So strong was this impulse that he hurried past the gate of Auchnasheen and took the path that led up to the moors11, with a sense of flying from, yet flying to, his spiritual enemies. He was met there by the gamekeeper, who began to talk to him about the game, and the expediency12 of inviting13 “twa-three” gentlemen to shoot the coverts14 down by Corrieden, an interruption which seemed to his preoccupied15 soul too trivial, too miserable, to be borne with. He turned from the astonished speaker in the midst of his explanations, and rushed back with the impatience16 which was part of his character, exaggerated into a sort of mad intolerance of any interruption. Not there, not there—he began to remember the wild and mad contest which last year had gone on upon those hills, and with an instantaneous change of plan retraced17 his steps to the house, and burst into his mother’s presence, so pale, so wild, with eyes almost mad in their fire, looking out from the curves of his eyelids18 like those of a maniac19. Her terror was great. She came up to him and laid her hands upon him, and cried out, What was it? what was it? After this the active frenzy20 that had possessed21 him seemed to sink into a maze22 of feverish23 confusion which was less violent, less terrible, more like the operations of nature. He was not aware that he looked at her piteously, and said, “I want to stay with you, mother”—childlike words, which penetrated25 with a misery that was almost sweet to Mrs. Methven’s very heart. She put her arms round him, drawing down his head upon her bosom26, kissing his forehead with trembling lips, holding him fast, as when he was a child and came to her for consolation27. He was scarcely aware of all this, and yet it soothed28 him. The excitement of his brain was calmed. That uneasy haze29 of fever which confuses everything, the half-delirium of the senses through which the mind looks as through a mist, uneasy, yet with visions that are not all miserable, was a sort of paradise in comparison with the frenzy of a conflict in which every expedient30 of torture was exercised upon him. He was grateful for the relief. That he did not know what he said or what she said, but heard the answering voices far off, like something musical, was nothing. There was a kind of safety in that society: the enemy could not show himself there. He had to stand off baffled and wait—ah, wait! that was certain. He had not gone away—not Oona, not the mother, could save the victim altogether. They protected him for the moment, they held the foe31 at arm’s length: but that could not be always. Sooner or later the last struggle must come.
Walter remained within-doors all day. It was contrary to all his habits, and this of itself added to the alarm of all about him; but it was not inconsistent with the capricious impatient constitution of his mind, always ready to turn upon itself at a moment’s notice, and do that which no one expected. During every moment of this long day he had to resist the strong impulse which was upon him—more than an impulse, a tearing and rending32 of his spirit, sometimes rising into sudden energy almost inconceivable—to go out and meet his enemy. But he held his ground so far with a dumb obstinacy33 which also was part of his character, and which was strengthened by the sensation of comparative exemption34 so long as he had the protection of others around him, and specially35 of his mother’s presence. It was with reluctance36 that he saw her go out of the room even for a moment; and his eager look of inquiry37 when she left him, his attempts to retain her, his strained gaze towards the door till she returned, gave Mrs. Methven a sort of anguish38 of pleasure, if those contradictory39 words can be put together. To feel that she was something, much to him, could not but warm her heart; but with that was the misery of knowing that something must indeed be very far wrong with Walter to make him thus, after so many years of independence, cling to his mother.
“It is like a fever coming on,” she said to Symington, with whom alone she could take any counsel. “He is ill, very ill, I am sure of it. The doctor must be sent for. Have you ever seen him like this before?”
“My lady,” said old Symington, “them that have the Methvens to deal with have need of much gumption40. Have I seen him like that before? Oh, yes, I have seen him like that before. It is just their hour and the power o’ darkness. Let him be for two-three days——”
“But in two or three days the fever may have taken sure hold of him. It may be losing precious time: it may get—fatal force——”
“There is no fears of his life,” said old Symington; “there is enough fear of other things.”
“Of what? Oh, for God’s sake! tell me; don’t leave me in ignorance!” the mother cried.
“But that’s just what I cannot do,” Symington said. “By the same taken that I ken41 nothing mysel’.”
While this conversation was going on, Walter, through his fever, saw them conspiring42, plotting, talking about him as he would have divined and resented in other moods, but knew vaguely43 now in his mist of being that they meant him no harm, but good.
And thus the day went on. He prolonged it as long as he could, keeping his mother with him till long after the hour when the household was usually at rest. But, however late, the moment came at last when he could detain her no longer. She, terrified, ignorant, fearing a dangerous illness, was still more reluctant to leave him, if possible, than he was to let her go, and would have sat up all night watching him had she ventured to make such a proposal. But at last Walter summoned up all his courage with a desperate effort, an effort of despair which restored him to himself and made a clear spot amid all the mist and confusion of the day.
“Mother,” he said, as he lighted her candle, “you have been very good to me to-day! Oh I know you have always been good—and I always ungrateful; but I am not ungrateful now.”
“Oh, Walter! what does that word mean between you and me? If I could but do anything. It breaks my heart to see you like this.”
“Yes, mother,” he said, “and it may break my heart. I don’t know what may come of it—if I can stand, or if I must fall. Go and pray for me, mother.”
“Yes, my dearest—yes, my own boy! as I have done every day, almost every hour, since ever you were born.”
“And so will Oona,” he said. He made no response of affection to this brief record of a life devoted44 to him, which Mrs. Methven uttered with eyes full of tears and every line of her countenance45 quivering with emotion. He was abstracted into a world beyond all such expressions and responses, on the verge46 of an ordeal47 too terrible for him, more terrible than any he had yet sustained—like a man about to face fearful odds48, and counting up what aids he could depend upon. “And so will Oona,” he repeated to himself, aloud but unawares: and looked up at his mother with a sad glimmer49 of a smile and kissed her, and said, “That should help me.” Then, without waiting for her to go first, he walked out of the room, like a blind man, feeling with his hand before him, and not seeing where he went.
For already there had begun within him that clanging of the pulses, that mounting of every faculty50 of the nerves and blood to his head, the seat of thought, which throbbed51 as though it would burst, and to his heart, which thundered and laboured and filled his ears with billows of sound. All his fears, half quiescent52 in the feverish pause of the day, were suddenly roused to action, ranging themselves to meet the last, the decisive, the most terrible assault of all. He went into his room and closed the door upon all mortal succour. The room was large and heavily furnished in the clumsy fashion of the last generation—heavy curtains, huge articles of furniture looming53 dark in the partial light, a gloomy expanse of space, dim mirrors glimmering54 here and there, the windows closely shut up and shrouded55, every communication of the fresh air without, or such succour of light as might linger in the heavens, excluded. The old castle, with its ruined battlements, seemed a more fit scene for spiritual conflict than the dull comfort of this gloomy chamber56, shut in from all human communication. But Walter made no attempt to throw open the closed windows. No help from without could avail him, and he had no thought or time to spare for any exertion57. He put his candle on the table and sat down to await what should befall.
The night passed like other nights to most men, even to the greater number of the inhabitants in this house. Mrs. Methven after a while, worn out, and capable of nothing that could help him, dozed58 and slept, half dressed, murmuring familiar prayers in her sleep, ready to start up at the faintest call. But there came no call. Two or three times in the night there was a faint stir, and once old Symington, who was also on the alert, and whose room was near that of his master, saw Lord Erradeen come out of his chamber with a candle in his hand, the light of which showed his countenance all ghastly and furrowed59 as with the action of years, and go down-stairs. The old man, watching from the gallery above, saw his master go to the door, which he opened, admitting a blast of night wind which seemed to bring in the darkness as well as cold. Symington waited trembling to hear it clang behind the unfortunate young man. Where was he going to in the middle of the night? But after a few minutes, the door, instead of clanging, closed softly, and Walter came back. It might be that this happened more than once while the slow hours crept on, for the watcher, hearing more than there was to hear, thought that there were steps about the house, and vague sounds of voices. But this was all vanity and superstition60. No one came in—with none, save with his own thoughts, did Walter speak. Had his enemy entered bodily, and even with maddening words maintained a personal conflict, the sufferer would have been less harshly treated. Once, as Symington had seen, he was so broken down by the conflict that he was on the eve of a shameful61 flight which would have been ruin. When he came down-stairs with his candle in the dead of the night and opened the great hall door, he had all but thrown down his arms and consented that nothing remained for him but to escape while he could, as long as he could, to break all ties and abandon all succour, and only flee, flee from the intolerable moment. He had said to himself that he could bear it no longer, that he must escape anyhow, at any cost, leaving love and honour, and duty and every higher thought—for what could help him—nothing—nothing—in earth or heaven.
That which touched him to the quick was not any new menace, it was not the horror of the struggles through which he had already passed, it was the maddening derision with which his impulses were represented to him as the last expedients62 of the most refined selfishness. When his tormentor63 in the morning had bidden him, with a smile, “Be good!” as the height of policy, it had seemed to Walter that the point of the intolerable was reached, and that life itself under such an interpretation64 became insupportable, a miserable jest, a mockery hateful to God and man; but there was yet a lower depth, a more hateful derision still. Love! what was his love? a way of securing help, a means of obtaining, under pretences65 of the finest sentiment, some one who would supremely67 help him, stand by him always, protect him with the presence of a nature purer than his own. Nothing was said to the unhappy young man. It was in the course of his own thoughts that this suggestion arose like a light of hell illuminating68 all the dark corners of his being. Had he ever said to Oona that he loved her? Did he love her? Was it for any motive69 but his own safety that he sought her? Katie he had sought for her wealth, for the increase of importance she could bring, for the relief from torture she could secure to him. And Oona, Oona whom he loved! Was it for love he fled to her? Oh, no, but for safety! All was miserable, all was self, all was for his own interest, to save him, to emancipate70 him, to make life possible for him. He had started to his feet when this intolerable consciousness (for was it not true?) took possession of him. It was true. She was sweet and fair, and good and lovely, a creature like the angels; but he, miserable, had thought only that in her company was safety—that she could deliver him. He sent forth71 a cry which at the same time sounded like the laughter of despair, and seemed to shake the house; and took up his candle, and opened his door and hurried forth to escape, where he did not know, how he did not know nor care, to escape from the ridicule72 of this life, the horror of this travestie and parody73 of everything good and fair. Heaven and earth! to seek goodness because it was the most profitable of all things; to seek love because it was safety; to profane74 everything dear and sacred to his own advantage! Can a man know this, and recognise it with all the masks and pretences torn off, and yet consent to live, and better himself by that last desecration75 of all! He went down with hurried steps through the silence of his house, that silence through which was rising the prayers of the mother in whose love too he had taken refuge when in despair, whom he had bidden to go and pray, for his advantage, solely76 for him, that he might steal from God a help he did not deserve, by means of her cries and tears. “And so would Oona,” he had said. Oh, mockery of everything sacred!—all for him, for his self-interest, who deserved nothing, who made use of all.
He opened the door, and stood bare-headed, solitary77, on the edge of the black and lonely night; behind him life and hope, and torture and misery—before the void, the blank into which the wretched may escape and lose—if not themselves, that inalienable heritage of woe78, yet their power to harm those who love them. He loved nobody, it seemed, but for himself—prized nothing but for himself; held love, honour, goodness, purity, only as safeguards for his miserable life. Let it go then, that wretched contemner79 of all good—disappear into the blackness of darkness, where God nor man should be disturbed by its exactions more!
The night was wild with a raving80 wind that dashed the tree-tops against the sky, and swept the clouds before it in flying masses; no moon, no light, gloom impenetrable below, a pale glimpse of heaven above, swept by black billows of tumultuous clouds; somewhere in the great gloom, the loch, all invisible, waited for the steps that might stumble upon its margin81; the profound world of darkness closed over every secret that might be cast into it. He stood on the threshold in a momentary82 pause, forlorn, alone, loosing his hold of all that he had clung to, to save him. Why should he be saved who was unworthy? Why trouble earth or heaven? The passion and the struggle died out of Walter’s soul: a profound sadness took possession of him; he felt his heart turn trembling within him, now that he had given up the instinct of self-preservation which had driven him to her feet—to Oona whom he loved. God bless her! not for him would be that sweet companionship, and yet of all things the world contained, was not that the best? Two that should be one. All that was external died away from him in his despair. He forgot for the first time since it had been revealed to him, that he had an enemy, a tyrant83 waiting for his submission84. His heart turned to the love which he had thought he dishonoured85, without even recollecting86 that cursed suggestion. It seemed to him now that he was giving it up for Oona’s sake, and that only now all the beauty of it, the sweetness of it, was clear to him. Oh, the pity! to see all this so lovely, so fair, and yet have to resign it! What was everything else in comparison with that? But for her sake, for her dear sake!
How dark it was, impenetrable, closing like a door upon the mortal eyes which had in themselves no power to penetrate24 that gloom! He stepped across the threshold of life, and stood outside, in the dark. He turned his eyes—for once more, for the last time, in the great calm of renunciation, his heart in a hush87 of supreme66 anguish, without conflict or struggle—to where she was, separated from him only by silent space and atmosphere, soon to be separated by more perfect barriers; only to turn his head that way, not even to see where she was hidden in the night—so small a satisfaction, so little consolation, yet something before the reign88 of nothingness began.
All dark; but no, half way between heaven and earth, what was that, shining steady through the gloom? Not a star; it was too warm, too large, too near; the light in Oona’s window shining in the middle of the night when all was asleep around. Then she was not asleep, though everything else was, but watching—and if watching, then for him. The little light, which was but a candle in a window, suddenly, brilliantly lighted up the whole heavens and earth to Walter. Watching, and for him; praying for him, not because of any appeal of his, but out of her own heart, and because she so willed it—out of the prodigality89, the generous, unmeasured love which it was her choice to give him—not forced but freely, because she so pleased. He stood for a moment with awe90 in his heart, arrested, not able to make another step, pale with the revolution, the revelation, the change of all things. His own dark thoughts died away; he stood astonished, perceiving for the first time what it was. To have become part of him had brought no joy to Oona, but it was done, and never could be undone91; and to be part of her, what was that to Walter? He had said it without knowing what it meant, without any real sense of the great thing he said. Now it fell upon him in a great wonder, full of awe. He was hers, he was her, not himself henceforward, but a portion of another, and that other portion of him standing7 for him at the gates of heaven. His whole being fell into silence, overawed. He stepped back out of the night and closed softly the great door, and returned to his room, in which everything was stilled by a spell before which all evil things fly—the apprehension92 of that love which is unmerited, unextorted, unalterable. When he reached his room, and had closed the door, Walter, with trembling hands undid93 the window, and flung it open to the night, which was no more night or darkness, but part of the everlasting94 day, so tempered that feeble eyes might perceive those lights which hide themselves in the sunshine. What was it he saw? Up in the heavens, where the clouds swept over them, stars shining, undisturbed, though hidden by moments as the masses of earthly vapour rolled across the sky; near him stealing out of his mother’s window a slender ray of light that never wavered; further off, held up as in the very hand of love, the little lamp of Oona. The young man was silent in a great awe; his heart stirring softly in him, hushed, like the heart of a child. For him! unworthy! for him who had never sought the love of God, who had disregarded the love of his mother, who had profaned95 the love of woman: down, down on his knees—down to the dust, hiding his face in gratitude96 unutterable. He ceased to think of what it was he had been struggling and contending for; he forgot his enemy, his danger, himself altogether, and, overawed, sank at the feet of love, which alone can save.
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1
lurid
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| adj.可怕的；血红的；苍白的 | |
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compassionate
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| adj.有同情心的，表示同情的 | |
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imploring
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| 恳求的，哀求的 | |
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entreaty
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| n.恳求，哀求 | |
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ails
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| v.生病( ail的第三人称单数 )；感到不舒服；处境困难；境况不佳 | |
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breach
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| n.违反，不履行；破裂；vt.冲破，攻破 | |
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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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miserable
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| adj.悲惨的，痛苦的；可怜的，糟糕的 | |
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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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subdue
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| vt.制服，使顺从，征服；抑制，克制 | |
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moors
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| v.停泊，系泊（船只）( moor的第三人称单数 ) | |
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expediency
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| n.适宜；方便；合算；利己 | |
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inviting
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| adj.诱人的，引人注目的 | |
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coverts
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| n.隐蔽的，不公开的，秘密的( covert的名词复数 )；复羽 | |
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preoccupied
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| adj.全神贯注的，入神的；被抢先占有的；心事重重的v.占据（某人）思想，使对…全神贯注，使专心于( preoccupy的过去式) | |
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impatience
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| n.不耐烦，急躁 | |
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retraced
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| v.折回( retrace的过去式和过去分词 )；回忆；回顾；追溯 | |
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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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maniac
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| n.精神癫狂的人；疯子 | |
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frenzy
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| n.疯狂，狂热，极度的激动 | |
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possessed
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| adj.疯狂的；拥有的，占有的 | |
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maze
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| n.迷宫，八阵图，混乱，迷惑 | |
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feverish
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| adj.发烧的，狂热的，兴奋的 | |
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penetrate
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| v.透(渗)入；刺入，刺穿；洞察，了解 | |
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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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bosom
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| n.胸，胸部；胸怀；内心；adj.亲密的 | |
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consolation
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| n.安慰，慰问 | |
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soothed
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| v.安慰( soothe的过去式和过去分词 )；抚慰；使舒服；减轻痛苦 | |
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haze
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| n.霾，烟雾；懵懂，迷糊；vi.(over)变模糊 | |
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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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foe
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| n.敌人，仇敌 | |
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rending
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| v.撕碎( rend的现在分词 )；分裂；（因愤怒、痛苦等而）揪扯（衣服或头发等）；（声音等）刺破 | |
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obstinacy
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| n.顽固；（病痛等）难治 | |
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exemption
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| n.豁免，免税额，免除 | |
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specially
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| adv.特定地；特殊地；明确地 | |
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reluctance
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| n.厌恶，讨厌，勉强，不情愿 | |
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inquiry
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| n.打听，询问，调查，查问 | |
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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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contradictory
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| adj.反驳的，反对的，抗辩的；n.正反对，矛盾对立 | |
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gumption
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| n.才干 | |
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ken
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| n.视野，知识领域 | |
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conspiring
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| 密谋( conspire的现在分词 )； 搞阴谋； （事件等）巧合； 共同导致 | |
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vaguely
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| adv.含糊地，暖昧地 | |
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devoted
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| adj.忠诚的，忠实的，热心的，献身于...的 | |
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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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verge
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| n.边，边缘；v.接近，濒临 | |
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ordeal
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| n.苦难经历，（尤指对品格、耐力的）严峻考验 | |
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odds
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| n.让步，机率，可能性，比率；胜败优劣之别 | |
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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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50
faculty
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| n.才能；学院，系；(学院或系的)全体教学人员 | |
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51
throbbed
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| 抽痛( throb的过去式和过去分词 )； （心脏、脉搏等）跳动 | |
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52
quiescent
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| adj.静止的，不活动的，寂静的 | |
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53
looming
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| n.上现蜃景（光通过低层大气发生异常折射形成的一种海市蜃楼）v.隐约出现，阴森地逼近( loom的现在分词 )；隐约出现，阴森地逼近 | |
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glimmering
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| n.微光，隐约的一瞥adj.薄弱地发光的v.发闪光，发微光( glimmer的现在分词 ) | |
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55
shrouded
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| v.隐瞒( shroud的过去式和过去分词 )；保密 | |
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chamber
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| n.房间，寝室；会议厅；议院；会所 | |
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exertion
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| n.尽力，努力 | |
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dozed
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| v.打盹儿，打瞌睡( doze的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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furrowed
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| v.犁田，开沟( furrow的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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superstition
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| n.迷信，迷信行为 | |
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shameful
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| adj.可耻的，不道德的 | |
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expedients
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| n.应急有效的，权宜之计的( expedient的名词复数 ) | |
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63
tormentor
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| n. 使苦痛之人, 使苦恼之物, 侧幕 =tormenter | |
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interpretation
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| n.解释，说明，描述；艺术处理 | |
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pretences
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| n.假装( pretence的名词复数 )；作假；自命；自称 | |
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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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67
supremely
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| adv.无上地，崇高地 | |
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68
illuminating
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| a.富于启发性的，有助阐明的 | |
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motive
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| n.动机，目的；adv.发动的，运动的 | |
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emancipate
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| v.解放，解除 | |
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forth
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| adv.向前；向外，往外 | |
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ridicule
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| v.讥讽，挖苦；n.嘲弄 | |
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parody
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| n.打油诗文，诙谐的改编诗文，拙劣的模仿；v.拙劣模仿，作模仿诗文 | |
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profane
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| adj.亵神的，亵渎的；vt.亵渎，玷污 | |
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desecration
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| n. 亵渎神圣, 污辱 | |
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solely
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| adv.仅仅，唯一地 | |
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solitary
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| adj.孤独的，独立的，荒凉的；n.隐士 | |
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woe
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| n.悲哀，苦痛，不幸，困难；int.用来表达悲伤或惊慌 | |
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contemner
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| n.谴责者，宣判者，定罪者 | |
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raving
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| adj.说胡话的；疯狂的，怒吼的；非常漂亮的；令人醉心[痴心]的v.胡言乱语(rave的现在分词)n.胡话；疯话adv.胡言乱语地；疯狂地 | |
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margin
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| n.页边空白；差额；余地，余裕；边，边缘 | |
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momentary
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| adj.片刻的，瞬息的；短暂的 | |
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tyrant
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| n.暴君，专制的君主，残暴的人 | |
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84
submission
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| n.服从，投降；温顺，谦虚；提出 | |
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85
dishonoured
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| a.不光彩的，不名誉的 | |
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recollecting
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| v.记起，想起( recollect的现在分词 ) | |
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87
hush
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| int.嘘，别出声；n.沉默，静寂；v.使安静 | |
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reign
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| n.统治时期，统治，支配，盛行；v.占优势 | |
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prodigality
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| n.浪费，挥霍 | |
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awe
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| n.敬畏，惊惧；vt.使敬畏，使惊惧 | |
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undone
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| a.未做完的，未完成的 | |
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apprehension
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| n.理解，领悟；逮捕，拘捕；忧虑 | |
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Undid
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| v. 解开, 复原 | |
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everlasting
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| adj.永恒的，持久的，无止境的 | |
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95
profaned
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| v.不敬( profane的过去式和过去分词 )；亵渎，玷污 | |
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gratitude
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| adj.感激，感谢 | |
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