'Mine own familiar friend.'
During these days of absence Stephen lived under alternate conditions. Whenever his emotions were active, he was in agony. Whenever he was not in agony, the business in hand had driven out of his mind by sheer force all deep reflection on the subject of Elfride and love.
By the time he took his return journey at the week's end, Stephen had very nearly worked himself up to an intention to call and see her face to face. On this occasion also he adopted his favourite route--by the little summer steamer from Bristol to Castle Boterel; the time saved by speed on the railway being wasted at junctions1, and in following a devious2 course.
It was a bright silent evening at the beginning of September when Smith again set foot in the little town. He felt inclined to linger awhile upon the quay3 before ascending4 the hills, having formed a romantic intention to go home by way of her house, yet not wishing to wander in its neighbourhood till the evening shades should sufficiently5 screen him from observation.
And thus waiting for night's nearer approach, he watched the placid6 scene, over which the pale luminosity of the west cast a sorrowful monochrome, that became slowly embrowned by the dusk. A star appeared, and another, and another. They sparkled amid the yards and rigging of the two coal brigs lying alangside, as if they had been tiny lamps suspended in the ropes. The masts rocked sleepily to the infinitesimal flux7 of the tide, which clucked and gurgled with idle regularity8 in nooks and holes of the harbour wall.
The twilight9 was now quite pronounced enough for his purpose; and as, rather sad at heart, he was about to move on, a little boat containing two persons glided10 up the middle of the harbour with the lightness of a shadow. The boat came opposite him, passed on, and touched the landing-steps at the further end. One of its occupants was a man, as Stephen had known by the easy stroke of the oars11. When the pair ascended12 the steps, and came into greater prominence13, he was enabled to discern that the second personage was a woman; also that she wore a white decoration--apparently14 a feather--in her hat or bonnet15, which spot of white was the only distinctly visible portion of her clothing.
Stephen remained a moment in their rear, and they passed on, when he pursued his way also, and soon forgot the circumstance. Having crossed a bridge, forsaken16 the high road, and entered the footpath17 which led up the vale to West Endelstow, he heard a little wicket click softly together some yards ahead. By the time that Stephen had reached the wicket and passed it, he heard another click of precisely18 the same nature from another gate yet further on. Clearly some person or persons were preceding him along the path, their footsteps being rendered noiseless by the soft carpet of turf. Stephen now walked a little quicker, and perceived two forms. One of them bore aloft the white feather he had noticed in the woman's hat on the quay: they were the couple he had seen in the boat. Stephen dropped a little further to the rear.
From the bottom of the valley, along which the path had hitherto lain, beside the margin19 of the trickling20 streamlet, another path now diverged21, and ascended the slope of the left-hand hill. This footway led only to the residence of Mrs. Swancourt and a cottage or two in its vicinity. No grass covered this diverging22 path in portions of its length, and Stephen was reminded that the pair in front of him had taken this route by the occasional rattle23 of loose stones under their feet. Stephen climbed in the same direction, but for some undefined reason he trod more softly than did those preceding him. His mind was unconsciously in exercise upon whom the woman might be--whether a visitor to The Crags, a servant, or Elfride. He put it to himself yet more forcibly; could the lady be Elfride? A possible reason for her unaccountable failure to keep the appointment with him returned with painful force.
They entered the grounds of the house by the side wicket, whence the path, now wide and well trimmed, wound fantastically through the shrubbery to an octagonal pavilion called the Belvedere, by reason of the comprehensive view over the adjacent district that its green seats afforded. The path passed this erection and went on to the house as well as to the gardener's cottage on the other side, straggling thence to East Endelstow; so that Stephen felt no hesitation24 in entering a promenade25 which could scarcely be called private.
He fancied that he heard the gate open and swing together again behind him. Turning, he saw nobody.
The people of the boat came to the summer-house. One of them spoke26.
'I am afraid we shall get a scolding for being so late.'
Stephen instantly recognised the familiar voice, richer and fuller now than it used to be. 'Elfride!' he whispered to himself, and held fast by a sapling, to steady himself under the agitation27 her presence caused him. His heart swerved28 from its beat; he shunned29 receiving the meaning he sought.
'A breeze is rising again; how the ash tree rustles30!' said Elfride. 'Don't you hear it? I wonder what the time is.'
Stephen relinquished31 the sapling.
I will get a light and tell you. Step into the summer-house; the air is quiet there.'
The cadence32 of that voice--its peculiarity33 seemed to come home to him like that of some notes of the northern birds on his return to his native clime, as an old natural thing renewed, yet not particularly noticed as natural before that renewal35.
They entered the Belvedere. In the lower part it was formed of close wood-work nailed crosswise, and had openings in the upper by way of windows.
The scratch of a striking light was heard, and a bright glow radiated from the interior of the building. The light gave birth to dancing leaf-shadows, stem-shadows, lustrous36 streaks37, dots, sparkles, and threads of silver sheen of all imaginable variety and transience. It awakened38 gnats39, which flew towards it, revealed shiny gossamer40 threads, disturbed earthworms. Stephen gave but little attention to these phenomena41, and less time. He saw in the summer-house a strongly illuminated42 picture.
First, the face of his friend and preceptor Henry Knight43, between whom and himself an estrangement44 had arisen, not from any definite causes beyond those of absence, increasing age, and diverging sympathies.
Next, his bright particular star, Elfride. The face of Elfride was more womanly than when she had called herself his, but as clear and healthy as ever. Her plenteous twines45 of beautiful hair were looking much as usual, with the exception of a slight modification46 in their arrangement in deference47 to the changes of fashion.
Their two foreheads were close together, almost touching48, and both were looking down. Elfride was holding her watch, Knight was holding the light with one hand, his left arm being round her waist. Part of the scene reached Stephen's eyes through the horizontal bars of woodwork, which crossed their forms like the ribs49 of a skeleton.
Knight's arm stole still further round the waist of Elfride.
'It is half-past eight,' she said in a low voice, which had a peculiar34 music in it, seemingly born of a thrill of pleasure at the new proof that she was beloved.
The flame dwindled50 down, died away, and all was wrapped in a darkness to which the gloom before the illumination bore no comparison in apparent density51. Stephen, shattered in spirit and sick to his heart's centre, turned away. In turning, he saw a shadowy outline behind the summer-house on the other side. His eyes grew accustomed to the darkness. Was the form a human form, or was it an opaque52 bush of juniper?
The lovers arose, brushed against the laurestines, and pursued their way to the house. The indistinct figure had moved, and now passed across Smith's front. So completely enveloped53 was the person, that it was impossible to discern him or her any more than as a shape. The shape glided noiselessly on.
Stephen stepped forward, fearing any mischief54 was intended to the other two. 'Who are you?' he said.
'Never mind who I am,' answered a weak whisper from the enveloping55 folds. 'WHAT I am, may she be! Perhaps I knew well--ah, so well!-- a youth whose place you took, as he there now takes yours. Will you let her break your heart, and bring you to an untimely grave, as she did the one before you?'
'You are Mrs. Jethway, I think. What do you do here? And why do you talk so wildly?'
'Because my heart is desolate56, and nobody cares about it. May hers be so that brought trouble upon me!'
'Silence!' said Stephen, staunch to Elfride in spite of himself 'She would harm nobody wilfully57, never would she! How do you come here?'
'I saw the two coming up the path, and wanted to learn if she were not one of them. Can I help disliking her if I think of the past? Can I help watching her if I remember my boy? Can I help ill- wishing her if I well-wish him?'
The bowed form went on, passed through the wicket, and was enveloped by the shadows of the field.
Stephen had heard that Mrs. Jethway, since the death of her son, had become a crazed, forlorn woman; and bestowing58 a pitying thought upon her, he dismissed her fancied wrongs from his mind, but not her condemnation59 of Elfride's faithlessness. That entered into and mingled60 with the sensations his new experience had begotten61. The tale told by the little scene he had witnessed ran parallel with the unhappy woman's opinion, which, however baseless it might have been antecedently, had become true enough as regarded himself.
A slow weight of despair, as distinct from a violent paroxysm as starvation from a mortal shot, filled him and wrung62 him body and soul. The discovery had not been altogether unexpected, for throughout his anxiety of the last few days since the night in the churchyard, he had been inclined to construe63 the uncertainty64 unfavourably for himself. His hopes for the best had been but periodic interruptions to a chronic65 fear of the worst.
A strange concomitant of his misery66 was the singularity of its form. That his rival should be Knight, whom once upon a time he had adored as a man is very rarely adored by another in modern times, and whom he loved now, added deprecation to sorrow, and cynicism to both. Henry Knight, whose praises he had so frequently trumpeted67 in her ears, of whom she had actually been jealous, lest she herself should be lessened68 in Stephen's love on account of him, had probably won her the more easily by reason of those very praises which he had only ceased to utter by her command. She had ruled him like a queen in that matter, as in all others. Stephen could tell by her manner, brief as had been his observation of it, and by her words, few as they were, that her position was far different with Knight. That she looked up at and adored her new lover from below his pedestal, was even more perceptible than that she had smiled down upon Stephen from a height above him.
The suddenness of Elfride's renunciation of himself was food for more torture. To an unimpassioned outsider, it admitted of at least two interpretations--it might either have proceeded from an endeavour to be faithful to her first choice, till the lover seen absolutely overpowered the lover remembered, or from a wish not to lose his love till sure of the love of another. But to Stephen Smith the motive69 involved in the latter alternative made it untenable where Elfride was the actor.
He mused70 on her letters to him, in which she had never mentioned a syllable71 concerning Knight. It is desirable, however, to observe that only in two letters could she possibly have done so. One was written about a week before Knight's arrival, when, though she did not mention his promised coming to Stephen, she had hardly a definite reason in her mind for neglecting to do it. In the next she did casually72 allude73 to Knight. But Stephen had left Bombay long before that letter arrived.
Stephen looked at the black form of the adjacent house, where it cut a dark polygonal74 notch75 out of the sky, and felt that he hated the spot. He did not know many facts of the case, but could not help instinctively76 associating Elfride's fickleness77 with the marriage of her father, and their introduction to London society. He closed the iron gate bounding the shrubbery as noiselessly as he had opened it, and went into the grassy78 field. Here he could see the old vicarage, the house alone that was associated with the sweet pleasant time of his incipient79 love for Elfride. Turning sadly from the place that was no longer a nook in which his thoughts might nestle when he was far away, he wandered in the direction of the east village, to reach his father's house before they retired80 to rest.
The nearest way to the cottage was by crossing the park. He did not hurry. Happiness frequently has reason for haste, but it is seldom that desolation need scramble81 or strain. Sometimes he paused under the low-hanging arms of the trees, looking vacantly on the ground.
Stephen was standing82 thus, scarcely less crippled in thought than he was blank in vision, when a clear sound permeated83 the quiet air about him, and spread on far beyond. The sound was the stroke of a bell from the tower of East Endelstow Church, which stood in a dell not forty yards from Lord Luxellian's mansion84, and within the park enclosure. Another stroke greeted his ear, and gave character to both: then came a slow succession of them.
'Somebody is dead,' he said aloud.
The death-knell of an inhabitant of the eastern parish was being tolled85.
An unusual feature in the tolling86 was that it had not been begun according to the custom in Endelstow and other parishes in the neighbourhood. At every death the sex and age of the deceased were announced by a system of changes. Three times three strokes signified that the departed one was a man; three times two, a woman; twice three, a boy; twice two, a girl. The regular continuity of the tolling suggested that it was the resumption rather than the beginning of a knell--the opening portion of which Stephen had not been near enough to hear.
The momentary87 anxiety he had felt with regard to his parents passed away. He had left them in perfect health, and had any serious illness seized either, a communication would have reached him ere this. At the same time, since his way homeward lay under the churchyard yews88, he resolved to look into the belfry in passing by, and speak a word to Martin Cannister, who would be there.
Stephen reached the brow of the hill, and felt inclined to renounce89 his idea. His mood was such that talking to any person to whom he could not unburden himself would be wearisome. However, before he could put any inclination90 into effect, the young man saw from amid the trees a bright light shining, the rays from which radiated like needles through the sad plumy foliage91 of the yews. Its direction was from the centre of the churchyard.
Stephen mechanically went forward. Never could there be a greater contrast between two places of like purpose than between this graveyard92 and that of the further village. Here the grass was carefully tended, and formed virtually a part of the manor-house lawn; flowers and shrubs93 being planted indiscriminately over both, whilst the few graves visible were mathematically exact in shape and smoothness, appearing in the daytime like chins newly shaven. There was no wall, the division between God's Acre and Lord Luxellian's being marked only by a few square stones set at equidistant points. Among those persons who have romantic sentiments on the subject of their last dwelling-place, probably the greater number would have chosen such a spot as this in preference to any other: a few would have fancied a constraint94 in its trim neatness, and would have preferred the wild hill-top of the neighbouring site, with Nature in her most negligent95 attire96.
The light in the churchyard he next discovered to have its source in a point very near the ground, and Stephen imagined it might come from a lantern in the interior of a partly-dug grave. But a nearer approach showed him that its position was immediately under the wall of the aisle97, and within the mouth of an archway. He could now hear voices, and the truth of the whole matter began to dawn upon him. Walking on towards the opening, Smith discerned on his left hand a heap of earth, and before him a flight of stone steps which the removed earth had uncovered, leading down under the edifice98. It was the entrance to a large family vault99, extending under the north aisle.
Stephen had never before seen it open, and descending100 one or two steps stooped to look under the arch. The vault appeared to be crowded with coffins101, with the exception of an open central space, which had been necessarily kept free for ingress and access to the sides, round three of which the coffins were stacked in stone bins102 or niches103.
The place was well lighted with candles stuck in slips of wood that were fastened to the wall. On making the descent of another step the living inhabitants of the vault were recognizable. They were his father the master-mason, an under-mason, Martin Cannister, and two or three young and old labouring-men. Crowbars and workmen's hammers were scattered104 about. The whole company, sitting round on coffins which had been removed from their places, apparently for some alteration105 or enlargement of the vault, were eating bread and cheese, and drinking ale from a cup with two handles, passed round from each to each.
'Who is dead?' Stephen inquired, stepping down.
收听单词发音 |
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junctions
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| 联结点( junction的名词复数 )； 会合点； （公路或铁路的）交叉路口； （电缆等的）主结点 | |
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devious
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| adj.不坦率的，狡猾的；迂回的，曲折的 | |
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quay
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| n.码头，靠岸处 | |
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ascending
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| adj.上升的，向上的 | |
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sufficiently
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| adv.足够地，充分地 | |
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placid
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| adj.安静的，平和的 | |
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flux
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| n.流动；不断的改变 | |
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regularity
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| n.规律性，规则性；匀称，整齐 | |
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twilight
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| n.暮光，黄昏；暮年，晚期，衰落时期 | |
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glided
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| v.滑动( glide的过去式和过去分词 )；掠过；（鸟或飞机 ） 滑翔 | |
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oars
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| n.桨，橹( oar的名词复数 )；划手v.划（行）( oar的第三人称单数 ) | |
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ascended
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| v.上升，攀登( ascend的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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prominence
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| n.突出；显著；杰出；重要 | |
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apparently
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| adv.显然地；表面上，似乎 | |
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bonnet
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| n.无边女帽；童帽 | |
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Forsaken
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| adj. 被遗忘的, 被抛弃的 动词forsake的过去分词 | |
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footpath
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| n.小路，人行道 | |
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precisely
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| adv.恰好，正好，精确地，细致地 | |
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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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trickling
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| n.油画底色含油太多而成泡沫状突起v.滴( trickle的现在分词 )；淌；使)慢慢走；缓慢移动 | |
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diverged
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| 分开( diverge的过去式和过去分词 )； 偏离； 分歧； 分道扬镳 | |
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diverging
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| 分开( diverge的现在分词 )； 偏离； 分歧； 分道扬镳 | |
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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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hesitation
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| n.犹豫，踌躇 | |
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promenade
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| n./v.散步 | |
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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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agitation
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| n.搅动；搅拌；鼓动，煽动 | |
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swerved
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| v.（使）改变方向，改变目的( swerve的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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shunned
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| v.避开，回避，避免( shun的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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rustles
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| n.发出沙沙的声音( rustle的名词复数 )v.发出沙沙的声音( rustle的第三人称单数 ) | |
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relinquished
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| 交出，让给( relinquish的过去式和过去分词 )； 放弃 | |
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cadence
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| n.（说话声调的）抑扬顿挫 | |
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peculiarity
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| n.独特性，特色；特殊的东西；怪癖 | |
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peculiar
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| adj.古怪的，异常的；特殊的，特有的 | |
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renewal
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| adj.(契约)延期，续订，更新，复活，重来 | |
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lustrous
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| adj.有光泽的；光辉的 | |
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streaks
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| n.（与周围有所不同的）条纹( streak的名词复数 )；（通常指不好的）特征（倾向）；（不断经历成功或失败的）一段时期v.快速移动( streak的第三人称单数 )；使布满条纹 | |
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awakened
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| v.（使）醒( awaken的过去式和过去分词 )；（使）觉醒；弄醒；（使）意识到 | |
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gnats
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| n.叮人小虫( gnat的名词复数 ) | |
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gossamer
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| n.薄纱，游丝 | |
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phenomena
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| n.现象 | |
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illuminated
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| adj.被照明的；受启迪的 | |
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knight
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| n.骑士，武士；爵士 | |
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estrangement
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| n.疏远，失和，不和 | |
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twines
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| n.盘绕( twine的名词复数 )；麻线；捻；缠绕在一起的东西 | |
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modification
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| n.修改，改进，缓和，减轻 | |
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deference
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| n.尊重，顺从；敬意 | |
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touching
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| adj.动人的，使人感伤的 | |
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ribs
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| n.肋骨( rib的名词复数 )；（船或屋顶等的）肋拱；肋骨状的东西；（织物的）凸条花纹 | |
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dwindled
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| v.逐渐变少或变小( dwindle的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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density
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| n.密集，密度，浓度 | |
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opaque
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| adj.不透光的；不反光的，不传导的；晦涩的 | |
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enveloped
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| v.包围，笼罩，包住( envelop的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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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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enveloping
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| v.包围，笼罩，包住( envelop的现在分词 ) | |
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56
desolate
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| adj.荒凉的，荒芜的；孤独的，凄凉的；v.使荒芜，使孤寂 | |
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wilfully
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| adv.任性固执地；蓄意地 | |
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bestowing
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| 砖窑中砖堆上层已烧透的砖 | |
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condemnation
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| n.谴责; 定罪 | |
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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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begotten
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| v.为…之生父( beget的过去分词 )；产生，引起 | |
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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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construe
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| v.翻译，解释 | |
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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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chronic
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| adj.(疾病)长期未愈的，慢性的；极坏的 | |
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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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trumpeted
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| 大声说出或宣告（trumpet的过去式与过去分词形式） | |
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lessened
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| 减少的，减弱的 | |
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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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mused
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| v.沉思，冥想( muse的过去式和过去分词 )；沉思自语说（某事） | |
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syllable
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| n.音节；vt.分音节 | |
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casually
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| adv.漠不关心地，无动于衷地，不负责任地 | |
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allude
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| v.提及，暗指 | |
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polygonal
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| adj.多角形的，多边形的 | |
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notch
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| n.(V字形)槽口，缺口，等级 | |
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instinctively
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| adv.本能地 | |
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fickleness
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| n.易变；无常；浮躁；变化无常 | |
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grassy
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| adj.盖满草的；长满草的 | |
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incipient
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| adj.起初的，发端的，初期的 | |
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retired
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| adj.隐退的，退休的，退役的 | |
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scramble
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| v.爬行，攀爬，杂乱蔓延，碎片，片段，废料 | |
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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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83
permeated
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| 弥漫( permeate的过去式和过去分词 )； 遍布； 渗入； 渗透 | |
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mansion
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| n.大厦，大楼；宅第 | |
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tolled
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| 鸣钟（toll的过去式与过去分词形式） | |
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tolling
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| [财]来料加工 | |
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momentary
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| adj.片刻的，瞬息的；短暂的 | |
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yews
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| n.紫杉( yew的名词复数 ) | |
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renounce
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| v.放弃；拒绝承认，宣布与…断绝关系 | |
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inclination
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| n.倾斜；点头；弯腰；斜坡；倾度；倾向；爱好 | |
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foliage
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| n.叶子，树叶，簇叶 | |
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graveyard
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| n.坟场 | |
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shrubs
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| 灌木( shrub的名词复数 ) | |
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constraint
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| n.(on)约束，限制；限制(或约束)性的事物 | |
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negligent
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| adj.疏忽的；玩忽的；粗心大意的 | |
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attire
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| v.穿衣，装扮[同]array；n.衣着；盛装 | |
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aisle
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| n.（教堂、教室、戏院等里的）过道，通道 | |
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edifice
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| n.宏伟的建筑物(如宫殿，教室) | |
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vault
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| n.拱形圆顶，地窖，地下室 | |
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100
descending
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| n. 下行 adj. 下降的 | |
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101
coffins
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| n.棺材( coffin的名词复数 )；使某人早亡[死，完蛋，垮台等]之物 | |
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102
bins
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| n.大储藏箱( bin的名词复数 )；宽口箱（如面包箱，垃圾箱等）v.扔掉，丢弃( bin的第三人称单数 ) | |
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103
niches
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| 壁龛( niche的名词复数 )； 合适的位置[工作等]； （产品的）商机； 生态位（一个生物所占据的生境的最小单位） | |
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104
scattered
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| adj.分散的，稀疏的；散步的；疏疏落落的 | |
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alteration
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| n.变更，改变；蚀变 | |
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