'You're quite right, doctor, in your diagnosis9 of my case,' I said. 'I have had rather a queer experience lately, and, if you care to hear about it I shall gladly tell you. Would you share a little secret with me, doctor?'
'Most gladly,' he said.
'Well, will you please light your pipe? Take that easy-chair by the fire, and you may sit with your back to me, and I sha'n't feel slighted.'
He laughed softly, and, extracting a short clay pipe from his waistcoat pocket, took the chair I indicated. Seated thus, and smoking steadily11, he listened in silence till my story was finished. I gave him the whole history, kept nothing back; and in telling all the details I never hesitated, for the incidents were fresh in my mind, and I had everything well thought out.
'Ay, Mr Russell,' he said, after a long pause, 'you tell a story very well, and what you have told is most interesting and wonderful. I have read of such occurrences, but I haven12't till now come across one at first hand, as it were. Shakespeare says there are more things in heaven and earth than are dreamt of in our philosophy, and your experience certainly goes to prove it. It is usual, especially during a man's romantic years, to dream of a fair lady's face—very usual indeed; but I consider it most remarkable13 that everything came to a head so shortly after you had told Betty of your dream, and also when, for the first time, you had entertained doubts as to your vision being realised. I suppose you are very much in love with this lady?' and he looked over his shoulder at me.
'Well, yes, doctor, I am.'
'What is your age, again, Mr Russell?'
'Thirty in January.'
'And—and, you've never been in love before?'
'I think I've been in love ever since I dreamed my dream, now nearly ten years ago; but since that interview in Nithbank Wood I'm more hopelessly in love than ever;' and, somehow, I began to blush, and I was glad his back was turned toward me.
'Imphm! Ay, the old story is ever new,' he said, more to himself than to me; and he rose slowly from his chair, knocked the ashes out of his pipe on the top rib14 of the grate, and came over to my bedside. 'Have you told Betty of this strange meeting?'
'No.'
'Why?'
'Well, doctor, I can hardly explain why I haven't told her, as the dear old soul is "nearer" to me than any one else in the world; but I felt, somehow, that I wanted to confide in you first.'
'Thank you, Mr Russell; and it will be a joyful16 day when you and I and Betty can talk it all over among us. Meanwhile we'll keep it to ourselves, you and I, and I don't think you should allow this—this affaire de cœur to monopolise your mind too much. To worry and distract your thoughts over it would be as harmful as it would be futile17. So far, the stars have fought in their courses for you, and, without much exertion18 on your part, your fondest dreams seem in a fair way to be fulfilled. William—no "Mr Russell" after a crack like this!—I am more than double your age, and for many years I have lived a queer, prosaic19, loveless life—a full life if hard work and gain and recognition be reckoned everything, but empty—oh God, how empty!—if love counts for all. I am old, but not so old that I cannot understand you and sympathise with you, for I well remember days which were brightened to me by the sunshine of a woman's loving smile; times when all this earth was heaven to me, the singing of the birds an angel song, all its people upright and just; sermons I read in stones, and good I saw in everything. But that was long ago. When love was taken away from me the whole world seemed changed. My life since then has been selfish and self-centred. I have long ceased to take any interest in the social doings of others; and were it not for my work, my books, and my daily communings with nature, I should be a lonely, miserable20 old man. I don't mind telling you, however, that you have touched a chord in my heart and awakened21 memories which have slumbered22 long. I am very much interested in you, partly on account of your own personality, but mainly because it was a very near relative of yours who brought to me the only true joy and gladness that my heart has ever known.'
He sat down on the basket chair at the foot of my bed, facing me, and with his back to the light.
'You will doubtless remember,' he continued, 'that, during my first visit to you here, Betty in course of conversation, casually23 or otherwise, mentioned the name of your aunt Margaret.'
'Yes, doctor, I remember that distinctly, and also that you were visibly affected; but'——
'I must confess I was, William,' he quickly interposed. 'Well, confidence for confidence. You have told me your love experience, so far as it has gone, and it may be that, by doing so, you have relieved your mind and hastened your recovery; and perhaps, if I recount mine to one who can understand, it will bring a balm and a solace24 to my old heart, of which, in these my years of sear and yellow leaves, I often stand sorely in need. You—you don't mind my smoking?'
'That's right—that's right! Nothing like tobacco for promoting good-fellowship.'
We filled our pipes in silence. Though it was only late noon, the light seemed to be darkening in my little room. I looked toward the window, and down from a dull leaden sky the first of winter's snowflakes were quietly falling—falling, as it appeared to me, into the eager upstretched arms of the leafless lime. The doctor's gaze followed mine; and slowly, with his pipe filled but not lit, he rose from his chair and looked long and thoughtfully toward the quiet, obscured Dry Gill.
'I have always loved to see snow falling,' he said, after a pause. 'It has a strange fascination27 for me; and to see it in its fleecy flakes26, whirling and dancing and drifting and playing, is a sight which always soothes28 and inspires me. I pray God that my eyesight may long be spared to me, because it is an avenue through which many of His richly stored treasures are conveyed. I have no ear for music—instrumental music I mean particularly; but, strangely enough, a wimplin' burn can speak to me in its flow, a mavis can call me from my study into my garden, and the eerie29 yammer of the whaup in the moorland solitude30 is always to me, as it is to Robert Wanlock, "a wanderin' word frae hame." The human voice raised in song conveys nothing to me, but the crooning lullaby of a loving mother over her suffering child tirls the strings31 of my heart and makes me humble32. To be unable to feel the pleading of the violin, the rich soprano, and the resonant33 bass34 is something I deplore35. But Providence36 has ordained37 that if one sense is minus one, another sense will be plus one. Well, my sense of sight is plus one, both in strength and appreciation38; and in the midst of these beautiful surroundings in which, for the last forty years, my lines have been cast, I have revelled39, William—positively revelled. The opportunity has always been mine of noting the changing of the seasons—the virgin40 green and promise of spring, the glory and fullness of summer, the russet and gold of autumn, the sleep and decay of winter—and each, to him who can see aright, has a beauty and significance of its own. Ay, and this is winter—winter heralded41 by a shimmering42 veil of pirling snowflakes, through whose dancing meshes43 I can trace phantom44 forms I saw in youth, and whose madcap antics still, thank God! bring me solace as of yore. Oh, how grateful and thankful I ought to be!'
He lit his pipe with a paper spill, and stood for a minute blowing clouds of smoke round the old china dog on my mantelpiece. Then he resumed his seat at the foot of my bed; and, inclining his head sideways toward the window, he said, 'The last good-bye I said to your aunt Margaret was spoken amidst falling snow, and it is strange that I should be speaking of her to you for the first time with these flimsy flakes dimming your window-pane. There's not much to tell you, William; and, to be candid45 with you, when I was standing46 smoking at your fireplace there the thought came to me that, as your mother had never deemed it expedient47 or necessary to mention my name to you, it would be more in agreement with her will that I should be silent. However, as I have started, I may as well proceed; but I shall be brief, as I haven't the heart to go into what must ever be sacred details. I first met your aunt Margaret in Edinburgh, when I was at the University. Her father—your grandfather, Colonel Kennedy—had returned from India, where he had served with distinction, and had, with his wife and two daughters, taken up residence in the suburb of Murrayfield. Being of a Dumfriesshire family, and well known to my father, who was a merchant in Dumfries and Provost of that town, Colonel Kennedy, on the strength of my father's letter of introduction, gave me a hearty48 welcome to his domestic circle, a welcome of which I may say I took ample advantage. Your father and mother got married shortly after I became acquainted with the family; and as your aunt Margaret was thus deprived of a sister and companion to whom she was ardently49 attached, I gladly embraced every opportunity of showing her little kindly50 attentions, acting10 the part of a thoughtful brother, and generally doing my utmost to minimise the loss which I was sure she had sustained. Well, William, this ended in the usual way. Sympathy begets51 love, and I fell hopelessly in love with Margaret Kennedy. How I found out that my love was returned is a secret which is a joy to me, too holy to share even with you, William. Ah me! the happiness of those halcyon52 days—the quiet afternoons in that old drawing-room facing southward to the distant Pentlands, the evening walks on Corstorphine Hill when the sunset rays still lingered above Ben Lomond, the talks we had of the future we had planned! Tennyson says that "sorrow's crown of sorrow is remembering happier things." That may be poetic53, but I don't think it is true, for it is a crown of joy to me to call these times to mind, and I feel that to have had this experience, and to have garnered54 such memories, I have surely not lived in vain. Our love, as is the case with all young people, was unreasoning. We gave no thought to ways and means, and position or status we never for a moment considered. But your grandfather brought us to earth and faced us with realities. In response to a written request, I waited on him one evening, and in a very few words he gave me to understand that I must on no account pay further attention to his daughter, and that my visits to his house must cease. He reproached me with lack of honour in taking advantage of his hospitality to further my own interests and clandestinely55 win the affection of your aunt Margaret. I repudiated56 this charge, perhaps somewhat warmly, informed him that if I had broken any of the accepted social laws in the matter, I had done so in ignorance, and assured him I loved his daughter, and that nothing short of her renunciation would deter57 me from some day making her my wife. He lost his temper, and bluntly asked me if, for a moment, I, a prospectless58 student and son of a provincial59 merchant, considered myself worthy60 of a Kennedy of Knockshaw; whereupon I told him that there were Griersons in Lag, as wardens61 of the Border Marches, when the Kennedys were sitting in farmyard barns making spoons out of ram-horns. The old reiver blood coursed warmly through my veins62, and I faced him without fear. This was the last straw. He raised his cane63 to strike me; but, noting my air of defiance64, he immediately lowered it, and pointed65 to the door. I bowed in silence, then walked slowly out, and I never entered the house again.
'The days which followed that interview were perhaps the most miserable I ever spent. I had had no opportunity of seeing your aunt; and though I knew she loved me, and that no mercenary considerations would sway her, still there was the uncertainty66 of it all, under altered circumstances, and the possibility of her being dominated by her father's masterful will. At last, after weary weeks of waiting, of alternate spells of hope and despair, I received a letter from her, written from a lonely island in the Pentland Firth, and letting me know that she had been sent thither67 by her father on a visit to her uncle, who at that time was proprietor68 of the island of Stroma. She assured me of her unfaltering love, told me that nothing on earth would shake her resolve, and that, notwithstanding her father's threats, she would join me sooner or later in a haven of rest. She would take my love for granted, and asked me not to write, as my letters would be intercepted69. With this ray of hope I had to be content. She wrote to me at intervals70; but, as letter followed letter, each became more despondent71 and despairing, and at last she informed me that it was evident she would not be allowed to return until she promised not to see or correspond with me again. Then came a little, short note pleading for an interview. "It is a long journey, I know," she wrote; "but I dearly—oh, so dearly!—wish to see you again. Your presence will cheer me and strengthen me to bear whatever the future may hold. On Wednesday next my uncle goes to Kirkwall, and on that afternoon I will walk down to a little sheltered creek72 called Corravoe. It is the nearest point to the mainland, and only a mile or two from Huna. Matthew Howat has a good boat. When you reach Huna ask for Matthew. He knows everything, and will help us...." Never a day passes but that weird73, solitary74 scene comes before my eyes—no trees, no hills, no signs of human habitation; only a short, gray-green stretch of low-lying, patchy landscape, bordered by a narrow strip of rocky beach, lapped by the crested75 tide of the Pentland Flow. One short hour we spent together, for the tide was turning, but the smile of hope shone in her wan15 face ere we said good-bye. I was the bearer of joyful news, comforting words, and assurance of release. I told her I was specialising in Edinburgh; that an unexpected legacy76 of three thousand pounds had paved the way to our happiness; and that, when I had arranged with my mother for her reception, she would sail across to Huna, and find me waiting her there.... The roar of the far-off skerries is in my ear, the echoing homeward cry of the seabird, the humming and hissing78 of the waves among the shells on the shingle79! The shortening day is drawing to a close, mist is clinging to the scarred face of Dunnet Head, from the darkening sky the snow is falling, and through the whirling flakes she fades from my sight.
'A day came when again I was in Huna, looking across the angry, wind-tossed Pentland Firth, waiting for a boat which, alas80! never reached its haven. What happened no one ever knew. The sullen81 waters guard their secrets well; but a broken oar77 bearing Matthew Howat's initials, picked up in Scrabster Bay, told a story which robbed my life of the only light which ever shone in my soul.'
The doctor sat for a minute, after he had finished his story, with his eyes closed and his chin resting on the knot of his stock. Then he wearily rose from his chair and went quietly downstairs without saying good-bye. He has a keen sense of the fitness of things, and I feel he knew that no word of mine, no pressure of my hand, was needed to prove to him that my heart was with him.
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1
drawn
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| v.拖，拉，拔出；adj.憔悴的，紧张的 | |
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confide
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| v.向某人吐露秘密 | |
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irresistible
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| adj.非常诱人的，无法拒绝的，无法抗拒的 | |
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briefly
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| adv.简单地，简短地 | |
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adversely
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| ad.有害地 | |
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affected
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| adj.不自然的，假装的 | |
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physically
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| adj.物质上，体格上，身体上，按自然规律 | |
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8
sufficiently
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| adv.足够地，充分地 | |
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diagnosis
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| n.诊断，诊断结果，调查分析，判断 | |
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acting
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| n.演戏，行为，假装；adj.代理的，临时的，演出用的 | |
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steadily
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| adv.稳定地；不变地；持续地 | |
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haven
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| n.安全的地方，避难所，庇护所 | |
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remarkable
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| adj.显著的，异常的，非凡的，值得注意的 | |
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rib
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| n.肋骨，肋状物 | |
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wan
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| (wide area network)广域网 | |
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joyful
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| adj.欢乐的，令人欢欣的 | |
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futile
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| adj.无效的，无用的，无希望的 | |
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exertion
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| n.尽力，努力 | |
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prosaic
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| adj.单调的，无趣的 | |
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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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21
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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slumbered
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| 微睡，睡眠（slumber的过去式与过去分词形式） | |
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23
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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solace
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| n.安慰；v.使快乐；vt.安慰(物)，缓和 | |
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sociable
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| adj.好交际的，友好的，合群的 | |
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flakes
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| 小薄片( flake的名词复数 )； （尤指）碎片； 雪花； 古怪的人 | |
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fascination
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| n.令人着迷的事物，魅力，迷恋 | |
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soothes
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| v.安慰( soothe的第三人称单数 )；抚慰；使舒服；减轻痛苦 | |
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eerie
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| adj.怪诞的；奇异的；可怕的；胆怯的 | |
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solitude
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| n. 孤独; 独居,荒僻之地,幽静的地方 | |
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strings
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| n.弦 | |
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humble
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| adj.谦卑的，恭顺的；地位低下的；v.降低，贬低 | |
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resonant
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| adj.(声音)洪亮的，共鸣的 | |
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bass
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| n.男低音(歌手)；低音乐器；低音大提琴 | |
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deplore
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| vt.哀叹，对...深感遗憾 | |
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providence
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| n.深谋远虑，天道，天意；远见；节约；上帝 | |
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ordained
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| v.任命（某人）为牧师( ordain的过去式和过去分词 )；授予（某人）圣职；（上帝、法律等）命令；判定 | |
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appreciation
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| n.评价；欣赏；感谢；领会，理解；价格上涨 | |
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revelled
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| v.作乐( revel的过去式和过去分词 )；狂欢；着迷；陶醉 | |
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virgin
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| n.处女，未婚女子；adj.未经使用的；未经开发的 | |
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heralded
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| v.预示( herald的过去式和过去分词 )；宣布（好或重要） | |
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shimmering
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| v.闪闪发光，发微光( shimmer的现在分词 ) | |
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43
meshes
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| 网孔( mesh的名词复数 )； 网状物； 陷阱； 困境 | |
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phantom
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| n.幻影，虚位，幽灵；adj.错觉的，幻影的，幽灵的 | |
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45
candid
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| adj.公正的，正直的；坦率的 | |
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46
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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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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48
hearty
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| adj.热情友好的；衷心的；尽情的，纵情的 | |
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49
ardently
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| adv.热心地，热烈地 | |
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50
kindly
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| adj.和蔼的，温和的，爽快的；adv.温和地，亲切地 | |
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51
begets
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| v.为…之生父( beget的第三人称单数 )；产生，引起 | |
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52
halcyon
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| n.平静的，愉快的 | |
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53
poetic
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| adj.富有诗意的，有诗人气质的，善于抒情的 | |
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54
garnered
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| v.收集并（通常）贮藏（某物），取得，获得( garner的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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55
clandestinely
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| adv.秘密地，暗中地 | |
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56
repudiated
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| v.（正式地）否认( repudiate的过去式和过去分词 )；拒绝接受；拒绝与…往来；拒不履行（法律义务） | |
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57
deter
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| vt.阻止，使不敢，吓住 | |
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58
prospectless
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| n.章程，简章，简介( prospectus的名词复数 ) | |
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provincial
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| adj.省的，地方的；n．外省人，乡下人 | |
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worthy
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| adj.(of)值得的，配得上的；有价值的 | |
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wardens
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| n.看守人( warden的名词复数 )；管理员；监察员；监察官 | |
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62
veins
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| n.纹理；矿脉( vein的名词复数 )；静脉；叶脉；纹理 | |
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63
cane
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| n.手杖，细长的茎，藤条；v.以杖击，以藤编制的 | |
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64
defiance
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| n.挑战，挑衅，蔑视，违抗 | |
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pointed
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| adj.尖的，直截了当的 | |
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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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67
thither
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| adv.向那里；adj.在那边的，对岸的 | |
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proprietor
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| n.所有人；业主；经营者 | |
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69
intercepted
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| 拦截( intercept的过去式和过去分词 )； 截住； 截击； 拦阻 | |
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70
intervals
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| n.[军事]间隔( interval的名词复数 )；间隔时间；[数学]区间；（戏剧、电影或音乐会的）幕间休息 | |
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71
despondent
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| adj.失望的，沮丧的，泄气的 | |
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72
creek
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| n.小溪，小河，小湾 | |
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73
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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74
solitary
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| adj.孤独的，独立的，荒凉的；n.隐士 | |
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75
crested
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| adj.有顶饰的，有纹章的，有冠毛的v.到达山顶（或浪峰）( crest的过去式和过去分词 )；到达洪峰，达到顶点 | |
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76
legacy
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| n.遗产，遗赠；先人(或过去)留下的东西 | |
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77
oar
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| n.桨，橹，划手；v.划行 | |
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78
hissing
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| n. 发嘶嘶声, 蔑视 动词hiss的现在分词形式 | |
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79
shingle
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| n.木瓦板；小招牌(尤指医生或律师挂的营业招牌)；v.用木瓦板盖（屋顶）；把（女子头发）剪短 | |
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80
alas
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| int.唉(表示悲伤、忧愁、恐惧等) | |
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81
sullen
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| adj.愠怒的，闷闷不乐的，(天气等)阴沉的 | |
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