And Walter was himself at so high a strain of excitement that the agitation3 of her surprise seemed natural to him. It scarcely seemed possible that everybody around, and specially4 that she, did not know the crisis at which he stood. He took the hand which she instinctively5 put forward, into both his, and held fast by it as if it had been an anchor of salvation6.
“I am a fugitive,” he said. “Will you receive me, will you take me with you? Have pity upon me, for you are my last hope.”
“Lord Erradeen—has anything—happened? What—have you done?”
She trembled, standing7 by him, gazing in his face, not withdrawing her hand, yet not giving it, lost in wonder; yet having come to feel that something he had done, some guilt8 of his, must be the cause.
“I have done—I will tell you everything. I wish to tell you everything: let me come with you, Oona.”
All this time Hamish, standing behind Walter, was making signs to his young mistress, which seemed to no purpose but to increase her perplexity. Hamish shook his shaggy head, and his eyebrows9 worked up and down. He gesticulated with his arm pointing along the loch. Finally he stepped forward with a sort of desperation.
“I’m saying, Miss Oona, that we’re in no hurry. There will always be somebody about that would be glad, real glad, of a visit from you. And as his lordship is a wee disturbed in his mind, and keen to get home, I could just put him up to Auchnasheen—it would take me very little time—and syne10 come back for you.”
Oona stood startled, undecided between the two—alarmed a little by Walter’s looks, and much by the significance of the gestures of Hamish, and his eagerness and anxiety.
“I will no be keeping you waiting long at all—oh, not at all. And my lord will be best at home, being a wee disturbed in his mind—and we’re in no hurry—no hurry,” Hamish insisted, doing his best to place himself between the two.
“Hamish thinks I am mad,” said Walter. “I do not wonder. But I am not mad. I want neither home nor anything else—but you. It is come to that—that nobody can help me but you. First one tries expedients,” he cried, “anything to tide over; but at last one comes—one comes to the only true—”
“You are speaking very wildly,” said Oona. “I don’t know what you mean, Lord Erradeen; and Hamish is afraid of you. What is it? We are only simple people—we do not understand.”
He dropped her hand which he had held all the time, half, yet only half against her will, for there was something in the way he held it which forbade all idea of levity11. She looked at him very wistfully, anxious, not with any offence, endeavouring to put away all prepossession out of her mind—the prejudice in his favour which moved her heart in spite of herself—the prejudice against him, and indignant wonder whether all was true that she had heard, which had arisen from Julia’s words. Her eyelids12 had formed into anxious curves of uncertainty13, out of which her soul looked wistfully, unable to refuse help, perplexed14, not knowing what to do.
“If you refuse to hear me,” he said, “I have no other help to turn to. I know I have no right to use such an argument, and yet if you knew—I will urge no more. It is death or life—but it is in your hands.”
Oona’s eyes searched into his very soul.
“What can I do?” she said, wondering. “What power have I? How can I tell if it is—true—” she faltered15, and begged his pardon hastily when she had said that word. “I mean—I do not mean—” she said confusedly. “But oh, what can I do? it is not possible that I——”
It is cruel to have the burden put upon you of another’s fate. Sometimes that is done to a woman lightly in the moment of disappointment by a mortified16 lover. Was this the sort of threat he meant, or was it perhaps—true? Oona, who had no guile17, was shaken to the very soul by that doubt. Better to risk an affront18 in her own person than perhaps to fail of an occasion in which sincere help was wanted and could be given. She had not taken her eyes from him, but searched his face with a profound uncertainty and eagerness. At last, with the sigh of relief which accompanies a decision, she said to Hamish,
“Push off the boat. Lord Erradeen will help me in,” with something peremptory19 in her tone against which her faithful servant could make no further protest.
Hamish proceeded accordingly to push off the boat into the water, and presently they were afloat, steering20 out for the centre of the loch. They were at some distance from the isle21 on the other side of the low, green island with its little fringe of trees, so different from the rocky and crested22 isles23 about, which is known on Loch Houran as the Isle of Rest. The low wall round about the scattered24 tombs, the scanty25 ruins of its little chapel26, were all that broke the soft greenness of those low slopes. There was nothing like it all around in its solemn vacancy27 and stillness, and nothing could be more unlike that chill and pathetic calm than the freight of life which approached it in Oona’s boat: she herself full of tremulous visionary excitement—the young man in his passion and desperation; even the watchful28 attendant, who never took his eyes from Lord Erradeen, and rowed on with all his senses on the alert, ready to throw himself upon the supposed maniac29 at a moment’s notice, or without it did the occasion require. There was a pause till they found themselves separated by a widening interval30 of water from the shore, where at any moment a chance passenger might have disturbed their interview. Here no one could disturb them. Walter placed himself in front of Hamish facing Oona: but perhaps the very attitude, the freedom and isolation31 in which he found himself with her, closed his lips. For a minute he sat gazing at her, and did not speak.
“You wished—to say something to me, Lord Erradeen?”
It was she again, as Katie had done before, who recalled to him his purpose—with a delicate flush colouring the paleness of her face, half in shame that after all she had to interfere32 to bring the confession33 forth34.
“So much,” he said, “so much that I scarcely know where to begin.” And then he added, “I feel safe with you near me. Do you know what it means to feel safe? But you never were in deadly danger. How could you be?”
“Lord Erradeen, do not mystify me with these strange sayings,” she cried. “Do they mean anything? What has happened to you? or is it only—is it nothing but——”
“A pretence35, do you think, to get myself a hearing—to beguile36 you into a little interest? That might have been. But it is more serious, far more serious. I told you it was life or death.” He paused for a moment and then resumed. “Do you remember last year when you saved me?”
“I remember—last year,” she said with an unsteady voice, feeling the flush grow hotter and hotter on her cheek, for she did not desire to be reminded of that self-surrender, that strange merging37 of her being in another’s which was her secret, of which she had been aware, but no one else. “I never understood it,” she added, with one meaning for herself and one for him. The hidden sense was to her more important than the other. “It has always been—a mystery——”
“It was the beginning of the struggle,” he said. “I came here, you know—don’t you know?—out of poverty to take possession of my kingdom—that was what I thought. I found myself instead at the beginning of a dreary38 battle. I was not fit for it, to begin with. Do you remember the old knights39 had to prepare themselves for their chivalry40 with fasting, and watching of arms, and all that—folly——” A gleam of self-derision went over his face, and yet it was deadly serious underneath41.
“It was no folly,” she said.
“Oh, do you think I don’t know that? The devil laughs in me, now and then, but I don’t mean it. Oona—let me call you Oona, now, if never again—I had neither watched nor prayed——”
He made a pause, looking at her pitifully; and she, drawn42, she knew not how, answered, with tears in her eyes, “I have heard that you—had strayed——”
“That means accidentally, innocently,” he said. “It was not so. I had thought only of myself: when I was caught in the grip of a will stronger than mine, unprepared. There was set before me—no, not good and evil as in the books, but subjection to one—who cared neither for good nor evil. I was bidden to give up my own will, I who had cared for nothing else: to give up even such good as was in me. I was not cruel. I cared nothing about worldly advantages; but these were henceforward to be the rule of my life—pleasant, was it not?” he said with a laugh, “to a man who expected to be the master—of everything round.”
At the sound of his laugh, which was harsh and wild, Hamish, raising himself so as to catch the eye of his mistress, gave her a questioning, anxious look. Oona was very pale, but she made an impatient gesture with her hand to her humble43 guardian44. She was not herself at ease; an agonizing45 doubt lest Walter’s mind should have given way had taken possession of her. She answered him as calmly as she could, but with a tremor46 in her voice, “Who could ask that, Lord Erradeen? Oh no, no—you have been deceived.”
“You ask me who! you who gave me your hand—your hand that was like snow—that had never done but kindness all your life—and saved me—so that I defied him. And you ask me who?”
He put out his hand as he spoke47 and touched hers as it lay in her lap. His face was full of emotion, working and quivering. “Give it to me, Oona!—will you give it to me? I am not worthy48 that you should touch me. It has been said to me that you would turn from me—ah, with disgust!—if you knew. And I want you to know everything. For you gave it then without pausing to think. Oona! I am going to tell you everything. Give it to me,” he said, holding out his hands one over the other to receive and clasp hers, his eyes moist, his lips appealing with a quivering smile of entreaty49. And how may it be told what was in Oona’s heart? Her whole being was moved through and through with tenderness, wonder, pity. Her hand seemed to move of itself towards him. The impulse was upon her almost too strong to be resisted, to throw her arms around him, like a mother with a child—to identify herself with him whatever might follow. The womanly instinct that held her back—that kept all these impulses in check and restrained the heart that seemed leaping out of her bosom50 towards this man whom she loved in spite of herself, and who had need of her, most sacred of all claims—was like a frame of iron round her, against which she struggled, but from which she could not get free. Tears filled her eyes—she clasped her hands together in an involuntary appeal. “What can I do? What can I do?” she cried.
“You shall hear all,” said he. “I have tried everything before coming back to that which I always knew was my only hope. I fled away after that night. Do you remember?” (She almost smiled at this, for she remembered far better than he, and the wonder and despair of it, and his boat going away over the silent loch, and his face eager to be gone, and she indignant, astonished, feeling that her life went with him; but of all this he knew nothing.) “I fled—thinking I could escape and forget. There seemed no better way. There was no one to help me, only to mar51 and waste—what was all wasted and spoilt already. I want to tell you everything,” he said faltering52, drooping53 his head, withdrawing his eyes from her, “but I have not the courage—you would not understand me. Nothing that you could imagine could reach to a hundredth part of the evil I have known.” He covered his face with his hands. The bitterness of the confession he dared not make seemed to stifle54 his voice and every hope.
And Oona’s heart quivered and beat against the strong bondage55 that held it in, and her hands fluttered with longing56 to clasp him and console him. What woman can bear to hear out such a confession, not to interrupt it with pardon, with absolution, with cries to bring forth the fairest robe? She touched his head with her hands for a moment, a trembling touch upon his hair, and said, “God forgive you. God will forgive you,” with a voice almost choked with tears.
He raised his head and looked at her with an eager cry. “I want—not forgiveness. I want life,” he cried, “life, new life. I want to be born again. Is not that in the Bible? To be born again, to begin again from the beginning, everything new. Help me, Oona! I am not thinking of the past. It is now I am thinking of. I am not thinking of forgiveness—punishment if you please, anything!—but a new life. He knew man who said that,” Walter cried, raising his head. “What use is it to me to forgive me? I want to be born again.”
When he thus delivered himself of his exceeding bitter cry, this woman too, like his mother, answered him with a shining face, with eyes swimming in tears, and brilliant with celestial57 certainty. She put out her hands to him without a moment’s hesitation58, and grasped his and smiled.
“Oh, that is all provided for!” she said. “Yes, He knew! It is all ready for you—waiting—waiting. Don’t you know our Lord stands at the door and knocks, till you are ready to let Him in? And now you are ready. There is nothing more.”
He received the soft hands within his with feelings indescribable, at such a height of emotion that all the lesser59 shades and degrees were lost. He twined her fingers among his own, clasping them with an entire appropriation60.
“Oona,” he said, “the house is yours, and all in it. Open the door to your Lord, whom I am not worthy to come near—and to everything that is good. It is yours to do it. Open the door!”
They had forgotten Hamish who sat behind, pulling his long, even strokes, with his anxious shaggy countenance61 fixed62 like that of a faithful dog upon his mistress, whom he had to guard. He saw the two heads draw very close together, and the murmur63 of the voices.
“What will she be saying to him? She will be winning him out of yon transport. She will be puttin’ peace in his hairt. She has a voice that would wile64 the bird from the tree,” said Hamish to himself. “But oh hon!—my bonnie Miss Oona,” Hamish cried aloud.
This disturbed them and made them conscious of the spectator, who was there with them, separate from all the world. Oona, with a woman’s readiness to throw her veil over and hide from the eye of day all that is too sacred for the vulgar gaze, raised her face, still quivering with tender and holy passion.
“Why do you say ‘oh hon?’ There is nothing to say ‘oh hon’ for, Hamish. No, no; but the other way.”
Hamish looked across the young lord, whose head was bowed down still over Oona’s hands, which he held. The boatman gave him a glance in which there was doubt and trouble, and then raised his shaggy eyebrows, and addressed a look of entreaty and warning to the fair inspired face that hovered65 over Walter like a protecting angel. “Ye will not be doing the like of that,” he said, “without thought?”
And all the time the boat swept on over the reflections in the water, by the low shore of the Isle of Rest where death had easy landing, away among the feathery islets, all tufted brown and crimson66 to the water’s edge, where nothing but the wild life of the woods could find footing:—nothing near them but the one anxious, humble retainer, watching over Oona, for whom no one in heaven or earth, save himself, entertained any fear. He quickened those long strokes in the excitement of his soul, but neither did Walter take any account of where he was going, nor Oona awake out of the excitement of the moment to think of the descent into common life which was so near. Hamish only, having the entire conduct of them, hastened their progress back to ordinary existence—if perhaps there might be some aid of reason and common judgment67 (as he said to himself) there, to see that the man was in his right senses before Oona should be bound for life.
There was no excitement about the isle. It lay as calm in the sunshine as if nothing but peace had ever passed by that piece of solid earth, with its rocks and trees, that little human world amid the waters; every jagged edge of rock, every red-tinted tree against the background of tall firs, and the firs themselves in their dark motionless green, all shining inverted68 in the liquid clearness around. The two were still afloat, though their feet were on solid ground; and still apart from all the world, though the winding69 way led direct to the little centre of common life in which Oona was all in all. But they did not immediately ascend70 to that gentle height. They paused first on the little platform, from which Kinloch Houran was the chief object. One of those flying shadows that make the poetry of the hills was over it for a moment, arrested as by some consciousness of nature, while they stood and gazed. There Walter stood and told to Oona the story of Miss Milnathort, and how she had said that two, set upon all good things, would hold the secret in their hands. Two—and here were the two. It seemed to him that every cloud had fled from his soul from the moment when he felt her hands in his, and had bidden her “open the door.” Oh, fling wide the door to the Christ who waits outside, the Anointed, the Deliverer of men: to peace and truth, that wait upon Him, and mercy and kindness, and love supreme71 that saves the world! Fling wide the doors! Not a bolt or bar but that soft hand shall unloose them, throw them wide, that the Lord may come in. Not a crevice72, or corner, or dark hiding-place of evil but shall open to the light. He said so standing there, holding her hand still, not only as a lover caressing73, protecting, holds the soft hand he loves, but as a man drowning will hold by the hand held out to save him. It was both to Walter. He told her, and it was true, that from the day when she had put it into his a year ago, he had never lost the consciousness that in this hand was his hope.
Oona was penetrated74 by all these words to the depths of her heart. What girl could be told that in her hands was the saving of one she loved, without such a movement of the soul to the highest heroism75 and devotion as raises human nature above itself? Her soul seemed to soar, drawing his with it, into heights above. She felt capable of everything—of the highest effort and the humblest service. That union of the spiritual being above his, and the human longing beneath, came back to her in all the joy of a permitted and befitting mood. She was his to raise him above all those soils of life of which he was sick and weary; and his to sweep away the thorns and briars out of his path; to lead him and to serve him, to mingle76 her being in his life so that no one henceforward should think of Oona save as his second and helpmeet: yet so to guide his uncertain way as that it should henceforward follow the track of light by which the best of all ages has gone. Even to understand that office of glory and humility77 demands an enlightenment, such as those who do not love can never attain78. To Oona it seemed that life itself became glorious in this service. It raised her above all earthly things. She looked at him with the pity of an angel, with something of the tenderness of a mother, with an identification and willingness to submit which was pure woman. All was justified79 to her—the love that she had given unsought, the service which she was willing and ready to give.
He stopped before they had reached the height upon which stood home and the sweet and simple existence which embraced these mysteries without comprehending them. A darker shadow, a premonition of evil, came over him.
“And yet,” he said, “I have not told you all. I have something more still to say.”
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1
curiously
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| adv.有求知欲地；好问地；奇特地 | |
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beholding
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| v.看，注视( behold的现在分词 )；瞧；看呀；（叙述中用于引出某人意外的出现）哎哟 | |
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agitation
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| n.搅动；搅拌；鼓动，煽动 | |
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specially
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| adv.特定地；特殊地；明确地 | |
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instinctively
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| adv.本能地 | |
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salvation
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| n.（尤指基督）救世，超度，拯救，解困 | |
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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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guilt
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| n.犯罪；内疚；过失，罪责 | |
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eyebrows
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| 眉毛( eyebrow的名词复数 ) | |
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syne
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| adv.自彼时至此时，曾经 | |
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levity
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| n.轻率，轻浮，不稳定，多变 | |
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eyelids
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| n.眼睑( eyelid的名词复数 )；眼睛也不眨一下；不露声色；面不改色 | |
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uncertainty
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| n.易变，靠不住，不确知，不确定的事物 | |
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perplexed
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| adj.不知所措的 | |
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faltered
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| （嗓音）颤抖( falter的过去式和过去分词 )； 支吾其词； 蹒跚； 摇晃 | |
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mortified
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| v.使受辱( mortify的过去式和过去分词 )；伤害（人的感情）；克制；抑制（肉体、情感等） | |
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guile
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| n.诈术 | |
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affront
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| n./v.侮辱，触怒 | |
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peremptory
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| adj.紧急的，专横的，断然的 | |
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steering
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isle
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| n.小岛，岛 | |
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crested
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| adj.有顶饰的，有纹章的，有冠毛的v.到达山顶（或浪峰）( crest的过去式和过去分词 )；到达洪峰，达到顶点 | |
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isles
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| 岛( isle的名词复数 ) | |
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scattered
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| adj.分散的，稀疏的；散步的；疏疏落落的 | |
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scanty
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chapel
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vacancy
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watchful
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maniac
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| n.精神癫狂的人；疯子 | |
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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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isolation
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| n.隔离，孤立，分解，分离 | |
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interfere
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| v.(in)干涉，干预；(with)妨碍，打扰 | |
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confession
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forth
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pretence
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| n.假装，作假；借口，口实；虚伪；虚饰 | |
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beguile
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| vt.欺骗，消遣 | |
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merging
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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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knights
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| 骑士； （中古时代的）武士( knight的名词复数 )； 骑士； 爵士； （国际象棋中）马 | |
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chivalry
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| n.骑士气概，侠义；（男人）对女人彬彬有礼，献殷勤 | |
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underneath
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| adj.在...下面，在...底下；adv.在下面 | |
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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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humble
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| adj.谦卑的，恭顺的；地位低下的；v.降低，贬低 | |
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guardian
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| n.监护人；守卫者，保护者 | |
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45
agonizing
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| adj.痛苦难忍的；使人苦恼的v.使极度痛苦；折磨(agonize的ing形式) | |
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tremor
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| n.震动，颤动，战栗，兴奋，地震 | |
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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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48
worthy
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| adj.(of)值得的，配得上的；有价值的 | |
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entreaty
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| n.恳求，哀求 | |
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bosom
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| n.胸，胸部；胸怀；内心；adj.亲密的 | |
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51
mar
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| vt.破坏，毁坏，弄糟 | |
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52
faltering
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| 犹豫的，支吾的，蹒跚的 | |
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drooping
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| adj. 下垂的，无力的 动词droop的现在分词 | |
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stifle
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| vt.使窒息；闷死；扼杀；抑止，阻止 | |
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bondage
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| n.奴役，束缚 | |
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longing
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| n.（for）渴望 | |
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celestial
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| adj.天体的；天上的 | |
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hesitation
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| n.犹豫，踌躇 | |
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lesser
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| adj.次要的，较小的；adv.较小地，较少地 | |
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appropriation
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| n.拨款，批准支出 | |
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countenance
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| n.脸色，面容；面部表情；vt.支持，赞同 | |
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fixed
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| adj.固定的，不变的，准备好的；(计算机)固定的 | |
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murmur
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| n.低语，低声的怨言；v.低语，低声而言 | |
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wile
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| v.诡计，引诱；n.欺骗，欺诈 | |
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hovered
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| 鸟( hover的过去式和过去分词 )； 靠近（某事物）； （人）徘徊； 犹豫 | |
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crimson
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| n./adj.深(绯)红色(的)；vi.脸变绯红色 | |
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judgment
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| n.审判；判断力，识别力，看法，意见 | |
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inverted
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| adj.反向的，倒转的v.使倒置，使反转( invert的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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winding
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| n.绕，缠，绕组，线圈 | |
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ascend
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| vi.渐渐上升，升高；vt.攀登，登上 | |
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supreme
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| adj.极度的，最重要的；至高的，最高的 | |
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crevice
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| n.(岩石、墙等)裂缝；缺口 | |
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caressing
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| 爱抚的，表现爱情的，亲切的 | |
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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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heroism
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| n.大无畏精神，英勇 | |
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mingle
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| vt.使混合，使相混；vi.混合起来；相交往 | |
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humility
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| n.谦逊，谦恭 | |
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attain
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| vt.达到，获得，完成 | |
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justified
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| a.正当的，有理的 | |
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