He had made his confession1, which, after all, was no confession, and she had stopped his mouth with pardon. His cry for new life had overcome every reluctance2 in her. Her delicate reserve, the instinct that restrained her, had no more power after that. She had stood no longer behind any barrier—at that touch she had thrown her heart wide open and taken him within.
“What more?” she said. “There can be no more.”
“Much more: and you were to hear all: not only the wretched folly3 into which I fled, to try if I could forget, but something meaner, nearer——something for which you will despise me. Oh, do not smile; it is past smiling for you and me—for you as well as me now, Oona. God forgive me that have tangled4 your life in mine!”
“What is it?” she said, giving him an open look of trust and confidence. “I am not afraid.”
He was. Far worse than the general avowal5 of sins which she did not understand was the avowal he had to make of something which she could understand. He perceived that it would wound her to the heart—He had no fear now that Oona would throw him off. She had put her hand into his, and was ready to pour the fresh and spotless stream of her life into his. It was no more possible for her to separate herself, to withdraw from him, whatever might happen. He perceived this with a keen pang6 of remorse7, for the first time entering with all his heart into the soul of another, and understanding what it meant. She could not now turn her back upon him, go away from him; and he was about to give her a sharp, profound, intolerable wound.
“Oona,” he said, with great humility9, “it occurred to-day. I cannot tell whether you will be able to see why I did it, or how I did it. This morning——” He paused here, feeling that the words hung in his throat and stifled10 him. “This morning—I went—and insulted Katie Williamson, and asked her—to marry me.”
She had been listening with her sweet look of pity and tenderness—sorry, sorry to the depths of her heart, for the evil he had done—sorry beyond tears; but yet ready with her pardon, and not afraid. At the name of Katie Williamson there came up over her clear face the shadow of a cloud—not more than the shadow. When such words as these are said they are not to be understood all at once. But they woke in her a startled curiosity—a strange surprise.
“This morning—it is still morning,” she said, bewildered; “and Katie——”
“Oona! you do not understand.”
“No. I do not quite—understand. What is it? This morning? And Katie——”
“I asked her this morning to join her land to my land and her money to my money: to be—my wife.”
She drew her hand slowly out of his, looking at him with eyes that grew larger as they gazed. For some time she could not say a word, but only got paler and paler, and looked at him.
“Then what place—have I?—what am—I?” she said, slowly. Afterwards a sudden flush lighted up her face. “She would not: and then you came—to me?” she said.
A faint smile of pain came to her mouth. Walter had seen that look very recently before—when he told his mother why it was that he had sent for her. Was he capable of giving nothing but pain to those he loved? If he had tried to explain or apologise, it is doubtful whether Oona’s faculties11, so suddenly and strangely strained, could have borne it. But he said nothing. What was there to say?—the fact which he had thus avowed12 was beyond explanation. He met her eyes for a moment, then drooped13 his head. There was nothing—nothing to be said. It was true. He had gone to another woman first, and then, when that failed, as a last resource had come to her. The anguish14 was so sharp that it brought that smile. It was incredible in the midst of her happiness. Her heart seemed wrung15 and crushed in some gigantic grasp. She looked at him with wondering, incredulous misery16.
“You thought then, I suppose,” she said, “that one—was as good as another?”
“I did not do that, Oona; it is, perhaps, impossible that you should understand. I told you—I had tried—every expedient17: not daring to come to the one and only—the one, the only——”
She waved her hand as if putting this aside, and stood for a moment looking out vaguely18 upon the loch—upon the sheen of the water, the castle lying darkly in shadow, the banks stretching upward and downward in reflection. They had been glorified19 a moment since in the new union; now they were blurred20 over, and conveyed no meaning. Then she said drearily—
“My mother—will wonder why we do not come in—”
“May I speak to her—at once? Let me speak.”
“Oh no!” she cried. “Say nothing—nothing! I could not bear it.”
And then he seized upon her hand, the hand she had taken from him, and cried out—
“You are not going to forsake21 me, Oona! You will not cast me away?”
“I cannot,” she said very low, with her eyes upon the landscape, “I cannot!” Then, turning to him, “You have my word, and I have but one word: only everything is changed. Let us say no more of it just now. A little time—I must have a little time.”
And she turned and walked before him to the house. They went in silence, not a word passing between them. Mysie, startled, came out to the door to ascertain22 who it could be who were preceded by the sound of footsteps only, not of voices. It was “no canny,” she said. And to think this was Miss Oona, whose cheerful voice always came home before her to warn the house that its pride and joy was approaching! Mysie, confounded, went to open the door of the drawing-room that her mistress might be made to share her uneasiness.
“It will just be Miss Oona, mem, and my lord,” Mysie said, “but very down, as if something had happened and not saying a word.”
“Bless me!” cried Mrs. Forrester. Her heart naturally leapt to the only source of danger that could affect her deeply. “It is not a mail day, Mysie,” she said; “there can be no ill news.”
“The Lord be thanked for that!” Mysie said: and then stood aside to give admittance to those footsteps which came one after the other without any talking or cheerful note of sound. Mrs. Forrester rose to meet them with a certain anxiety, although her mind was at rest on the subject of the mails. It might be something wrong at Eaglescairn: it might be——
“Dear me! what is the matter, Oona? You are white, as if you had seen a ghost,” she said, with a more tangible23 reason for her alarm.
“I am quite well, mamma. Perhaps I may have seen a ghost—but nothing more,” she said with a half-laugh. “And here is Lord Erradeen whom we picked up, Hamish and I.”
“And Lord Erradeen, you are just very whitefaced too,” cried Mrs. Forrester. “Bless me, I hope you have not both taken a chill. That will sometimes happen when the winter is wearing on, and ye are tempted24 out on a fine morning with not enough of clothes. I have some cherry brandy in my private press, and I will just give you a little to bring back the blood to your cheeks: and come in to the fire. Dear me, Oona, do not shiver like that! and you not one that feels the cold. You have just taken a chill upon the water, though it is such a beautiful morning. And so you have got your mother with you, Lord Erradeen?”
“She came yesterday. She was so fortunate as to meet—Miss Forrester.”
It seemed to him a wrong against which he was ready to cry out to earth and heaven that he should have to call her by that formal name. He paused before he said it, and looked at her with passionate25 reproach in his eyes. And Oona saw the look, though her eyes were averted26, and trembled, with what her mother took for cold.
“You may be sure Oona was very content to be of use: and I hope now you have got her you will keep her, Lord Erradeen. It will be fine for your house and the servants, and all, to have a lady at Auchnasheen. There has not been a lady since the last lord but one, who married the last of the Glen Oriel family, a person that brought a great deal of property with her. I remember her very well. They said she was not his first love, but she was a most creditable person, and well thought upon, and kind to the poor. We were saying to ourselves, Oona and me, that we would go up the loch to-morrow and call, if you are sure Mrs. Methven is rested from her journey, and will like to see such near neighbours.”
“But, mother—” Oona said.
“But what? There is no but, that I know of. You know that it was all settled between us. We thought to-day she would be tired, and want repose27 rather than company. But by to-morrow she would be rested, and willing to see what like persons we are in this place. That would be very natural. And I am proud Oona was in the way, to take her across the loch. People that come from flat countries where there is little water, they are sometimes a little timid of the loch, and in the dark too. But she will have got over all that by to-morrow, and to call will be a real pleasure. Did you mention, Oona, at Ellermore and other places that Mrs. Methven had arrived?—for everybody will be keen to see your mother, Lord Erradeen.”
“It is very kind. She will rather see you than any one.”
“Hoots,” said Mrs. Forrester with a smile and a shake of her head, “that is just flattery; for we have very little in our power except good-will and kindness: but it will give me great pleasure to make your mother’s acquaintance, and if she likes mine, that will be a double advantage. But you are not going away, Lord Erradeen? You have this moment come! and Mysie will be reckoning upon you for lunch, and I have no doubt a bird has been put to the fire. Well, I will not say a word, for Mrs. Methven’s sake, for no doubt she will be a little strange the first day or two. Oona, will you see that Hamish is ready? And we will have the pleasure of calling to-morrow,” Mrs. Forrester said, following to the door. Her easy smiles, the little movements of her hands, the fluttering of the pretty ribbons in her cap, added to the calm and tranquil28 stream of her talk so many additional details of the softest quietude of common life. She stood and looked after the young pair as they went down together to the beach, waving her hand to them when they turned towards her, as unconscious of any disturbing influence as were the trees that waved their branches too. Passion had never been in her little composed and cheerful world. By-and-by she felt the chill of the wind, and turned and went back to her fireside. “No doubt that winter is coming now,” she said to herself, “and no wonder if Oona, poor thing, was just frozen with the cold on the water. I wish she may not have taken a chill.” This was the greatest danger Mrs. Forrester anticipated, and she did not doubt that a hot drink when Oona went to bed would make all right.
It was very strange to both of the young wayfarers29 to find themselves alone again in the fresh air and stillness. Since the moment when they had landed in an ecstasy30 of union, until this moment when they went down again to the same spot, years might have passed for anything they knew. They did not seem to have a word to say to each other. Oona was a step or two in advance leading the way, while behind her came Walter, his head drooping31, his courage gone, not even the despair in him which had given him a wild and fiery32 energy. Despair itself seemed hopeful in comparison with this. He had risen into another life, come to fresh hopes, received beyond all expectation the help which he had sought for elsewhere in vain, but which here alone he could ever find; but now the soul had gone out of it all, and he stood bewildered, deprived of any power to say or do. All through his other miseries33 there had been the thought of this, like a distant stronghold in which if he ever reached it there would be deliverance. If he ever reached it! and now he had reached it, but too late. Was it too late? He followed her helplessly, not able to think of anything he could say to her, though he had pleaded so eagerly, so earnestly, a little while ago. There comes a time after we have poured out our whole soul in entreaties34, whether to God or man, when exhaustion35 overpowers the mind, and utterance36 is taken from us, and even desire seems to fail—not that what we long for is less to be desired, but that every effort is exhausted37 and a dreary38 discouragement has paralysed the soul. Walter felt not less, but more than ever, that in Oona was his every hope. But he was dumb and could say no more, following her with a weight upon his heart that allowed him no further possibility, no power to raise either voice or hand. They walked thus as in a mournful procession following the funeral of their brief joy, half way down the bank. Then Oona who was foremost paused for a moment, looking out wistfully upon that familiar prospect39, upon which she had looked all her life. The scene had changed, the sky had clouded over, as if in harmony with their minds; only over Kinloch Houran a watery40 ray of sunshine, penetrating41 through the quickly gathering42 clouds, threw a weird43 light. The ruinous walls stood out red under this gleam askance of the retreating sun. It was like an indication—a pointing out, to the executioner of some deadly harm or punishment, of the victim. Oona paused, and he behind her, vaguely turning as she turned, gazing at this strange significant light, which seemed to point out, “This is the spot”—was that what was meant?—“the place to be destroyed.”
“It was in shadow a moment since,” Oona said, and her voice seemed to thrill the air that had been brooding over them in a heavy chill, as if under the same influence that made them voiceless. What did she mean? and why should she care——
“The shadow was better,” he said, but he did not know what he himself meant more than what she could mean.
“It has come here,” said Oona, “between you and me. You said you insulted Katie. I cannot think that it was your meaning to—insult me.”
“Insult—you!” his mind was so clear of that, and his own meaning in respect to the other so evident to him, that the dead quietude of his discouragement yielded to a momentary44 impatience45. But how was he to make that clear?
“No, I cannot think it. Whatever you meant, whether it was in levity46, whether it was——I do not believe that.”
“Oona,” he cried, waking to the desperation of the position, “will you give me up, after all we have said?”
She shook her head sadly.
“I will never now deny you what help I can give you, Lord Erradeen.”
He turned from her with a cry of bitterness.
“Help without love is no help. Alms and pity will do nothing for me. It must be two—who are one.”
She answered him with a faint laugh which was more bitter still; but restrained the jest of pain which rose to her lips, something about three who could not be one. It was the impulse of keen anguish, but it would not have become a discussion that was as serious as life and death.
“It is all a confusion,” she said; “what to say or do I know not. It is such a thing—as could not have been foreseen. Some would think it made me free, but I do not feel that I can ever be free.” She spoke47 without looking at him, gazing blankly out upon the landscape. “You said it was no smiling matter to you or me—to you and me. Perhaps,” she interrupted herself as if a new light had come upon her, “that is the true meaning of what you say—two that are one; but it is not the usual creed48. Two for misery——”
“Oh not for misery, Oona! there is no misery for me where you are.”
“Or—any other,” she said with a smile of unimaginable suffering, and ridicule49, and indignation.
He answered nothing. What could he say to defend himself? “If you could see into my heart,” he said after a time, “you would understand. One who is in despair will clutch at anything. Can you imagine a man trying like a coward to escape the conflict, rather than facing it, and bringing the woman he loved into it?”
“Yes,” she said, “I can imagine that; but not in the man who is me.” Then she moved away towards the beach, saying, “Hamish is waiting,” with a sigh of weariness.
“Oona,” said Walter, “you will give me your hand again before we part?”
“What does it matter if I give it or hold it back? It is yours whether I will or not. You should have told me before. I should have understood. Oh, I am ashamed, ashamed! to think of all I have said to you. How could you betray me first before you told me? In the same morning! It is more than a woman can bear!” she cried.
Perhaps this outburst of passion relieved her, for she turned and held out her hand to him with a smile of pain which was heartrending. “It did not seem like this when we landed,” she said.
“And it would not seem like this, oh, Oona! if you could see my heart.”
She shook her head, looking at him all the while with that strange smile, and then drew away her hand and repeated, “Hamish is waiting.” Hamish in the background, standing8 up against the shining of the water, with his oar50 in his hand, waited with his anxious eyes upon his young lady, not knowing how it was. He would have pitched Lord Erradeen into the loch, or laid him at his feet with Highland51 passion, had she given him a sign. He held the boat for him instead to step in, with an anxious countenance52. Love or hate, or madness or good meaning, Hamish could not make out what it was.
“To-morrow!” Walter said, “if I can live till to-morrow in this suspense——”
She waved her hand to him, and Hamish pushed off. And Oona stood as in a dream, seeing over again the scene which had been in her mind for so long—but changed. She had watched him go away before, eager to be gone, carrying her life with him without knowing it, without desiring it: he unaware53 of what he was doing, she watching surprised, bereaved54 of herself, innocently and unaware. How poignant55 had that parting been! But now it was different. He gazed back at her now, as she stood on the beach, leaving his life with her, all that was in him straining towards her, gazing till they were each to the other but a speck56 in the distance. Two that were one! Oh, not perhaps for mutual57 joy, not for the happiness that love on the surface seems to mean—rather for the burden, the disappointment, the shame. She waved her hand once more over the cold water, and then turned away. Till to-morrow—“if I can live till to-morrow”—as he had said.
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1
confession
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| n.自白，供认，承认 | |
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reluctance
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| n.厌恶，讨厌，勉强，不情愿 | |
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folly
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| n.愚笨，愚蠢，蠢事，蠢行，傻话 | |
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tangled
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| adj. 纠缠的，紊乱的 动词tangle的过去式和过去分词 | |
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avowal
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| n.公开宣称，坦白承认 | |
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pang
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| n.剧痛，悲痛，苦闷 | |
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remorse
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| n.痛恨，悔恨，自责 | |
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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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humility
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| n.谦逊，谦恭 | |
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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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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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12
avowed
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| adj.公开声明的，承认的v.公开声明，承认( avow的过去式和过去分词) | |
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13
drooped
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| 弯曲或下垂，发蔫( droop的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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anguish
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| n.(尤指心灵上的)极度痛苦，烦恼 | |
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wrung
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| 绞( wring的过去式和过去分词 )； 握紧（尤指别人的手）； 把（湿衣服）拧干； 绞掉（水） | |
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misery
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| n.痛苦，苦恼，苦难；悲惨的境遇，贫苦 | |
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expedient
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| adj.有用的，有利的；n.紧急的办法，权宜之计 | |
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vaguely
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| adv.含糊地，暖昧地 | |
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glorified
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| 美其名的，变荣耀的 | |
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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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forsake
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| vt.遗弃，抛弃；舍弃，放弃 | |
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ascertain
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| vt.发现，确定，查明，弄清 | |
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tangible
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| adj.有形的，可触摸的，确凿的，实际的 | |
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tempted
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| v.怂恿（某人）干不正当的事；冒…的险（tempt的过去分词） | |
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passionate
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| adj.热情的，热烈的，激昂的，易动情的，易怒的，性情暴躁的 | |
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averted
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| 防止，避免( avert的过去式和过去分词 )； 转移 | |
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repose
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| v.(使)休息；n.安息 | |
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tranquil
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| adj. 安静的, 宁静的, 稳定的, 不变的 | |
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wayfarers
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| n.旅人，（尤指）徒步旅行者( wayfarer的名词复数 ) | |
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ecstasy
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| n.狂喜，心醉神怡，入迷 | |
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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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fiery
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| adj.燃烧着的，火红的；暴躁的；激烈的 | |
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miseries
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| n.痛苦( misery的名词复数 )；痛苦的事；穷困；常发牢骚的人 | |
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entreaties
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| n.恳求，乞求( entreaty的名词复数 ) | |
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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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utterance
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| n.用言语表达，话语，言语 | |
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exhausted
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| adj.极其疲惫的，精疲力尽的 | |
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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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prospect
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| n.前景，前途；景色，视野 | |
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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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gathering
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| n.集会，聚会，聚集 | |
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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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momentary
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| adj.片刻的，瞬息的；短暂的 | |
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impatience
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| n.不耐烦，急躁 | |
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levity
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| n.轻率，轻浮，不稳定，多变 | |
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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
creed
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| n.信条；信念，纲领 | |
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ridicule
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| v.讥讽，挖苦；n.嘲弄 | |
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oar
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| n.桨，橹，划手；v.划行 | |
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51
highland
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| n.(pl.)高地，山地 | |
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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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unaware
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| a.不知道的，未意识到的 | |
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bereaved
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| adj.刚刚丧失亲人的v.使失去（希望、生命等）( bereave的过去式和过去分词)；（尤指死亡）使丧失（亲人、朋友等）；使孤寂；抢走（财物） | |
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poignant
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| adj.令人痛苦的，辛酸的，惨痛的 | |
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56
speck
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| n.微粒，小污点，小斑点 | |
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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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