There were many very sorrowful hearts among the searchers, but none so heavy as was borne by an old man who kept apart from the crowd. He stumbled along in a bewildered fashion over rocks and underbrush, his cap gone, his grey hair dishevelled by the wind. He paused often to peer over the swollen2 waters, and Peter McNabb's heart was smitten3 with pity as he passed him once and heard him whisper, "Duncan, lad, whaur are ye?"
And it was Andrew Johnstone who found him. Just as the first grey light of the morning stole in at the eastern doorway4 of the valley he came upon him, lying peacefully beneath the overhanging willows5, beside the churchyard. It seemed fitting that Duncan Polite should have found a harbour in the shelter of his Zion, the place that had been the centre of all his hopes.
They covered the quiet, peaceful face and carried him very tenderly,—Peter McNabb and Andrew Johnstone and some of his other lifelong friends,—into John Hamilton's house.
They laid him in the darkened sitting-room6, and Mrs. Fraser, in her never failing kindness of heart, went to tell his bereaved7 sister, while Wee Andra drove off to Lake Oro to find Donald and Sandy.
All day the neighbours came in, silently and sorrowfully, to see the man who had saved the village and to speak of the brave deed he had done at such cost.
But none of all the crowd guessed at the meaning of the sacrifice, except one man. He did not weep nor lament8 nor speak one word of sorrow. But his shoulders were bent9 from their accustomed straightness, and his eyes lacked their steady gleam. He sat by the side of his friend all that day and through the next night, refusing to eat or take rest, and motionless, except when he stooped to pat the dog that lay at his feet and that raised his head occasionally with a mournful whine10. Andrew Johnstone made no complaint nor did he say anything when his friends came to sympathise with him. But Mrs. Fraser, who had visited the room in company with Duncan's stricken sister, heard Splinterin' Andra whisper softly as they left the place, "Ma hert is very sair for thee, Jonathan, ma brother!"
The roads were in such an impassable condition that by nine o'clock at night Wee Andra had not returned, and Duncan Polite had been laid in his coffin11, ready for his long rest. One dim lamp burned near the head of the bier, and at its foot sat old Andrew, his head bowed, his face in his hands. Across the hall the sorrowing neighbours had gathered in the dining-room, where some of Duncan Polite's friends were leading in prayer for the bereaved relatives. Peter McNabb had asked the minister to open the service, but had accepted his refusal in silent sympathy, wondering somewhat at the young man's grief-stricken face. Mr. Ansdell's gentle voice was raised in a petition that the brave deed might be a lesson to all, and the house was very still, when the front door opened softly and a man glided12 into the parlour. He crossed the room silently and stood gazing down at the figure in the coffin. At the sight of him, the dog lying by old Andrew's side arose and, crossing to where he stood, crouched13 at his feet, whining14 pitifully as though begging for help.
Aroused by the movement the old man raised his head.
"Donald!" he cried aloud, startled by the sight of the young man's ghastly face and wild eyes.
But Donald did not seem to be aware of his presence. He looked around the room as if dazed.
"It's true, then!" he cried in a harsh whisper, "it's true."
"He was more than a father to me; and I murdered him," he added distinctly.
Andrew Johnstone rose stiffly and came over to where the boy stood. "Wheesht, Donald!" he whispered in alarm. "Wheesht, lad, it is the Lord's will!"
Donald stared at him stupefied. Even half-crazed as he was, there came to his tossed soul a kind of vague wonder that Splinterin' Andra did not scourge16 him with a pitiless condemnation17. "I did it," he repeated, clinging to the one thought he was capable of comprehending. "We were at the tavern18 when the boom broke—I murdered him!"
"Come awa', lad, an' sit ye doon here, till Ah tell ye"—Andrew Johnstone took hold of the boy's shoulder gently. A wonderful change seemed to have come over the stern old man during the vigil by his dead; the mantle19 of Duncan Polite seemed to have fallen upon him. "Come awa," he whispered.
But Donald flung off the hand fiercely. He turned again to look at his uncle, and the fire slowly died from his eyes as he gazed at the beloved face. His strength seemed to suddenly leave him. Andrew Johnstone stepped towards him fearing he would fall, but with one more glance at the dead Donald turned and groped his way to the door like one blind.
The prayers were still going on in the dining-room. Peter McNabb's deep, resonant20 voice could now be heard, and Jessie, who had come in from the kitchen, was standing21 in a dark corner of the hall waiting to enter. She was weeping silently, not only for the loss of the old man, who was very dear to her, but for the grief and the blame it must bring upon the one she loved the most. She raised her eyes at the sound of the front door opening and caught a glimpse of his ghastly face and desperate eyes as Donald slipped out. There was the depth of despair in his look. All the girl's heart went out to him in love and pity winged by a terrible fear. He looked like one who might do himself harm. She forgot their estrangement22, forgot that he might love another, everything but that Donald was in dire23 distress24. She darted25 noiselessly to the door. "Don!" she whispered eagerly into the darkness. A figure was passing out of the gate and turning down towards the river. A wild terror seized the girl. She flew down the path and caught his arm. "Don, Don," she cried, "where are you going?"
He turned and looked down at her dully. Just then he was capable of realising only that she was striving to turn him from his purpose. "Let go!" he said savagely26. "I killed him, I tell you!"
But Jessie clung to his arm desperately27.
The sight of her tears seemed to affect him. He stared at her as if a gleam of comprehension had come to him. "Why do you want to stop me?" he asked sullenly29. "You don't care!"
The girl realised that this desperate situation was no time for false pride. "Oh, Don," she whispered softly, "how can you say that, how can you think it? You know I care, more than anyone!"
He ceased his resistance and stood a moment as if trying to understand. Jessie was praying with all her heart for strength and wisdom to meet and grapple with the despair that was driving him to destruction. She turned and gently led him back to the gate, and as they went she spoke31 to him as Jessie Hamilton could never have spoken had she not learned through Duncan Polite's help the true meaning of all sorrow and happiness, spoke to him of his mother, of his duty, of his God. It was the hour of Donald's weakness and trial, when Satan desired to sift32 him as wheat, an hour in which he might have fared ill had the woman who loved him not stood by with her new strength. But it passed in victory, and when at last he laid his head down upon the top of the gate where they stood and convulsive sobs33 shook his frame, she knew that he was saved.
The day was one of promising34 spring when they laid Duncan Polite beside Mr. Cameron under the elms. The hepaticas were peeping out around his covenant35 stone on the hilltop, the river was gay and smiling and all the world seemed glad. And it was well, for an eternal springtime had dawned for the old watchman of Glenoro.
When they carried him into the church for his last service the place was packed to the doors. Everyone had come to do honour to the man who had done so much for them. Even Coonie was there. He had hurried into Glenoro, early, for the first time in his life. His shoulders drooped36 more than ever, his wrinkled brown face was even unusually sullen30, and his small green eyes were filled with a fierce sorrow. Mr. Ansdell preached the funeral sermon. To the wonder of all, Andrew Johnstone desired it, and everyone felt he must yield a deference37 to his wishes. As for John Egerton, he was relieved. Remembering his last interview with Duncan Polite and how he might have averted this catastrophe38 had he been faithful to his duty, he felt he could not bear the ordeal39.
The minister's text was a strange one for a funeral sermon, but that, too, was Andrew Johnstone's choice. "Son of man, I have set thee a watchman." The old clergyman was the very one for his task. He spent no time in eulogising the dead; but he told simply and tenderly the story of Duncan Polite's covenant, how he had striven to keep it, giving at length his all, even his life, to serve the people of his Glen.
There was not a person in the congregation who did not take the lesson to heart. The story of the old man's unselfish interest in the spiritual life of the place took a firm hold upon the listeners and roused them to better and nobler aims. But there was one to whom the sermon was a fiery40 ordeal. For even Donald, well-nigh crushed with the weight of his grief and the knowledge of all he had missed, was no more torn by the old clergyman's words than the young minister who sat reviewing his past self-satisfied year in Glenoro in the light of Duncan Polite's hopes.
The May days had come, and Glenoro was all pink and white in a burst of apple blossoms when Donald next returned from college. On the evening after his arrival he walked down the village street with mingled41 feelings of joy and pain. Jessie was waiting for him at the gate; he almost fancied he could detect her white dress through the trees even at this distance, but he had just passed an old house on the hilltop, a house at which he had always stopped in the past, and now it was silent and empty. As he turned from behind the elms and came in full view of the village, he suddenly paused. The minister was just emerging from Peter McNabb's gate; he turned up the hill and he and Donald came face to face.
The two young men stood for an instant, and then, with a common impulse, stretched out their hands. John Egerton grasped the hand of Duncan Polite's nephew with a pang42 of regret. If he had done this long before, what a different turn affairs might have taken.
Donald was the first to speak. "This is very kind of you, Mr. Egerton," he said with his accustomed frankness. "I have misjudged you so often——"
"Don't say anything about what is past, Mr. McDonald," said the other hastily; "I can never forget what I owe you, and it would be the deepest of my many regrets in leaving Glenoro if you and I could not part friends."
"There need be no doubt of that," said Donald simply; "I am sorry you are leaving."
John Egerton's face was overcast43. "I must. I came here not knowing what was required of me. In fact, I never realised what was required of my calling until I had a glimpse into a life of real Christian44 consecration45. I am going to another field, to do better work, I hope."
Donald was touched by the honest confession46. This did not seem the gay, self-sufficient young man he had met on former occasions. "I cannot pretend to criticise47 another man's life, knowing my own," he answered humbly48. "I am sure I wish you all success in your new place."
"Thank you. Success does not mean quite the same to me now as it did a few months ago. There is one thing I would like to say to you before I go, Mr. McDonald"—he hesitated—"I believe your uncle wished you to enter the ministry49?"
Donald made a motion of assent50. That was a subject upon which, as yet, he could not trust himself to speak.
"I thought so. And part of his hope was that I should help you to it," he added bitterly. "But I have hoped and prayed every day since that God would lead you to it. Have you decided51 yet?"
Donald's voice was not quite steady. "I have. A man surely does not need a second lesson such as I have had to show him the way."
John Egerton held out his hand again. "I am very, very glad," he said earnestly. "Do not make my mistake. There is no sting like the sting of regret; you and I both know that."
Donald was silent. He was not given to much speaking at any time, and now the depth of his feeling closed his lips. But he took his pastor's hand with a heart-warming grip, and without another word the two parted in mutual52 understanding and sympathy.
But at the sight of Jessie leaning over the gate between the oaks all other thoughts fled from Donald's mind. She wore a soft white dress, with a blue ribbon, his favourite colour, at her throat. Her uncovered head, with its wealth of golden brown curls, was poised53 like a flower on a slender stem. Her deep eyes were aglow54 with welcome. "I saw you talking to Mr. Egerton," she said, when Donald had opened the gate for her and they were passing down the village street.
"Yes, he's an honest man, Jessie; I never understood him before."
"He's changed, too," said the girl gravely. "I am sure he will do much good in his new charge."
When they had walked down the leafy street and reached the little churchyard gate a silence fell between them. They had planned this walk before Donald's return, and their thoughts were serious. Together they passed around the old white building. The grass beneath their feet was an intense emerald, and the young, fresh leaves of the woodbine covering the church walls glistened55 in the light of the fading sunset.
They paused before a new white stone under a tall elm. Donald caught his breath as he stooped to read the lettering in the gathering56 dusk: "Mark the perfect man, and behold57 the upright, for the end of that man is peace."
He gazed at it so long that Jessie put out her hand and touched his sleeve in silent sympathy.
"Here is the other one, Don," she whispered. He started and turned. "Wee Andra and Sandy brought it down this morning. Mr. Johnstone wanted it."
Donald put his hand upon the rough stone that had been Duncan Polite's Bethel. "It was kind of him," he said softly.
They were shut out from the village by the church; the soft grass of the graveyard58 was under their feet, the elms with their small, green, fairy-like leaves hung over them, and the river murmured softly at their side. He took her hands in his. "Can't we renew that covenant here, you and I, Jessie, for his sake?" Donald whispered.
"And for the sake of One who suffered more than he did, Don," added the girl gently. And standing together by Duncan Polite's covenant stone they gave their young lives anew to the work that had been his life's aim.
The vow59 which Donald and Jessie took that day has been fulfilled in the little glen and the memory of Duncan Polite is cherished and his influence abides60 in many a home of humble61 piety62 and simple happiness. So the Watchman accomplished63 by his death that which had been denied him in life, and as all knowledge and peace are his, he must surely see of the travail64 of his soul and be satisfied.
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1
averted
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| 防止，避免( avert的过去式和过去分词 )； 转移 | |
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swollen
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| adj.肿大的，水涨的；v.使变大，肿胀 | |
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smitten
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| 猛打，重击，打击( smite的过去分词 ) | |
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doorway
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| n.门口，(喻)入门；门路，途径 | |
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willows
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| n.柳树( willow的名词复数 )；柳木 | |
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sitting-room
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| n.（BrE）客厅，起居室 | |
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bereaved
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| adj.刚刚丧失亲人的v.使失去（希望、生命等）( bereave的过去式和过去分词)；（尤指死亡）使丧失（亲人、朋友等）；使孤寂；抢走（财物） | |
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lament
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| n.悲叹，悔恨，恸哭；v.哀悼，悔恨，悲叹 | |
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9
bent
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| n.爱好，癖好；adj.弯的；决心的，一心的 | |
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whine
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| v.哀号，号哭；n.哀鸣 | |
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coffin
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| n.棺材，灵柩 | |
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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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crouched
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| v.屈膝，蹲伏( crouch的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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14
whining
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| n. 抱怨，牢骚 v. 哭诉，发牢骚 | |
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15
fixed
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| adj.固定的，不变的，准备好的；(计算机)固定的 | |
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scourge
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| n.灾难，祸害；v.蹂躏 | |
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condemnation
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| n.谴责; 定罪 | |
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tavern
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| n.小旅馆，客栈；小酒店 | |
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19
mantle
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| n.斗篷，覆罩之物，罩子；v.罩住，覆盖，脸红 | |
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20
resonant
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| adj.(声音)洪亮的，共鸣的 | |
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21
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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estrangement
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| n.疏远，失和，不和 | |
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23
dire
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| adj.可怕的，悲惨的，阴惨的，极端的 | |
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distress
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| n.苦恼，痛苦，不舒适；不幸；vt.使悲痛 | |
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25
darted
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| v.投掷，投射( dart的过去式和过去分词 )；向前冲，飞奔 | |
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26
savagely
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| adv. 野蛮地，残酷地 | |
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desperately
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| adv.极度渴望地，绝望地，孤注一掷地 | |
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28
sobbed
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| 哭泣，啜泣( sob的过去式和过去分词 )； 哭诉，呜咽地说 | |
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29
sullenly
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| 不高兴地，绷着脸，忧郁地 | |
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30
sullen
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| adj.愠怒的，闷闷不乐的，(天气等)阴沉的 | |
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31
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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32
sift
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| v.筛撒，纷落，详察 | |
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33
sobs
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| 啜泣（声），呜咽（声）( sob的名词复数 ) | |
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34
promising
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| adj.有希望的，有前途的 | |
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covenant
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| n.盟约，契约；v.订盟约 | |
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36
drooped
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| 弯曲或下垂，发蔫( droop的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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37
deference
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| n.尊重，顺从；敬意 | |
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38
catastrophe
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| n.大灾难，大祸 | |
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39
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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40
fiery
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| adj.燃烧着的，火红的；暴躁的；激烈的 | |
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41
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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42
pang
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| n.剧痛，悲痛，苦闷 | |
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43
overcast
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| adj.阴天的，阴暗的，愁闷的；v.遮盖，（使）变暗，包边缝；n.覆盖，阴天 | |
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44
Christian
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| adj.基督教徒的；n.基督教徒 | |
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45
consecration
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| n.供献，奉献，献祭仪式 | |
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46
confession
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| n.自白，供认，承认 | |
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47
criticise
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| v.批评，评论；非难 | |
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48
humbly
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| adv. 恭顺地，谦卑地 | |
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49
ministry
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| n.(政府的)部；牧师 | |
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50
assent
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| v.批准，认可；n.批准，认可 | |
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51
decided
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| adj.决定了的，坚决的；明显的，明确的 | |
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52
mutual
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| adj.相互的，彼此的；共同的，共有的 | |
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53
poised
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| a.摆好姿势不动的 | |
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54
aglow
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| adj.发亮的；发红的；adv.发亮地 | |
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55
glistened
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| v.湿物闪耀，闪亮( glisten的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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56
gathering
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| n.集会，聚会，聚集 | |
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57
behold
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| v.看，注视，看到 | |
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58
graveyard
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| n.坟场 | |
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59
vow
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| n.誓(言)，誓约；v.起誓，立誓 | |
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60
abides
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| 容忍( abide的第三人称单数 )； 等候； 逗留； 停留 | |
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61
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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62
piety
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| n.虔诚，虔敬 | |
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63
accomplished
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| adj.有才艺的；有造诣的；达到了的 | |
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64
travail
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| n.阵痛；努力 | |
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