served as a landing pier23 to the old castle, and, bidding Hamish good-night, stood alone in that solitude24 and watched the boatman’s red shirt, which had forced its colour even upon the twilight25, grow black as it disappeared. The sensation in Walter’s mind had little akin19 with that panic and horror which had once overwhelmed him. No doubt it was excitement that filled up his whole being, and made the pulses throb26 in his ears, but it was excitement subdued27; and all he was conscious of was a sort of saddened expectation—a sense of a great event about to take place which he could not elude28 or stave off—a struggle in which he might be worsted. “Let not him that putteth on his armour29 boast himself like him that putteth it off.” He did not know what might happen to him. But the tremors30 of his nervous system, or of his agitated32 soul, or of his physical frame—he could not tell which it was—were stilled. He was intensely serious and sad, but he was not afraid.
Symington, who had been in waiting, listening for his master’s return, opened the door and lighted him up the spiral stairs. The room was already lighted and cheerful, the curtains drawn33, the fire blazing brightly.
“The days are creeping in,” he said, “and there’s a nip in the air aneath thae hills—so I thought a fire would be acceptable.” In fact the room looked very comfortable and bright, not a place for mysteries. Walter sat down between the cheerful fire and the table with its lights.
There is often at the very crisis of fate a relaxation34 of the strain upon the mind—a sudden sense as of peril35 over, and relief. Thus the dying will often have a glimmer20 in the socket36, a sense of betterness and hope before the last moment. In the same way a sensation of relief came on Walter at the height of his expectation. His mind was stilled. A feeling without any justification37, yet grateful and consoling, came over him, as if the trial were over, or at least postponed—as if something had intervened for his deliverance. He sat and warmed himself in this genial38 glow, feeling his pulses calmed and his mind soothed—he could not tell how. How long or how short the interval39 of consolation40 was, if a few minutes only, or an hour, or half a life-time, he could not tell. He was roused from it by the sound of steps in the corridor outside. It was a passage which ended in nothing—in the gloom of the ruinous portion of the house—and consequently it was not usual to hear any sound in it, the servants invariably approaching Lord Erradeen’s rooms by the stair. On this occasion, however, Walter, suddenly roused, heard some one coming from a distance, with steps which echoed into the vacancy41 as of an empty place, but gradually drawing nearer, sounding, in ordinary measure, a man’s footstep, firm and strong, but not heavy, upon the corridor outside. Then the door was opened with the usual click of the lock and heavy creak with which it swung upon its hinges. He rose up, scarcely knowing what he did.
“You examined everything last night to find a secret passage,” said the new-comer with a humorous look, “which indeed might very well have existed in a house of this date. There was actually such a passage once existing, and connected with a secret room which I have found useful in its time. But that was in another part of the house, and the age of concealments and mysteries—of that kind—is past. Won’t you sit down?” he added, pleasantly. “You see I put myself at my ease at once.”
Walter’s heart had given such a bound that the sensation made him giddy and faint. He stood gazing at the stranger, only half comprehending what was happening. All that happened was natural and simple in the extreme. The visitor walked round the table to the other side of the fire, and moving the large chair which stood there into a position corresponding to Walter’s, seated himself in the most leisurely42 and easy way. “Sit down,” he repeated after a moment, more peremptorily43, and with almost a tone of impatience44. “We have much to talk over. Let us do it comfortably, at least.”
“I can have nothing to talk over,” said Walter, feeling that he spoke with difficulty, yet getting calm by dint45 of speaking, “with an undesired and unknown visitor.”
The other smiled. “If you will think of it you will find that I am far from unknown,” he said. “No one can have a larger body of evidence in favour of his reality. What did that poor little woman in Edinburgh say to you?”
“I wonder,” cried Walter, unconscious of the inconsistency, “that you can permit yourself to mention her name.”
“Poor little thing,” he replied, “I am sincerely sorry for her. Had I foreseen what was going to happen I should have guarded against it. You may tell her so. Everything that is subject to human conditions is inconsistent and irregular. But on the whole, taking life altogether, there is not so much to be regretted. Probably she is happier there than had she embarked46, as she was about to do, in a struggle with me. Those who contend with me have not an easy career before them.”
“Yet one day it will have to be done,” Walter said.
“Yes. You consent then that I am not unknown, however undesired,” the stranger said, with a smile. He was so entirely47 at his ease, at his leisure, as if he had hours before him, that Walter, gazing in an impatience beyond words, felt the hopelessness of any effort to hurry through the interview, and dropped into his seat with a sigh of reluctance48 and despair.
“Who are you?” he cried; “and why, in the name of God, do you thus torment49 and afflict50 a whole race?”
“The statement is scarcely correct. I was a Highland51 youth of no pretension52 once, and you are supposed to be Lord Erradeen, not only a Scotch53 lord, but an English peer. That is what my tormenting54 and afflicting55 have come to, with many solid acres and precious things besides. Very few families of our antiquity56 have even survived these centuries. Not one has grown and increased to the point at which we stand. I see a great addition within our reach now.”
“And what good has it all done?” Walter said. “They say that my predecessor57 was a miserable58 man, and I know that I—since this elevation59, as you think it—have been——”
“Good for nothing. I allow it fully60. What were you before? Equally good for nothing; consuming your mother’s means, opposing her wishes, faithful to no one. My friend, a man who sets himself against me must be something different from that.”
To this Walter made no reply. He could not be called penitent61 for the folly of his life; but he was aware of it. And he did not attempt to defend himself. He was entirely silenced for the moment: and the other resumed.
“I have always felt it to be probable that some one capable of resistance might arise in time. In the mean time all that has happened has been gain, and my work has been fully successful. It would rather please me to meet one in the course of the ages who was fit to be my conqueror62, being my son. It is a contingency63 which I have always taken into consideration. But it is not likely to be you,” he said, with a slight laugh. “I shall know my victor when he comes.”
“Why should it not be I? If it be enough to hate this tyrannical influence, this cruel despotism——”
“As you have hated every influence and every rule all your life,” said the other with a smile. “That is not the sort of man that does anything. Do you think it is agreeable to me to be the progenitor64 of a race of nobodies? I compensate65 myself by making them great against their will—the puppets! I allow you to wear my honours out of consideration to the prejudices of society: but they are all mine.”
“It was not you, however, who got them,” said Walter. “Can a grandfather inherit what was given to his descendants?”
“Come,” said the stranger, “you are showing a little spirit—I like that better. Let us talk now of the immediate66 business in hand. You have something in your power which I did not foresee when I talked to you last. Then there were few opportunities of doing anything—nothing in your range that I had observed, but to clear off incumbrances, which, by the way, you refused to do. Now a trifling67 exertion68 on your part——”
“You mean the sacrifice of my life.”
The stranger laughed—this time with a sense of the ludicrous which made his laugh ring through the room with the fullest enjoyment69. “The sacrifice of a life, which has been made happy by —— and by —— and by ——. How many names would you like me to produce? You have perhaps a less opinion of women than I have. Which of them, if they knew all about it, as I do, would pick up that life and unite their own to it? But happily they don’t know. She thinks perhaps—that girl on the isle—that I mean her harm. I mean her no harm—why should I harm her? I harm no one who does not step into my way.”
“Man!” cried Walter—“if you are a man—would you hurt her for succouring me? Would you treat her as you treated——”
“That was an accident,” he said quickly. “I have told you already I would have guarded against it had I divined——But your limited life is the very empire of accident; and those who come across my path must take the consequences. It is their own fault if they put themselves in the way of danger. Let us return to the subject in hand. The woman whom you must marry——”
The words suddenly seemed to close on the air, leaving no sort of echo or thrill in it; and Walter, looking round, saw Symington come in with the scared look he remembered to have seen in the old man’s countenance70 before, though without any sign in him of seeing the stranger. He asked in a hesitating manner, “Did ye ring, my lord? You’ll be wanting your dinner. It is just ready to come up.”
Walter was about to send the old servant hastily away; but a slight sign from his visitor restrained him. He said nothing, but watched, with feelings indescribable, the proceedings71 of the old man, who began to lay the table, moving to and fro, smoothing the damask cloth, folding the napkin, arranging the silver. Symington did everything as usual: but there was a tremor31 in him, unlike his ordinary composure. Sometimes he threw an alarmed and tremulous look round the room, as if something terrifying might lurk72 in any corner; but while doing so brushed past the very person of that strange visitor in the chair without a sign that he knew any one to be there. This mixture of suppressed panic and inconceivable unconsciousness gave Walter a suffocating73 sensation which he could not master. He cried out suddenly, in a loud and sharp tone which was beyond his own control, “Symington! Is it possible you don’t see——”
Symington let the forks and spoons he was holding drop out of his hands. He cried out, quavering, “Lord, have a care of us!” Then he stopped trembling to gather up the things he had dropped, which was a great trouble, so nervous and tremulous was he. He collected them all at the very foot of the man who sat smiling in the great chair.
“You gave me a terrible fright, my lord,” the old man said, raising himself with a broken laugh: “that was what you meant, no doubt. All this water about and damp makes a man nervish. See! what should I see? I am no one of those,” Symington added, with a great attempt at precision and a watery74 smile, “that see visions and that dream dreams.”
“Why should you disturb the man’s mind for nothing,” said the visitor in that penetrating75 voice which Walter felt to go through him, penetrating every sense. He had grown reckless in the strange horror of the circumstances.
“Don’t you hear that?” he cried sharply, catching76 Symington by the arm.
The old man gave a cry, his eyes flickered77 and moved as if they would have leapt from their sockets78. He shook so that Walter’s grasp alone seemed to keep him from falling. But he remained quite unconscious of any special object of alarm.
“Me! I hear naething,” he cried. “There is nothing to hear. You have listened to all those old stories till ye are just out of yourself. But no me,” Symington said with a quavering voice, but a forced smile. “No me! I am not superstitious79. You will no succeed, my lord, in making a fool of me. Let me go. The trout80 is done by this time, and I must bring up my dinner,” he cried with feverish81 impatience, shaking himself free.
Walter turned round half-dazed to say he knew not what to the occupant of that chair. But when he looked towards it there was no one there: nor in the room, nor anywhere near was the slightest trace of his visitor to be found.
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收听单词发音
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1
possessed
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| adj.疯狂的；拥有的，占有的 | |
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tumult
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| n.喧哗；激动，混乱；吵闹 | |
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apprehension
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| n.理解，领悟；逮捕，拘捕；忧虑 | |
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insidious
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| adj.阴险的，隐匿的，暗中为害的，（疾病）不知不觉之间加剧 | |
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folly
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| n.愚笨，愚蠢，蠢事，蠢行，傻话 | |
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surmounted
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| 战胜( surmount的过去式和过去分词 )； 克服（困难）； 居于…之上； 在…顶上 | |
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7
commotion
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| n.骚动，动乱 | |
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bent
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| n.爱好，癖好；adj.弯的；决心的，一心的 | |
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9
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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10
agitation
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| n.搅动；搅拌；鼓动，煽动 | |
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ply
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| v.(搬运工等)等候顾客，弯曲 | |
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oars
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| n.桨，橹( oar的名词复数 )；划手v.划（行）( oar的第三人称单数 ) | |
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13
tyrant
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| n.暴君，专制的君主，残暴的人 | |
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regaining
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| 复得( regain的现在分词 )； 赢回； 重回； 复至某地 | |
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thraldom
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| n.奴隶的身份，奴役，束缚 | |
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gathering
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| n.集会，聚会，聚集 | |
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winding
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| n.绕，缠，绕组，线圈 | |
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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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akin
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| adj.同族的，类似的 | |
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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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glimmered
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| v.发闪光，发微光( glimmer的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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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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pier
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| n.码头；桥墩，桥柱；[建]窗间壁，支柱 | |
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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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twilight
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| n.暮光，黄昏；暮年，晚期，衰落时期 | |
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26
throb
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| v.震颤，颤动；(急速强烈地)跳动，搏动 | |
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subdued
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| adj. 屈服的，柔和的，减弱的 动词subdue的过去式和过去分词 | |
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elude
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| v.躲避，困惑 | |
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armour
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| （=armor）n.盔甲；装甲部队 | |
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tremors
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| 震颤( tremor的名词复数 )； 战栗； 震颤声； 大地的轻微震动 | |
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tremor
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| n.震动，颤动，战栗，兴奋，地震 | |
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agitated
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| adj.被鼓动的，不安的 | |
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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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relaxation
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| n.松弛，放松；休息；消遣；娱乐 | |
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peril
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| n.(严重的)危险；危险的事物 | |
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socket
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| n.窝，穴，孔，插座，插口 | |
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justification
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| n.正当的理由；辩解的理由 | |
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genial
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| adj.亲切的，和蔼的，愉快的，脾气好的 | |
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interval
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| n.间隔，间距；幕间休息，中场休息 | |
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40
consolation
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| n.安慰，慰问 | |
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41
vacancy
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| n.（旅馆的）空位，空房，（职务的）空缺 | |
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42
leisurely
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| adj.悠闲的；从容的，慢慢的 | |
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43
peremptorily
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| adv.紧急地，不容分说地，专横地 | |
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44
impatience
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| n.不耐烦，急躁 | |
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45
dint
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| n.由于，靠；凹坑 | |
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46
embarked
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| 乘船( embark的过去式和过去分词 )； 装载； 从事 | |
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47
entirely
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| ad.全部地，完整地；完全地，彻底地 | |
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48
reluctance
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| n.厌恶，讨厌，勉强，不情愿 | |
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49
torment
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| n.折磨；令人痛苦的东西(人)；vt.折磨；纠缠 | |
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50
afflict
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| vt.使身体或精神受痛苦，折磨 | |
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51
highland
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| n.(pl.)高地，山地 | |
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52
pretension
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| n.要求；自命，自称；自负 | |
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53
scotch
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| n.伤口，刻痕；苏格兰威士忌酒；v.粉碎，消灭，阻止；adj.苏格兰(人)的 | |
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54
tormenting
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| 使痛苦的，使苦恼的 | |
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55
afflicting
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| 痛苦的 | |
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56
antiquity
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| n.古老；高龄；古物，古迹 | |
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57
predecessor
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| n.前辈，前任 | |
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58
miserable
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| adj.悲惨的，痛苦的；可怜的，糟糕的 | |
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59
elevation
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| n.高度；海拔；高地；上升；提高 | |
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60
fully
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| adv.完全地，全部地，彻底地；充分地 | |
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61
penitent
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| adj.后悔的；n.后悔者；忏悔者 | |
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62
conqueror
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| n.征服者，胜利者 | |
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contingency
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| n.意外事件，可能性 | |
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progenitor
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| n.祖先，先驱 | |
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65
compensate
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| vt.补偿，赔偿；酬报 vi.弥补；补偿；抵消 | |
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66
immediate
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| adj.立即的；直接的，最接近的；紧靠的 | |
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67
trifling
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| adj.微不足道的；没什么价值的 | |
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exertion
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| n.尽力，努力 | |
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enjoyment
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| n.乐趣；享有；享用 | |
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70
countenance
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| n.脸色，面容；面部表情；vt.支持，赞同 | |
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proceedings
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| n.进程，过程，议程；诉讼(程序)；公报 | |
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lurk
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| n.潜伏，潜行；v.潜藏，潜伏，埋伏 | |
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suffocating
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| a.使人窒息的 | |
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watery
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| adj.有水的，水汪汪的；湿的，湿润的 | |
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penetrating
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| 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 | |
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catching
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| adj.易传染的，有魅力的，迷人的，接住 | |
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flickered
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| （通常指灯光）闪烁，摇曳( flicker的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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sockets
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| n.套接字，使应用程序能够读写与收发通讯协定(protocol)与资料的程序( Socket的名词复数 )；孔( socket的名词复数 )；（电器上的）插口；托座；凹穴 | |
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superstitious
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| adj.迷信的 | |
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trout
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| n.鳟鱼；鲑鱼(属) | |
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feverish
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| adj.发烧的，狂热的，兴奋的 | |
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