Perhaps a half-hour elapsed before any one of the exhausted1 men was able to do more than sigh and shift his aching limbs on the bed of rubbish where he lay. They had taken the precaution to pull the door to behind them, and though they were thereby2 condemned3 to a profound darkness, the close sunken quarters, warmed with the natural heat of their bodies, wrought4 a life in them by degrees and a gradual curiosity as to the character of their refuge.
Luvaine was the first to drag himself upright. Standing5 with his shoulders on a level with the door-sill, he cautiously made a little opening and looked forth6 long and critically. Then he reclosed the aperture7 and sat himself down again.
“David,” he said (from that time he, as far as possible, ignored his host), “are you recovered?”
“Convalescent, sir”—he was heard to sit up in the darkness; “I’m at the brandy and beef-tea stage.”
“That’s a pity, for neither will you taste again this side the grave.”
“Oh, Luvaine! What do you mean, man? Where are we?”
“That I can’t tell you—unless it’s a tool-house sunk in some spinney. But, for our prospects—look for yourself, David.”
“Is it so bad as that?” said Tuke, sitting up in his turn.
“Look for yourself, David,” repeated the soldier; “and tell me if you see one hope of escape.”
Both hearers scrambled9 to their feet, and one of them flung open the door. The mouth of their refuge looked westwards, so that by good fortune it was little encumbered10 of the driving snow; but that had drifted and piled itself over the easterly slope of the mound11 in such a manner as to throw an irregular outwork, varying from one yard to many in depth, all about them, and upon this fresh deposits from the bewildered sky were ceaselessly accumulating. It had fallen deep dusk through all the high thicket12 that encompassed13 their clearing; but it was yet light enough to see how the white storm—disciplining its fury as the wind dropped with night—was settled to a direct purpose of crushing under the whole resistance of life. Now the flakes14 fell in dense15, sluggish16 lines upon the open ground, as if the vast weight already cast down were drawing out the very entrails of the heavens.
Blythewood levered himself up and sprang outside. The fall made of him in a moment a man of snow.
“What are we to do?” he shouted. “Good Lord! think of the house and of them two fuming18 for us to return! Shan’t we make a dash through the wood and try at least to get our bearin’s?”
“The poor fellow is half-delirious, I think,” said he, “and in no state to go on. Make the effort, you, and I’ll stay here with him.”
“David,” said Luvaine, “I’m for you. Give me a hand.”
“No,” said the baronet—“not for all the little devils of Angels in the world!”
He jumped down again.
He was lying on his heap, flushed and with his eyes closed. Now and again his lips would mutter meaningless fragments of speech.
“This is a girl in breeches,” said Luvaine. “We should have set him on a jackass.”
Blythewood burst out laughing.
“David,” said the soldier in a high voice, “there have been those who have learnt before now the danger of riding me roughshod, and——”
A fresh explosion greeted him, and he stopped, frowning heavily.
“Captain Luvaine,” said Tuke, looking round, “I would remind you that this man, knowing himself of a poor constitution, has cheerfully submitted it to considerable hardship for your benefit——”
“Well, sir, I make no denial of his cheerfulness, or of his sense of duty to his superiors.”
“—And that for some time now a large burden of responsibility, wholly unconnected with any interest of mine, has lain upon my shoulders.”
“You refer to the stone? Surely, sir, you don’t hold me to blame for it, or, in a matter of such importance to me, grudge21 the sacrifice of a little personal comfort?”
“You have it in full,” said the soldier sullenly23. “If I fail to express it, you must understand me to be a man of few words.”
Blythewood had his tongue in his cheek.
“We’re all babes in the wood,” he cried; “with a fair chance of sufferin’ their fate. Let’s get under the leaves and tell stories, and not risk goin’ to heaven squabblin’. Hasn’t a man of us a flask24 about him?”
They were not vouchsafed25 even that comfort. The long night drew upon them huddled26 down there in their burrow27. The cold was at first piercing, and they soon fell silent, each as wrapped in dismal28 reflection as, inadequately29, in his great-coat. They could not sleep, but only shiver and suffer; and the servant moaned and whispered intermittently30 through the endless hours. His master did what he could for him in the pitchy darkness, building him a pillow of dead leaves and drawing the skirts of his own surtout about the icy feet.
Towards dawn, however, a little comfort of warmth triumphed in the cabined hole. This was because the snow had then completely enwrapped their place of refuge. One by one, weak and exhausted, they dropped into a shallow abyss of sleep.
Tuke was the first to come to himself again. He started up with a jerk, and felt the rat of hunger gnawing31 at his ribs32.
“Now,” he thought—when he could at last recall his senses—“whither does this tend? We have not eaten or drunk for nigh twenty-four hours, if I may judge, and a definite movement of some sort becomes necessary. Surely four strong men should be able to master any situation.”
Then he thought of Whimple, and bent his head to listen. The man was breathing regularly and profoundly.
Looking up again, with an exclamation33 of pleasure, he was aware of a little weak finger of light pointing into the gloom. Day had broken. He got to his cramped34 feet, jubilant in a moment, and, feeling for the door above, essayed to open it. Something resisted. He put all his nerve into a mighty35 push, felt the hinges yield—then the obstruction36; and in an instant a great buttress37 of snow fell away from the outside and light leaped into the pit.
Light gorgeous and bountiful. The snow had ceased; a hard wintry sun revealed a little surrounding world of heaped and drifted desolation, wherein the very trees seemed but accidents of the storm, or frost-flowers enamelled upon the wide windows of the mist.
“Out!” he cried softly, for fear of disturbing Dennis—“up and out and reconnoitre!”
He scrambled, himself, to the open, and was joined by his companions.
“Where in the name of mystery are we?” he murmured.
In the heart of a little wood, apparently—in a clearing ringed about with trees, and so choked, in the course of those fifteen or so pregnant hours, with the white fall, as to seem to offer an insurmountable barrier to their escape. Towards the middle of the circle the snow lay shallowest; but all around against the tree-trunks it sloped upwards42 to a considerable height, suggesting a bowl of whipped cream that had stiffened43 to the shape of the vessel44 it lay in.
“Gentlemen,” said Tuke, “it behoves us to make the struggle. The sky is resolute45 steel; to remain here is to perish. What do you say?”
Blythewood gave out a rather tortured little laugh. He, as they all did, wore an unshorn and haggard look; but his lips were set grimly.
“I’m with the fox that bit off his foot rather than remain in the trap,” he said.
“And I. Now, will you two try to push into and through the trees somewhere, that we may at least get our bearings? I will remain with Whimple while you are gone, and will make the attempt on my own account if you return unsuccessful. It will be as well to keep a reserve of strength.”
“Oh! certainly,” said Luvaine. “And if we are fortunate, sir, you can set your care for a fellow-creature against our trouble and endurance.”
Sir David pulled the speaker hastily away.
“Au revoir!” he cried over his shoulder. “I hope we shall bring you tidings.”
Tuke watched them wade46 their first, comparatively easy, paces; then he dived into the cabin once more.
“Dennis!” he cried.
The man was sitting up, an expression of the most profound astonishment47 on his face; but all token of fever vanished.
“My good fellow—you are in your senses again?”
He passed his hand over his forehead in a bewildered manner.
“I remember,” he muttered. “The walk and my dead mother, and then——?”
“We fought our way back, Dennis. Lost and beaten we stumbled upon this unspeakable refuge, and here we have lain all night.”
“This?—this?” (Whimple’s eyes were wandering over roof and floor of the little chamber49.) “Surely, sir, you know where we are?”
“Not I, indeed.”
“In your own grounds, sir—the old ice-house in the thicket.”
Tuke stared a moment; then, with a shout, scrambled up through the opening and gave out a yell of recall. There was no response. His two companions, to whatever fortune, were vanished and out of earshot. Convinced of this, he turned and slipped again into his burrow.
“You are sure, Dennis?”
“Quite sure, sir.”
“And we have fancied ourselves buried in some isolated50 spinney, and looked to nothing but a lingering death where none could come nigh us through the drifts.”
“Is it so bad as that? We may find it hard to win to the house even yet, then.”
“Tush! you faint rogue51. My heart sings like a cricket. Sir David and Captain Luvaine are gone to explore. We will have the laugh of them when they return.”
“Are they away, sir?”
Something of the familiar look of nervousness and hesitation52 came to his face.
“What is it, Whimple?”
The man burst out all at once:
“Let me take the opportunity, now and for ever, to ease my heart of the last of its burden—to tell my dear master all that I have so long withheld53 from him.”
“You wish to?”
“I have always wished to; but while she lived—sir, she was my mother, and it were bitter that a son should record his mother’s shame.”
He turned away his head, so that his face fell into shadow.
“The wrong she suffered was at the hands of my father that was murdered and strung up on the downs.”
“Yes, yes,” said Tuke. “That is not all unexpected.”
“It was a fearful wrong, sir, committed on a helpless girl; for she had flouted54 and dared him; and I it was that was born to be the shameful55 witness of my father’s violence, and the victim now of my mother’s hate and loathing56, now of her furious caresses57. She carried me with her into the hiding her profession secured her; for she was a bold horse-woman and popular in travelling shows. But when I was turned nine, she left me under care in a seaport58 town; and thereafter I saw her but at long intervals59, and then to mark little but the hardening of her nature and the steady elimination60 from it of all kindly61 and social sentiments. Still, I was to learn from her own lips what, I think, a man can never find it in his sympathy to interpret—the inconsistency of a woman’s soul. No doubt that is like the figure called a parallax——”
“Oh! Dennis—confound your parallax. To my mind it is more like a parachute—an empty thing that any draught62 shall influence.”
“You don’t mean that, sir.”
“It is no learning, indeed; but a little love for books. She told me of my origin, sir. Judge of what the revelation was to me, who was ignorant as yet of any word of the wicked story. She told me all, and she told me—sir, she said to me, in a burst of wild defiance66, that she was about to place herself under the protection of the very man who years before had wrought her that great evil.”
“Am I surprised, Dennis? I think not. I have gone to school in the world. Woman is the archetype of rebellion. She it was pulled down the angels. She must revolt against any restriction67 not imposed by herself, and she has always a fiercer joy in defying the social laws than she has pleasure in subscribing68 to them. She knows the world was her original birthright, I suppose, and has a secret admiration69 for the sort of crime that lost her her heritage. Cutwater scorned the conventions that ostracized70 her, and he had blackened his soul for her sake. Queer reasoning, maybe from our point of view; but—yes, I can understand her returning to him.”
“She did, sir; and for years I saw her no more. She returned to him, and, as I afterwards learned, soon wearied my father of her presence, and left him, taking with her the baby-daughter that she had borne to him. You know the rest—how, but a little before his death, my father, remembering the fact of my existence, summoned me to him and sought to practise on my simplicity71. It was what I had dreaded72 ever since I had been acquainted of the cruel truth. It finished what my long anguish73 of suspense74 had begun. Constitutionally without fibre, I became the nerveless, haunted creature of your first knowledge.”
“And it was after his death that your mother brought the girl to burden you with its charge?”
“No burden, sir. I joyed to have the little thing. But she was uncanny. From near the first she showed herself instinctively75 attracted to the dreadful thing on the downs, and when the head fell and she could secure it, she came home with a posy face of delight. It was chance hearing of the story of his murder that brought my mother to me with the child; and at first she would give a little to its keep; but, as the years went on, and she herself become poorer and wilder, it was she also that must become in a measure my charge; though she would never set foot in his house, or take from me aught but the barest of necessaries.”
“The story, sir; as you know it all now—and God bless you and him!”
“I cannot think so. He was not the man to put his confidence in any of her sex; and you must remember, sir, that he had always carried a make-believe in his eye-socket, that was a mark of the familiar terror of his glance; and that ’twas his cunning only substituted the stone for the glass. That the thing dropped out anywhere on its passage to and from is the most likely solution.”
“No doubt; and we can’t hunt over seven square miles or so of grassy78 down, as we hunted—that reminds me; you never heard of our discovery in the wardrobe, when——”
A joyous79 whoop80 sounded in their ears, and, as Tuke got to his feet, the aperture was darkened by the figures of the returned explorers.
“Now,” said Sir David, looking down into the pit, with his arms akimbo—“ain’t we heroes? And where would you guess we’ve been to the trouble to pitch our camp?”
“Not in mine own grounds?” said Tuke. “No, no!”
“Who the deuce has been tellin’ you? P’raps you think that spells the end of our difficulties? Are you Julius Cæsar, sir—or whoever the cove8 was that went over Mount Blank? I tell you there’s a range of drifts between this and the house as big as Snowdon.”
“Then, now comes my turn. Stay you here and leave the rest to me.”
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收听单词发音
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1
exhausted
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| adj.极其疲惫的，精疲力尽的 | |
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thereby
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| adv.因此，从而 | |
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condemned
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| adj. 被责难的, 被宣告有罪的 动词condemn的过去式和过去分词 | |
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4
wrought
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| v.引起；以…原料制作；运转；adj.制造的 | |
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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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6
forth
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| adv.向前；向外，往外 | |
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aperture
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| n.孔，隙，窄的缺口 | |
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cove
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| n.小海湾，小峡谷 | |
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scrambled
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| v.快速爬行( scramble的过去式和过去分词 )；攀登；争夺；（军事飞机）紧急起飞 | |
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encumbered
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| v.妨碍，阻碍，拖累( encumber的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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mound
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| n.土墩，堤，小山；v.筑堤，用土堆防卫 | |
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thicket
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| n.灌木丛，树林 | |
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encompassed
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| v.围绕( encompass的过去式和过去分词 )；包围；包含；包括 | |
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14
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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dense
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| a.密集的，稠密的，浓密的；密度大的 | |
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sluggish
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| adj.懒惰的，迟钝的，无精打采的 | |
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ails
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| v.生病( ail的第三人称单数 )；感到不舒服；处境困难；境况不佳 | |
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fuming
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| 愤怒( fume的现在分词 )； 大怒； 发怒； 冒烟 | |
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bent
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| n.爱好，癖好；adj.弯的；决心的，一心的 | |
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courteous
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| adj.彬彬有礼的，客气的 | |
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grudge
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| n.不满，怨恨，妒嫉；vt.勉强给，不情愿做 | |
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propriety
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| n.正当行为；正当；适当 | |
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sullenly
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| 不高兴地，绷着脸，忧郁地 | |
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flask
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| n.瓶，火药筒，砂箱 | |
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vouchsafed
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| v.给予，赐予( vouchsafe的过去式和过去分词 )；允诺 | |
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26
huddled
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| 挤在一起（huddle的过去式与过去分词形式） | |
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burrow
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| vt.挖掘(洞穴)；钻进；vi.挖洞；翻寻；n.地洞 | |
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dismal
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| adj.阴沉的，凄凉的，令人忧郁的，差劲的 | |
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inadequately
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| ad.不够地；不够好地 | |
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intermittently
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| adv.间歇地；断断续续 | |
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gnawing
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| a.痛苦的，折磨人的 | |
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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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exclamation
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| n.感叹号，惊呼，惊叹词 | |
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cramped
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| a.狭窄的 | |
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mighty
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| adj.强有力的；巨大的 | |
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obstruction
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| n.阻塞，堵塞；障碍物 | |
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buttress
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| n.支撑物；v.支持 | |
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onset
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| n.进攻，袭击，开始，突然开始 | |
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gush
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| v.喷，涌；滔滔不绝(说话)；n.喷，涌流；迸发 | |
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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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sleepers
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| n.卧铺（通常以复数形式出现）；卧车( sleeper的名词复数 )；轨枕；睡觉（呈某种状态）的人；小耳环 | |
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42
upwards
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| adv.向上，在更高处...以上 | |
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stiffened
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| 加强的 | |
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44
vessel
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| n.船舶；容器，器皿；管，导管，血管 | |
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resolute
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| adj.坚决的，果敢的 | |
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wade
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| v.跋涉，涉水；n.跋涉 | |
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astonishment
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| n.惊奇，惊异 | |
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lodged
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| v.存放( lodge的过去式和过去分词 )；暂住；埋入；（权利、权威等）归属 | |
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chamber
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| n.房间，寝室；会议厅；议院；会所 | |
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50
isolated
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| adj.与世隔绝的 | |
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51
rogue
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| n.流氓；v.游手好闲 | |
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52
hesitation
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| n.犹豫，踌躇 | |
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53
withheld
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| withhold过去式及过去分词 | |
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54
flouted
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| v.藐视，轻视( flout的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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55
shameful
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| adj.可耻的，不道德的 | |
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56
loathing
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| n.厌恶，憎恨v.憎恨，厌恶( loathe的现在分词)；极不喜欢 | |
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57
caresses
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| 爱抚，抚摸( caress的名词复数 ) | |
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58
seaport
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| n.海港，港口，港市 | |
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59
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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60
elimination
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| n.排除，消除，消灭 | |
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61
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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62
draught
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| n.拉，牵引，拖；一网（饮，吸，阵)；顿服药量，通风；v.起草，设计 | |
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rascal
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| n.流氓；不诚实的人 | |
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64
hips
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| abbr.high impact polystyrene 高冲击强度聚苯乙烯，耐冲性聚苯乙烯n.臀部( hip的名词复数 )；[建筑学]屋脊；臀围（尺寸）；臀部…的 | |
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squire
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| n.护卫, 侍从, 乡绅 | |
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66
defiance
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| n.挑战，挑衅，蔑视，违抗 | |
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67
restriction
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| n.限制，约束 | |
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68
subscribing
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| v.捐助( subscribe的现在分词 )；签署，题词；订阅；同意 | |
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69
admiration
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| n.钦佩，赞美，羡慕 | |
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70
ostracized
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| v.放逐( ostracize的过去式和过去分词 )；流放；摈弃；排斥 | |
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71
simplicity
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| n.简单，简易；朴素；直率，单纯 | |
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72
dreaded
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| adj.令人畏惧的；害怕的v.害怕，恐惧，担心( dread的过去式和过去分词) | |
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73
anguish
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| n.(尤指心灵上的)极度痛苦，烦恼 | |
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74
suspense
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| n.（对可能发生的事）紧张感，担心，挂虑 | |
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75
instinctively
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| adv.本能地 | |
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76
confided
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| v.吐露（秘密，心事等）( confide的过去式和过去分词 )；（向某人）吐露（隐私、秘密等） | |
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77
skull
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| n.头骨；颅骨 | |
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78
grassy
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| adj.盖满草的；长满草的 | |
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79
joyous
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| adj.充满快乐的；令人高兴的 | |
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80
whoop
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| n.大叫，呐喊，喘息声；v.叫喊，喘息 | |
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81
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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