He went out to the autumn hills and sought the ridge6 which runs for miles on the lip of the glen. It was a grey day, with snow waiting in cloud-banks in the north sky and a thin wind whistling through the pines. The scene matched his humour. He was in love for the moment with the stony7 and stormy in life. He hungered morbidly8 for ill-fortune, something to stamp out the ease in his soul, and weld him into the form of a man.
He had got his chance and the rest lay with himself. It was a chance of high adventure, a great mission, a limitless future. At the thought the old fever began to rise in his blood. The hot, clear smell of rock and sand, the brown depths of the waters, the far white peaks running up among the stars, all spoke9 to him with the long-remembered call. Once more he should taste life, and, alert in mind and body, hold up his chin among his fellows. It would be a contest of wits, and for all his cowardice10 this was not the contest he shrank from.
And then there came back on him, like a flood, the dumb misery11 of incompetence12 which had weighed on heart and brain. The hatred13 of the whole struggling, sordid14 crew, all the cant15 and ugliness and ignorance of a mad world, his weakness in the face of it, his fall from common virtue16, his nerveless indolence—all stung him like needle points, till he cried out in agony. Anything to deliver his soul from such a bondage17, and in his extreme bitterness his mind closed with Wratislaw’s offer.
He felt—and it is a proof of his weakness—a certain nameless feeling of content when he had once forced himself into the resolution. Now at least he had found a helm and a port to strain to. As his fancy dwelt upon the mission and drew airy pictures of the land, he found to his delight a boyish enthusiasm arising. Old simple pleasures seemed for the moment dear. There was a zest18 for toils19 and discomforts20, a tolerance21 of failure, which had been aforetime his chief traveller’s heritage.
And then as he came to the ridge where the road passes from Glenavelin to Glen Adler, he stopped as in duty bound to look at the famous prospect23. You stand at the shedding of two streams; behind, the green and woodland spaces of the pastoral Avelin; at the feet, a land of stones and dwarf24 junipers and naked rifts25 in the hills, with white-falling waters and dark shadows even at midday. And then, beyond and afar, the lines of hill-land crowd upon each other till the eye is lost in a mystery of grey rock and brown heather and single bald peaks rising sentinel-like in the waste. The grey heavens lent a chill eeriness26 to the dim grey distances; the sharp winds, the forerunners27 of snow, blew over the moors28 like blasts from a primeval night.
By an odd vagary29 of temper the love of these bleak30 hills blazed up fiercely in his heart. Never before had he felt so keenly the nameless glamour31 of his own heritage. He had not been back six months and yet he had come to accept all things as matters of course, the beauty of the place, its sport, its memories. Rarely had he felt that intimate joy in it which lies at the bottom of all true souls. There is a sentiment which old poets have made into songs and called the “Lilt of the Heather,” and which is knit closer to man’s heart than love of wife or kin2 or his own fair fortune. It had not come to him in the time of the hills’ glory, but now on the brink32 of winter the far-off melancholy33 of the place and its infinite fascination34 seemed to clutch at his heart-strings. It was his own land, the place of his fathers; and now he must sever35 himself from it and carry only a barren memory.
And yet he felt no melancholy. Rather it was the immortal36 gaiety of the wanderer, to whom the homeland is dearest as a memory, who pitches his camp by waters of Babylon and yet as ever the old word on his lip, the old song in his ear, and the kindly37 picture in his heart. Strange that it is the little races who wander farthest and yet have the eternal home-sickness! And yet not strange, for to the little peoples, their land, bare and uncouth38 and unfriendly for the needs of life, must be more the ideal, the dream, than the satisfaction. The lush countries give corn and wine for their folks, the little bare places afford no more than a spiritual heritage. Yet spiritual it is, and for two men who in the moment of their extremity39 will think on meadow, woodland, or placid40 village, a score will figure the windy hill, the grey lochan, and the mournful sea.
For the moment he felt a self-pity which he cast from him. To this degradation41 at least he should never come. But as the thought of Alice came up ever and again, his longing42 for her seemed to be changed from hot pain to a chastened regret. The red hearth-fire was no more in his fancy. The hunger for domesticity had gone, and the girl was now less the wife he had desired than the dream of love he had vainly followed. As he came back across the moors, for the first time for weeks his jealous love left him at peace. His had been a fanciful Sylvia, “holy, fair, and wise”; and what if mortal Sylvia were unkind, there was yet comfort in this elusive43 lady of his memories.
He found George at the end of a second breakfast, a very ruddy, happy young man hunting high and low for a lost tobacco-jar.
“Oh, first-class,” he said in answer to Lewis’s question. “Out and out the best day’s shooting I’ve had in my life. You were an ass22 not to come, you know. A lot of your friends there, tremendously disappointed too, and entrusted44 me with a lot of messages for you which I have forgotten.”
His companion’s high spirits infected Lewis and he fell into cheery gossip. Then he could contain the news no more.
“I had Tommy up last night on a flying visit. He says that Beauregard wants me to go out to Kashmir again. There has been some threatening of a row up there, and he thinks that as I know the place I might be able to get good information.”
“Official?” asked George.
“Practically, yes; but in theory it’s quite off my own bat, and they are good enough to tell me that they will not acknowledge responsibility. However, it’s a great chance and I am going.”
“Good,” said the other, and his face and voice had settled into gravity. “Pretty fair sport up in those parts, isn’t there?”
“Pretty fair? it’s about the best in the world. Your ordinary man who goes the grand tour comes home raving45 about the sport in the Himalayan foothills, and it’s not to be named with this.”
“Good chance too of a first-rate row, isn’t there? Natives troublesome, and Russia near, and that sort of thing?” George’s manner showed a growing enthusiasm.
“A rather good chance. It is about that I’m going, you know.”
“Then if you don’t mind, I am coming with you.”
Lewis stared, incredulous.
“It’s quite true. I am serious enough. I am doing nothing at the Bar, and I want to travel, proper travelling, where you are not coddled with railways and hotels.”
“But it’s hideously46 risky47, and probably very arduous48 and thankless. You will tire of it in a week.”
“I won’t,” said George, “and in any case I’ll make my book for that. You must let me come, Lewie. I simply couldn’t stand your going off alone.”
“But I may have to leave you. There are places where one can go when two can’t.”
“When you come to that sort of place I’ll stay behind. I’ll be quite under your orders.”
“Well, at any rate take some time to think over it.”
“Bless you, I don’t want time to think over it,” cried George. “I know my own mind. It’s the chance I’ve been waiting on for years.”
“Thanks tremendously then, my dear chap,” said Lewis, very ill at ease. “It’s very good of you. I must wire at once to Tommy.”
When his host had left the room George forgot to light his pipe, but walked instead to the window and whistled solemnly. “Poor old man,” he said softly to himself, “it had to come to this, but I’m hanged if he doesn’t take it like a Trojan.” And he added certain striking comments on the ways of womankind and the afflictions of life, which, being expressed in Mr. Winterham’s curious phraseology, need not be set down.
Alice had gone out after lunch to walk to Gledsmuir, seeking in the bitter cold and the dawning storm the freshness which comes from conflict. All the way down the glen the north wind had stung her cheeks to crimson50 and blown stray curls about her ears; but when she left the little market-place to return she found a fine snow powdering the earth, and a haze51 creeping over the hills which threatened storm. A mile of the weather delighted her, but after that she grew weary. When the fall thickened she sought the shelter of a way-side cottage, with the purpose of either sending to Glenavelin for a carriage or waiting for the off-chance of a farmer’s gig.
By four o’clock the snow showed no sign of clearing, but fell in the same steady, noiseless drift. The mistress of the place made the girl tea and dispatched her son to Glenavelin. But the errand would take time, for the boy was small, and Alice, ever impatient, stood drumming on the panes52, watching the dreary weather with a dreary heart. The goodwife was standing53 at the door on the look-out for a passing gig, and her cry brought the girl to attention.
“I see a machine comin’! I think it’s the Etterick dowg-cairt. Ye’ll get a drive in it.”
Alice had gone to the door, and lo! through the thick fall a dog-cart came into view driven by a tall young man. He recognized her at once, and drew up.
“Hullo, Miss Wishart! Storm-stayed? Can I help you?”
The girl looked distrustfully at the very restless horse and he caught her diffidence.
“Don’t be afraid. ‘What I don’t know about ‘oases ain’t worth knowin’,’” he quoted with a laugh; and leaning forward he prepared to assist her to mount.
There was nothing for it but to accept, and the next minute she found herself in the high seat beside him. Her wraps, sufficient for walking, were scarcely sufficient for a snowy drive, and this, to his credit, the young man saw. He unbuttoned his tweed shooting-cape54, and gravely put it round her. A curious dainty figure she made with her face all bright with wind, framed in the great grey cloak.
The horse jibbed for a second and then swung along the wild road with the vigorous ease of good blood skilfully55 handled. George was puzzling his brain all the while as to how he should tell his companion something which she ought to know. The strong drift and the turns of the road claimed much of his attention, so it is possible that he blurted56 out his news somewhat baldly.
“Do you know, Miss Wishart, that Lewis Haystoun and I are going off next week? Abroad, you know.”
The girl, who had been enjoying the ecstasy57 of swift motion through the bitter weather, glanced up at him with pain in her eyes.
“Where?” she asked.
“To the Indian frontier. We are going to be special unpaid58 unofficial members of the Intelligence Department.”
She asked the old, timid woman’s question about danger.
“It’s where Lewis was before. Only, you see, things have got into a mess thereabouts, and the Foreign Office has asked him to go out again. By the by, you mustn’t tell any one about this, for it’s in strict confidence.”
The words were meaningless, and yet they sent a pang59 through her heart. Had he no guess at her inmost feelings? Could he think that she would talk to Mr. Stocks of a thing which was bound up for her with all the sorrow and ecstasy of life?
He looked down and saw that her face had paled and that her mouth was drawn60 with some emotion. A sudden gleam of light seemed to break in upon him.
“Are you sorry?” he asked half-unwittingly.
For answer the girl turned her tragic61 eyes upon him, tried to speak, and faltered62. He cursed himself for a fool and a brute63, and whipped up an already over-active horse, till it was all but unmanageable. It was a wise move, for it absorbed his attention and gave the poor child at his side a chance to recover her composure.
They came to Glenavelin gates and George turned in. “I had better drive you to the door, in this charming weather,” he said. The sight of the pale little face had moved him to deep pity. He cursed his blindness, the blindness of a whole world of fools, and at the same time, with the impotence of the honest man, he could only wait and be silent.
At the door he stopped to unbutton his cape from her neck, and even in his nervousness he felt the trembling of her body. She spoke rapidly and painfully.
“I want you to take a message from me to—to—Lewis. Tell him I must see him. Tell him to come to the Midburn foot, to-morrow in the afternoon. Oh, I am ashamed to ask you, but you must tell him.” And then without thanks or good-bye she fled into the house.
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1
miserable
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| adj.悲惨的，痛苦的；可怜的，糟糕的 | |
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kin
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| n.家族，亲属，血缘关系；adj.亲属关系的，同类的 | |
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unwillingness
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| n. 不愿意，不情愿 | |
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bind
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| vt.捆，包扎；装订；约束；使凝固；vi.变硬 | |
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dreary
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| adj.令人沮丧的，沉闷的，单调乏味的 | |
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ridge
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| n.山脊；鼻梁；分水岭 | |
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stony
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| adj.石头的，多石头的，冷酷的，无情的 | |
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morbidly
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| adv.病态地 | |
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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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cowardice
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| n.胆小，怯懦 | |
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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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incompetence
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| n.不胜任，不称职 | |
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hatred
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| n.憎恶，憎恨，仇恨 | |
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sordid
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| adj.肮脏的，不干净的，卑鄙的，暗淡的 | |
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cant
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| n.斜穿，黑话，猛扔 | |
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virtue
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| n.德行，美德；贞操；优点；功效，效力 | |
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bondage
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| n.奴役，束缚 | |
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zest
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| n.乐趣；滋味，风味；兴趣 | |
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toils
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| 网 | |
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discomforts
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| n.不舒适( discomfort的名词复数 )；不愉快，苦恼 | |
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tolerance
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| n.宽容；容忍，忍受；耐药力；公差 | |
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ass
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| n.驴；傻瓜，蠢笨的人 | |
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prospect
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| n.前景，前途；景色，视野 | |
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dwarf
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| n.矮子，侏儒，矮小的动植物；vt.使…矮小 | |
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rifts
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| n.裂缝( rift的名词复数 )；裂隙；分裂；不和 | |
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eeriness
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| n.怪诞，胆怯，阴森 | |
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forerunners
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| n.先驱( forerunner的名词复数 )；开路人；先兆；前兆 | |
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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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vagary
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| n.妄想，不可测之事，异想天开 | |
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bleak
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| adj.(天气)阴冷的；凄凉的；暗淡的 | |
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glamour
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| n.魔力，魅力；vt.迷住 | |
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brink
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| n.(悬崖、河流等的)边缘，边沿 | |
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melancholy
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| n.忧郁，愁思；adj.令人感伤（沮丧）的，忧郁的 | |
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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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sever
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| v.切开，割开；断绝，中断 | |
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immortal
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| adj.不朽的；永生的，不死的；神的 | |
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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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uncouth
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| adj.无教养的，粗鲁的 | |
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extremity
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| n.末端，尽头；尽力；终极；极度 | |
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placid
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| adj.安静的，平和的 | |
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degradation
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| n.降级；低落；退化；陵削；降解；衰变 | |
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42
longing
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| n.（for）渴望 | |
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elusive
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| adj.难以表达(捉摸)的；令人困惑的；逃避的 | |
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44
entrusted
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| v.委托，托付( entrust的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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45
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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46
hideously
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| adv.可怕地，非常讨厌地 | |
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risky
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| adj.有风险的，冒险的 | |
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arduous
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| adj.艰苦的，费力的，陡峭的 | |
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49
mare
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| n.母马，母驴 | |
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50
crimson
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| n./adj.深(绯)红色(的)；vi.脸变绯红色 | |
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51
haze
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| n.霾，烟雾；懵懂，迷糊；vi.(over)变模糊 | |
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52
panes
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| 窗玻璃( pane的名词复数 ) | |
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53
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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54
cape
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| n.海角，岬；披肩，短披风 | |
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skilfully
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| adv. (美skillfully)熟练地 | |
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56
blurted
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| v.突然说出，脱口而出( blurt的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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57
ecstasy
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| n.狂喜，心醉神怡，入迷 | |
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58
unpaid
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| adj.未付款的，无报酬的 | |
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pang
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| n.剧痛，悲痛，苦闷 | |
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60
drawn
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| v.拖，拉，拔出；adj.憔悴的，紧张的 | |
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tragic
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| adj.悲剧的，悲剧性的，悲惨的 | |
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62
faltered
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| （嗓音）颤抖( falter的过去式和过去分词 )； 支吾其词； 蹒跚； 摇晃 | |
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brute
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| n.野兽，兽性 | |
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