The loch was veiled in mist, through which it glimmered8 faintly with broken reflections, the wooded banks presenting on every side a sort of ghostly outline, with the colour no more than indicated against the dreary10 confusion of air and vapour. At some points there was the glimpse of a blurred11 light, looking larger and more distant than it really was, the ruddy spot made by the open door of the little inn, the whiter and smaller twinkle of the manse window, the far-off point, looking no more than a taper12 light in the distance, that shone from the isle13. There was in Walter’s mind a darkness and confusion not unlike the landscape. He was worn out: there was in him none of that vivid feeling which had separated between his human soul in its despair and the keen sweetness of the morning. Now all was night within him and around. His arms had fallen from his hands. He moved along, scarcely aware that he was moving, feeling everything blurred, confused, indistinct in the earth about him and in the secret places of his soul. Desire for flight he had none: he had come to see that it was impossible: and he had not energy enough to wish it. And fear had died out of him. He was not afraid. Had he been joined on the darkling way by the personage of whom he had of late seen so much, it would scarcely have quickened his pulses. All such superficial emotion had died out of him: the real question was so much superior, so infinitely14 important in comparison with any such transitory tremors16 as these. But at the present moment he was not thinking at all, scarcely living, any more than the world around him was living, hushed into a cessation of all energy and almost of consciousness, looking forward to night and darkness and repose17.
It was somewhat surprising to him to see the lighted windows at Auchnasheen, and the air of inhabitation about the house with which he had no agreeable associations, but only those which are apt to hang about a place in which one has gone through a fever, full of miserable18 visions, and the burning restlessness of disease. But when he stepped into the hall, the door being opened to him by Symington as soon as his foot was heard on the gravel19, and turning round to go into the library found himself suddenly in the presence of Captain Underwood, his astonishment20 and dismay were beyond expression. The dismay came even before the flush of anger, which was the first emotion that showed itself. Underwood stood holding open the library door, with a smile that was meant to be ingratiating and conciliatory. He held out his hand, as Walter, with a start and exclamation21, recognised him.
“Yes,” he said, “I’m here, you see. Not so easy to get rid of when once I form a friendship. Welcome to your own house, Erradeen.”
Walter did not say anything till he had entered the room and shut the door. He walked to the fire, which was blazing brightly, and placed himself with his back to it, in that attitude in which the master of a house defies all comers.
“I did not expect to find you here,” he said. “You take me entirely22 by surprise.”
“I had hoped it would be an agreeable surprise,” said the captain, still with his most amiable23 smile. “I thought to have a friend’s face waiting for you when you came back from that confounded place would be a relief.”
“What do you call a confounded place?” said Walter, testily24. “You know nothing about it, as far as I am aware. No, Underwood, it is as well to speak plainly. It is not an agreeable surprise. I am sorry you have taken the trouble to come so far for me.”
“It was no trouble. If you are a little out of sorts, never mind. I am not a man to be discouraged for a hasty word. You want a little cheerful society——”
“Is that what you call yourself?” Walter said with a harsh laugh. He was aware that there was a certain brutality25 in what he said; but the sudden sight of the man who had disgusted him even while he had most influenced him, and of whom he had never thought but with a movement of resentment26 and secret rage, affected27 him to a sort of delirium28. He could have seized him with the force of passion and flung him into the loch at the door. It would have been no crime, he thought, to destroy such vermin off the face of the earth—to make an end of such a source of evil would be no crime. This was the thought in his mind while he stood upon his own hearth29, looking at the man who was his guest and therefore sacred. As for Captain Underwood, he took no offence; it was not in his r?le to do so, whatever happened. What he had to do was to regain30, if possible, his position with the young man upon whom he had lived and enriched himself for the greater part of the year, to render himself indispensable to him as he had done to his predecessor31. For this object he was prepared to bear everything, and laugh at all that was too strong to be ignored. He laughed now, and did his best, not very gracefully32, to carry out the joke. He exerted himself to talk and please throughout the dinner, which Walter went through in silence, drinking largely, though scarcely eating at all—for Kinloch Houran was not a place which encouraged an appetite. After dinner, in the midst of one of Underwood’s stories, Walter lighted a candle abruptly33, and saying he was going to bed, left his companion without apology or reason given. It was impossible to be more rude. The captain felt the check, for he had a considerable development of vanity, and was in the habit of amusing the people to whom he chose to make himself agreeable. But this affront34, too, he swallowed. “He will have come to himself by morning,” he said. In the morning, however, Walter was only more gloomy and unwilling to listen, and determined35 not to respond. It was only when in the middle of the breakfast he received a note brought by a mounted messenger who waited for an answer, that he spoke36. He flung it open across the table to Underwood with a harsh laugh.
“Is this your doing, too?” he cried.
“My doing, Erradeen!”
Underwood knew very well what it was before he looked at it. It was from Lady Herbert, explaining that she had only just heard that Lord Erradeen was so near a neighbour, and begging him, if he was not, like all the other gentlemen, on the hills, that he would come (“and your friend Captain Underwood”) to luncheon37 that day to cheer two forlorn ladies left all by themselves in this wilderness38. “And you will meet an old friend,” it concluded playfully. The composition was Julia’s, and had not been produced without careful study.
“My doing!” said Captain Underwood. “Can you suppose that I want you to marry, Erradeen?”
It was a case, he thought, in which truth was best.
Walter started up from his seat.
“Marry!” he cried, with a half-shout of rage and dismay.
“Well, my dear fellow, I don’t suppose you are such a fool; but, of course, that is what she means. The fair Julia——”
“Oblige me,” cried Lord Erradeen, taking up once more his position on the hearth, “by speaking civilly when you speak of ladies in my house.”
“Why, bless me, Erradeen, you gave me the note——”
“I was a fool—that is nothing new. I have been a fool since the first day when I met you and took you for something more than mortal. Oh, and before that!” cried Walter bitterly. “Do not flatter yourself that you did it. It is of older date than you.”
“The fair Julia——” Underwood began; but he stopped when his companion advanced upon him threatening, with so gloomy a look and so tightly strained an arm that the captain judged it wise to change his tone. “I should have said, since we are on punctilio, that Miss Herbert and you are older acquaintances than you and I, Erradeen.”
“Fortunately you have nothing to do with that,” Walter said, perceiving the absurdity39 of his rage.
Then he walked to the window and looked out so long and silently that the anxious watcher began to think the incident over. But it was not till Walter, after this period of reflection, had written a note and sent it to the messenger, that he ventured to speak.
“You have accepted, of course. In the circumstances it would be uncivil——”
Walter looked at him for a moment, breaking off his sentence as if he had spoken.
“I have something to tell you,” he said. “My mother is coming to Auchnasheen.”
“Your mother!” Underwood’s voice ran into a quaver of dismay.
“You will see that in the circumstances, as you say, I am forced to be uncivil. When my mother is here she will, of course, be the mistress of the house; and she, as you know——”
“Will not ask me to prolong my visit,” said the captain, with an attempt at rueful humour. “I think we may say as much as that, Erradeen.”
“I fear it is not likely,” Walter said.
Captain Underwood gave vent40 to his feelings in a prolonged whistle.
“You will be bored to death. Mark my words, I know you well enough. You will never be able to put up with it. You will be ready to hang yourself in a week. You will come off to me. It is the best thing that could happen so far as I am concerned—wishing to preserve your friendship as I do——”
“Is it friendship, then, that has bound us together?” said Lord Erradeen.
“What else? Disinterested41 friendship on my part. I take your laugh rather ill, Erradeen. What have I gained by it, I should like to know? I’ve liked you, and I liked the last man before you. I have put up with a great deal from you—tempers like a silly woman, vagaries42 of all sorts, discontent and abuse. Why have I put up with all that?”
“Why indeed? I wish you had not,” said the young man scornfully. “Yes, you have put up with it, and made your pupil think the worse of you with every fresh exercise of patience. I should like to pay you for all that dirty work.”
“Pay me!” the captain said, faltering43 a little. He was not a very brave man, though he could hold his own; and there was a force of passion and youth in his “pupil”—with what bitterness that word was said!—that alarmed him a little. Besides, Walter had a household of servants behind him—grooms, keepers, all sorts of people—who held Captain Underwood in no favour. “Pay me! I don’t know how you could pay me,” he said.
“I should like to do it—in one way; and I shall do it—in another,” said Walter still somewhat fiercely. Then once more he laughed. He took out a pocket-book from his coat, and out of that a cheque. “You have been at some expense on my account,” he said; “your journey has been long and rapid. I consider myself your debtor44 for that, and for the—good intention. Will this be enough?”
In the bitter force of his ridicule45 and dislike, Walter held out the piece of paper as one holds a sweetmeat to a child. The other gave a succession of rapid glances at it to make out what it was. When he succeeded in doing so a flush of excitement and eagerness covered his face. He put out his hand nervously46 to clutch it with the excited look of the child before whom a prize is held out, and who catches at it before it is snatched away. But he would not acknowledge this feeling.
“My lord,” he said, with an appearance of dignity offended, “you are generous; but to pay me, as you say, and offer money in place of your friendship——”
“It is an excellent exchange, Underwood. This is worth something, if not very much—the other,” said Walter with a laugh, “nothing at all.”
Perhaps this was something like what Captain Underwood himself thought, as he found himself, a few hours later, driving along the country roads towards the railway station, retracing47 the path which he had travelled two days before with many hopes and yet a tremor15. His hopes were now over, and the tremor too; but there was something in his breast pocket better, for the moment at least, than any hopes, which kept him warm, even though the wind was cold. He had failed in his attempt to fix himself once more permanently48 on Lord Erradeen’s shoulders—an attempt in which he had not been very sanguine49. It was a desperate venture, he knew, and it had failed; but, at the same time, circumstances might arise which would justify50 another attempt, and that one might not fail: and, in the mean time, his heart rose with a certain elation51 when he thought of that signature in his breast pocket. That was worth an effort, and nothing could diminish its value. Friendship might fail, but a cheque is substantial. He had something of the dizzy feeling of one who has fallen from a great height, and has not yet got the giddiness of the movement out of his head. And yet he was not altogether discouraged. Who could tell what turn the wheel of fortune might take? and, in the mean time, there was that bit of paper. The horse was fresh, and flew along the road, up and down, at a pace very different from that of Big John’s steeds, which had brought Captain Underwood to Auchnasheen. About half-way along he came up to the waggonette from Birkenbraes, in which was Mr. Braithwaite and his luggage, along with two other guests, ladies, bound for the station, and escorted by Mr. Williamson and Katie, as was their way.
“Dear me, is that Underwood?” cried Mr. Williamson with the lively and simple curiosity of rural use and wont52. “So you’re there, captain,” he said, as the dog-cart came up behind the heavier carriage.
“No, I’m not here—I’m going,” said Underwood, quickly, “hurrying to catch the train.”
“Oh, there is plenty of time; we are going too (Bless me,” he said aside, “how many visitors think you they can have had in yon old place?) I am thinking ye have been with our young neighbour, Lord Erradeen.”
“That is an easy guess. I am leaving him, you mean. Erradeen is a reformed character. He is turning over a new leaf—and full time too,” Captain Underwood cried, raising his voice that he might be heard over the rattle53 of the two carriages. Notwithstanding the cheque which kept him so warm, he had various grudges54 against Walter, and did not choose to lose the opportunity for a little mischief55.
“It is always a good thing,” said Mr. Williamson, “to turn over a new leaf. We have all great occasion to do that.”
“Especially when there are so many of them,” the captain cried, as his light cart passed the other. He met the party again at the station, where they had to wait for the train. Katie stood by herself in a thoughtful mood while the departing guests consulted over their several boxes, and Captain Underwood seized the moment: “I am sorry to lose the fun,” he said, in a confidential56 tone, “but I must tell you, Miss Williamson, what is going to happen. Erradeen has been pursued up here into his stronghold by one of the many ladies——I expect to hear she has clutched hold of him before long, and then you’ll have a wedding.”
“Is that why you are going away, Captain Underwood?”
“He has gone a little too far, you know, that is the truth,” said the captain. “I am glad he is not going to take in any nice girl. I couldn’t have stood by and seen that. I should have had to warn her people. Even Miss Julia, by Jove! I’m sorry for Miss Julia, if she gets him. But she is an old campaigner; she will know how to take care of herself.”
“Is it because Lord Erradeen is so bad that you are leaving him, or because he is going to be good?” Katie asked. Captain Underwood on ordinary occasions was a little afraid of her; but his virtuous57 object fortified58 him now.
“Oh, by Jove! he goes too far,” said Underwood. “I am not squeamish, heaven knows, but he goes too far. I can speak now that it’s all over between him and me. I never could bear to see him with nice girls; but he’s got his match in Miss Julia. The fair Julia—that is another pair of shoes.”
“Who was he meaning with his fair Julias?” said Mr. Williamson as they drove away. “Yon’s a scoundrel, if there ever was one, and young Erradeen is well rid of him. But when thieves cast out, honest folk get their ain. Would yon be true?”
Katie was in what her father called “a brown study,” and did not care to talk. She only shook her head—a gesture which could be interpreted as any one pleased.
“I am not sure,” said Mr. Williamson, in reply. “He knows more about Lord Erradeen than any person on the loch. But who is the fair Julia, and is he really to be married to her? I would like fine to hear all about it. I will call at Auchnasheen in the afternoon and see what he has to say.”
But Katie remained in her brown study, letting her father talk. She knew very well who the fair Julia was. She remembered distinctly the scene at Burlington House. She saw with the clearest perception what the tactics were of the ladies at the Lodge59. Katie had been somewhat excited by the prospect60 of being Oona’s rival, which was like something in a book. It was like the universal story of the young man’s choice, not between Venus and Minerva, or between good and evil, but perhaps, Katie thought, between poetry and prose, between the ideal and the practical. She was interested in that conflict and not unwilling in all kindness and honour to play her part in it. Oona would be the ideal bride for him, but she herself, Katie felt, would be better in a great many ways, and she did not feel that she would have any objection to marry Lord Erradeen. But here was another rival with whom she did not choose to enter the lists. It is to be feared that Katie in her heart classified Miss Herbert as Vice61, as the sinner against whom every man is to be warned, and turned with some scorn from any comparison with her meretricious62 attractions. But she was fair and just, and her heart had nothing particular to do with the matter; so that she was able calmly to wait for information, which was not Oona’s case.
It had been entirely at random63 that Lord Erradeen had announced his mother’s approaching arrival to Underwood. The idea had come into his mind the moment before he made use of it, and he had felt a certain amusement in the complete success of this hastily-assumed weapon. It had been so effectual that he began to think it might be available in other conflicts as well as this: and in any case he felt himself pledged to make it a matter of fact. He walked to the village when Underwood had gone, to carry at once his intention into effect. Though it was only a cluster of some half-dozen houses, it had a telegraph-office—as is so general in the Highlands—and Walter sent a brief, emphatic64 message, which he felt would carry wild excitement into Sloebury. “You will do me a great favour if you will come at once, alone,” was Walter’s message. He was himself slightly excited by it. He began to think over all those primitive65 relationships of his youth as he walked along the quiet road. There was sweetness in them, but how much conflict, trouble, embarrassment66!—claims on one side to which the other could not respond—a sort of authority, which was no authority—a duty which did nothing but establish grievances67 and mutual68 reproach. His mind was still in the state of exhaustion69 which Captain Underwood had only temporarily disturbed; and a certain softening70 was in the weakened faculties71, which were worn out with too much conflict. Poor mother, after all! He could remember, looking back, when it was his greatest pleasure to go home to her, to talk to her, pouring every sort of revelation into her never-wearied ears; all his school successes and tribulations72, all about the other fellows, the injustices73 that were done, the triumphs that were gained. Could women interest themselves in all that as she had seemed to interest herself? or had she sometimes found it a bore to have all these schoolboy experiences poured forth74 upon her? Miss Merivale had very plainly thought it a bore; his voice had given her a headache. But Mrs. Methven never had any headaches, or anything that could cloud her attention. He remembered now that his mother was not a mere9 nursery woman—that she read a great deal more than he himself did, knew many things he did not know, was not silly, or a fool, or narrow-minded, as so many women are. Was it not a little hard, after all, that she should have nothing of her son but the schoolboy prattle75? She had been everything to him when he was a boy, and now she was nothing to him; perhaps all the time she might have been looking forward to the period when he should be a man, and have something more interesting to talk over with her than a cricket-match—for, to be sure, when one came to think of it, she could have no personal interest in a cricket-match. A momentary76 serrement of compunction came to Walter’s heart. Poor mother! he said to himself; perhaps it was a little hard upon her. And she must have the feeling, to make it worse, that she had a right to something better. He could not even now get his mind clear about that right.
As he returned from the telegraph-office he too met the waggonette from Birkenbraes, which was stopped at sight of him with much energy on the part of Mr. Williamson.
“We’ve just met your friend Captain Underwood. If you’ll not take it amiss, Lord Erradeen, I will say that I’m very glad you’re not keeping a man like that about you. But what is this about—a lady? I hear there’s a lady—the fair——What did he call her, Katie? I am not good at remembering names.”
“It is of no consequence,” said Katie, with a little rising colour, “what such a man said.”
“That’s true, that’s true,” said her father; “but still, Erradeen, you must mind we are old friends now, and let us know what’s coming. The fair——Toots, I thought of it a minute ago? It’s ridiculous to forget names.”
“You may be sure I shall let you know what’s coming. My mother is coming,” Walter said.
And this piece of news was so unexpected and startling that the Williamsons drove off with energy to spread it far and near. Mr. Williamson himself was as much excited as if it had been of personal importance to him.
“Now that will settle the young man,” he said; “that will put many things right. There has not been a lady at Auchnasheen since ever I have been here. A mother is the next best thing to a wife, and very likely the one is in preparation for the other, and ye will all have to put on your prettiest frocks for her approval.” He followed this with one of his big laughs, looking round upon a circle in which there were various young persons who were very marriageable. “But I put no faith in Underwood’s fair—what was it he called her?” Mr. Williamson said.
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1
twilight
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| n.暮光，黄昏；暮年，晚期，衰落时期 | |
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frantic
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| adj.狂乱的，错乱的，激昂的 | |
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unbearable
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| adj.不能容忍的；忍受不住的 | |
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unwilling
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| adj.不情愿的 | |
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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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6
monstrous
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| adj.巨大的；恐怖的；可耻的，丢脸的 | |
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exhausted
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| adj.极其疲惫的，精疲力尽的 | |
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8
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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mere
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| adj.纯粹的；仅仅，只不过 | |
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dreary
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| adj.令人沮丧的，沉闷的，单调乏味的 | |
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blurred
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| v.（使）变模糊( blur的过去式和过去分词 )；（使）难以区分；模模糊糊；迷离 | |
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taper
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| n.小蜡烛，尖细，渐弱；adj.尖细的；v.逐渐变小 | |
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isle
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| n.小岛，岛 | |
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infinitely
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| adv.无限地，无穷地 | |
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tremor
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| n.震动，颤动，战栗，兴奋，地震 | |
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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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repose
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| v.(使)休息；n.安息 | |
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miserable
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| adj.悲惨的，痛苦的；可怜的，糟糕的 | |
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gravel
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| n.砂跞；砂砾层；结石 | |
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astonishment
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| n.惊奇，惊异 | |
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exclamation
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| n.感叹号，惊呼，惊叹词 | |
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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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amiable
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| adj.和蔼可亲的，友善的，亲切的 | |
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testily
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| adv. 易怒地, 暴躁地 | |
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brutality
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| n.野蛮的行为，残忍，野蛮 | |
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resentment
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| n.怨愤，忿恨 | |
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affected
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| adj.不自然的，假装的 | |
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delirium
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| n. 神智昏迷,说胡话;极度兴奋 | |
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hearth
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| n.壁炉炉床，壁炉地面 | |
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regain
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| vt.重新获得，收复，恢复 | |
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predecessor
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| n.前辈，前任 | |
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gracefully
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| ad.大大方方地；优美地 | |
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abruptly
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| adv.突然地，出其不意地 | |
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affront
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| n./v.侮辱，触怒 | |
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determined
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| adj.坚定的；有决心的 | |
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spoke
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| n.（车轮的）辐条；轮辐；破坏某人的计划；阻挠某人的行动 v.讲，谈（speak的过去式）；说；演说；从某种观点来说 | |
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luncheon
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| n.午宴，午餐，便宴 | |
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wilderness
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| n.杳无人烟的一片陆地、水等，荒漠 | |
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absurdity
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| n.荒谬，愚蠢；谬论 | |
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vent
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| n.通风口，排放口；开衩；vt.表达，发泄 | |
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41
disinterested
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| adj.不关心的，不感兴趣的 | |
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42
vagaries
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| n.奇想( vagary的名词复数 )；异想天开；异常行为；难以预测的情况 | |
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43
faltering
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| 犹豫的，支吾的，蹒跚的 | |
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44
debtor
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| n.借方，债务人 | |
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ridicule
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| v.讥讽，挖苦；n.嘲弄 | |
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nervously
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| adv.神情激动地，不安地 | |
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retracing
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| v.折回( retrace的现在分词 )；回忆；回顾；追溯 | |
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permanently
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| adv.永恒地，永久地，固定不变地 | |
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sanguine
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| adj.充满希望的，乐观的，血红色的 | |
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justify
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| vt.证明…正当(或有理)，为…辩护 | |
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elation
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| n.兴高采烈，洋洋得意 | |
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wont
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| adj.习惯于；v.习惯；n.习惯 | |
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rattle
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| v.飞奔，碰响；激怒；n.碰撞声；拨浪鼓 | |
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grudges
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| 不满，怨恨，妒忌( grudge的名词复数 ) | |
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mischief
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| n.损害，伤害，危害；恶作剧，捣蛋，胡闹 | |
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confidential
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| adj.秘（机）密的，表示信任的，担任机密工作的 | |
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virtuous
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| adj.有品德的，善良的，贞洁的，有效力的 | |
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fortified
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| adj. 加强的 | |
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lodge
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| v.临时住宿，寄宿，寄存，容纳；n.传达室，小旅馆 | |
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prospect
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| n.前景，前途；景色，视野 | |
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vice
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| n.坏事；恶习；[pl.]台钳，老虎钳；adj.副的 | |
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meretricious
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| adj.华而不实的，俗艳的 | |
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random
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| adj.随机的；任意的；n.偶然的(或随便的)行动 | |
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emphatic
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| adj.强调的，着重的；无可置疑的，明显的 | |
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primitive
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| adj.原始的；简单的；n.原(始)人，原始事物 | |
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embarrassment
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| n.尴尬；使人为难的人(事物)；障碍；窘迫 | |
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grievances
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| n.委屈( grievance的名词复数 )；苦衷；不满；牢骚 | |
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mutual
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| adj.相互的，彼此的；共同的，共有的 | |
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exhaustion
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| n.耗尽枯竭，疲惫，筋疲力尽，竭尽，详尽无遗的论述 | |
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softening
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| 变软，软化 | |
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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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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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injustices
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| 不公平( injustice的名词复数 )； 非正义； 待…不公正； 冤枉 | |
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forth
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| adv.向前；向外，往外 | |
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prattle
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| n.闲谈；v.（小孩般）天真无邪地说话；发出连续而无意义的声音 | |
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momentary
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| adj.片刻的，瞬息的；短暂的 | |
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