Journal.
October 19th — My retrospect1 is finished. I have traced the history of my errors and misfortunes, of the wrong I have done and the punishment I have suffered for it, from the past to the present time.
The pages of my manuscript (many more than I thought to write at first) lie piled together on the table before me. I dare not look them over: I dare not read the lines which my own hand has traced. There may be much in my manner of writing that wants alteration2; but I have no heart to return to my task, and revise and reconsider as I might if I were intent on producing a book which was to be published during my lifetime. Others will be found, when I am no more, to carve, and smooth, and polish to the popular taste of the day this rugged3 material of Truth which I shall leave behind me.
But now, while I collect these leaves, and seal them up, never to be opened again by my hands, can I feel that I have related all which it is necessary to tell? No! While Mannion lives — while I am ignorant of the changes that may yet be wrought4 in the home from which I am exiled — there remains5 for me a future which must be recorded, as the necessary sequel to the narrative6 of the past. What may yet happen worthy7 of record, I know not: what sufferings I may yet undergo, which may unfit me for continuing the labour now terminated for a time, I cannot foresee. I have not hope enough in the future, or in myself; to believe that I shall have the time or the energy to write hereafter, as I have written already, from recollection. It is best, then, that I should note down events daily as they occur; and so ensure, as far as may be, a continuation of my narrative, fragment by fragment, to the very last.
But, first, as a fit beginning to the Journal I now propose to keep, let me briefly9 reveal something, in this place, of the life that I am leading in my retirement10 on the Cornish coast.
The fishing hamlet in which I have written the preceding pages, is on the southern shore of Cornwall, not more than a few miles distant from the Land’s End. The cottage I inhabit is built of rough granite11, rudely thatched, and has but two rooms. I possess no furniture but my bed, my table, and my chair; and some half-dozen fishermen and their families are my only neighbours. But I feel neither the want of luxuries, nor the want of society: all that I wished for in coming here, I have — the completest seclusion12.
My arrival produced, at first, both astonishment13 and suspicion. The fishermen of Cornwall still preserve almost all the superstitions14, even to the grossest, which were held dear by their humble16 ancestors, centuries back. My simple neighbours could not understand why I had no business to occupy me; could not reconcile my worn, melancholy17 face with my youthful years. Such loneliness as mine looked unnatural18 — especially to the women. They questioned me curiously20; and the very simplicity21 of my answer, that I had only come to Cornwall to live in quiet, and regain22 my health, perplexed23 them afresh. They waited, day after day, when I was first installed in the cottage, to see letters sent to me — and no letters arrived: to see my friends join me — and no friends came. This deepened the mystery to their eyes. They began to recall to memory old Cornish legends of solitary24, secret people who had lived, years and years ago, in certain parts of the county — coming, none knew whence; existing, none knew by what means; dying and disappearing, none knew when. They felt half inclined to identify me with these mysterious visitors — to consider me as some being, a stranger to the whole human family, who had come to waste away under a curse, and die ominously25 and secretly among them. Even the person to whom I first paid money for my necessaries, questioned, for a moment, the lawfulness26 and safety of receiving it!
But these doubts gradually died away; this superstitious27 curiosity insensibly wore off, among my poor neighbours. They became used to my solitary, thoughtful, and (to them) inexplicable28 mode of existence. One or two little services of kindness which I rendered, soon after my arrival, to their children, worked wonders in my favour; and I am pitied now, rather than distrusted. When the results of the fishing are abundant, a little present has been often made to me, out of the nets. Some weeks ago, after I had gone out in the morning, I found on my return, two or three gulls’ eggs placed in a basket before my door. They had been left there by the children, as ornaments29 for my cottage window — the only ornaments they had to give; the only ornaments they had ever heard of.
I can now go out unnoticed, directing my steps up the ravine in which our hamlet is situated30, towards the old grey stone church which stands solitary on the hill-top, surrounded by the lonesome moor31. If any children happen to be playing among the scattered32 tombs, they do not start and run away, when they see me sitting on the coffin33 stone at the entrance of the churchyard, or wandering round the sturdy granite tower, reared by hands which have mouldered34 into dust centuries ago. My approach has ceased to be of evil omen19 for my little neighbours. They just look up at me, for a moment, with bright smiles, and then go on with their game.
From the churchyard, I look down the ravine, on fine days, towards the sea. Mighty35 piles of granite soar above the fishermen’s cottages on each side; the little strip of white beach which the cliffs shut in, glows pure in the sunlight; the inland stream that trickles36 down the bed of the rocks, sparkles, at places, like a rivulet37 of silver-fire; the round white clouds, with their violet shadows and bright wavy38 edges, roll on majestically39 above me; the cries of the sea-birds, the endless, dirging murmur40 of the surf, and the far music of the wind among the ocean caverns41, fall, now together, now separately on my ear. Nature’s voice and Nature’s beauty — God’s soothing42 and purifying angels of the soul — speak to me most tenderly and most happily, at such times as these.
It is when the rain falls, and wind and sea arise together — when, sheltered among the caverns in the side of the precipice43, I look out upon the dreary44 waves and the leaping spray — that I feel the unknown dangers which hang over my head in all the horror of their uncertainty45. Then, the threats of my deadly enemy strengthen their hold fearfully on all my senses. I see the dim and ghastly personification of a fatality46 that is lying in wait for me, in the strange shapes of the mist which shrouds47 the sky, and moves, and whirls, and brightens, and darkens in a weird48 glory of its own over the heaving waters. Then, the crash of the breakers on the reef howls upon me with a sound of judgment49; and the voice of the wind, growling50 and battling behind me in the hollows of the cave, is, ever and ever, the same thunder-voice of doom51 and warning in my ear.
Does this foreboding that Mannion’s eye is always on me, that his footsteps are always secretly following mine, proceed only from the weakness of my worn-out energies? Could others in my situation restrain themselves from fearing, as I do, that he is still incessantly53 watching me in secret? It is possible. It may be, that his terrible connection with all my sufferings of the past, makes me attach credit too easily to the destroying power which he arrogates54 to himself in the future. Or it may be, that all resolution to resist him is paralysed in me, not so much by my fear of his appearance, as by my uncertainty of the time when it will take place — not so much by his menaces themselves, as by the delay in their execution. Still, though I can estimate fairly the value of these considerations, they exercise over me no lasting55 influence of tranquillity56. I remember what this man has done; and in spite of all reasoning, I believe in what he has told me he will yet do. Madman though he may be, I have no hope of defence or escape from him in any direction, look where I will.
But for the occupation which the foregoing narrative has given to my mind; but for the relief which my heart can derive57 from its thoughts of Clara, I must have sunk under the torment58 of suspense59 and suspicion in which my life is now passed. My sister! Even in this self-imposed absence from her, I have still found a means of connecting myself remotely with something that she loves. I have taken, as the assumed name under which I live, and shall continue to live until my father has given me back his confidence and his affection, the name of a little estate that once belonged to my mother, and that now belongs to her daughter. Even the most wretched have their caprice, their last favourite fancy. I possess no memorial of Clara, not even a letter. The name that I have taken from the place which she was always fondest and proudest of, is, to me, what a lock of hair, a ring, any little loveable keepsake, is to others happier than I am.
I have wandered away from the simple details of my life in this place. Shall I now return to them? Not to-day; my head burns, my hand is weary. If the morrow should bring with it no event to write of, on the morrow I can resume the subject from which I now break off.
October 20th.— After laying aside my pen, I went out yesterday for the purpose of renewing that former friendly intercourse61 with my poor neighbours, which has been interrupted for the last three weeks by unintermitting labour at the latter portions of my narrative.
In the course of my walk among the cottages and up to the old church on the moor, I saw fewer of the people of the district than usual. The behaviour of those whom I did chance to meet, seemed unaccountably altered; perhaps it was mere62 fancy, but I thought they avoided me. One woman abruptly63 shut her cottage door as I approached. A fisherman, when I wished him good day, hardly answered; and walked on without stopping to gossip with me as usual. Some children, too, whom I overtook on the road to the church, ran away from me, making gestures to each other which I could not understand. Is the first superstitious distrust of me returning after I thought it had been entirely64 overcome? Or are my neighbours only showing their resentment65 at my involuntary neglect of them for the last three weeks? I must try to find out to-morrow.
21st — I have discovered all! The truth, which I was strangely slow to suspect yesterday, has forced itself on me to-day.
I went out this morning, as I had purposed, to discover whether my neighbours had really changed towards me, or not, since the interval66 of my three weeks’ seclusion. At the cottage-door nearest to mine, two young children were playing, whom I knew I had succeeded in attaching to me soon after my arrival. I walked up to speak to them; but, as I approached, their mother came out, and snatched them from me with a look of anger and alarm. Before I could question her, she had taken them inside the cottage, and had closed the door.
Almost at the same moment, as if by a preconcerted signal, three or four other women came out from their abodes67 at a little distance, warned me in loud, angry voices not to come near them, or their children; and disappeared, shutting their doors. Still not suspecting the truth, I turned back, and walked towards the beach. The lad whom I employ to serve me with provisions, was lounging there against the side of an old boat. At seeing me, he started up, and walked away a few steps — then stopped, and called out —
“I’m not to bring you anything more; father says he won’t sell to you again, whatever you pay him.”
I asked the boy why his father had said that; but he ran back towards the village without answering me.
“You had best leave us,” muttered a voice behind me. “If you don’t go of your own accord, our people will starve you out of the place.”
The man who said these words, had been one of the first to set the example of friendliness68 towards me, after my arrival; and to him I now turned for the explanation which no one else would give me.
“You know what we mean, and why we want you to go, well enough,” was his reply.
I assured him that I did not; and begged him so earnestly to enlighten me, that he stopped as he was walking away.
“I’ll tell you about it,” he said; “but not now; I don’t want to be seen with you.” (As he spoke69 he looked back at the women, who were appearing once more in front of their cottages.) “Go home again, and shut yourself up; I’ll come at dusk.”
And he came as he had promised. But when I asked him to enter my cottage, he declined, and said he would talk to me outside, at my window. This disinclination to be under my roof, reminded me that my supplies of food had, for the last week, been left on the window-ledge70, instead of being brought into my room as usual. I had been too constantly occupied to pay much attention to the circumstance at the time; but I thought it very strange now.
“Do you mean to tell me you don’t suspect why we want to get you out of our place here?” said the man, looking in distrustfully at me through the window.
I repeated that I could not imagine why they had all changed towards me, or what wrong they thought I had done them.
“Then I’ll soon let you know it,” he continued. “We want you gone from here, because —”
“Because,” interrupted another voice behind him, which I recognised as his wife’s, “because you’re bringing a blight71 on us, and our houses — because we want our children’s faces left as God made them—”
“Because,” interposed a second woman, who had joined her, “you’re bringing devil’s vengeances among Christian72 people! Come back, John! he’s not safe for a true man to speak to.”
They dragged the fisherman away with them before he could say another word. I had heard enough. The fatal truth burst at once on my mind. Mannion had followed me to Cornwall: his threats were executed to the very letter!
(10 o’clock.)— I have lit my candle for the last time in this cottage, to add a few lines to my journal. The hamlet is quiet; I hear no footstep outside — and yet, can I be certain that Mannion is not lurking73 near my door at this moment?
I must go when the morning comes; I must leave this quiet retreat, in which I have lived so calmly until now. There is no hope that I can reinstate myself in the opinions of my poor neighbours. He has arrayed against me the pitiless hostility74 of their superstition15. He has found out the dormant75 cruelties, even in the hearts of these simple people; and has awakened77 them against me, as he said he would. The evil work must have been begun within the last three weeks, while I was much within doors, and there was little chance of meeting me in my usual walks. How that work was accomplished78 it is useless to inquire; my only object now, must be to prepare myself at once for departure.
(11 o’clock.)— While I was putting up my few books, a minute ago, a little embroidered79 marker fell out of one of them, which I had not observed in the pages before; and which I recognised as having been worked for me by Clara. I have a memorial of my sister in my possession, after all! Trifling80 as it is, I shall preserve it about me, as a messenger of consolation81 in the time of adversity and peril82.
(1 o’clock.)— The wind sweeps down on us, from off the moorland, in fiercer and fiercer gusts83; the waves dash heavily against our rock promontory84; the rain drifts wildly past my windows; and the densest85 darkness overspreads the whole sky. The storm which has been threatening for some days, is gathering86 fast.
(Village of Treen, October 22nd.)— The events of this one day have changed the whole future of my life. I must force myself to write of them at once. Something warns me that if I delay, though only till to-morrow, I shall be incapable87 of relating them at all.
It was still early in the morning — I think about seven o’clock — when I closed my cottage door behind me, never to open it again. I met only one or two of my neighbours as I left the hamlet. They drew aside to let me advance, without saying a word. With a heavy heart, grieved more than I could have imagined possible at departing as an enemy from among the people with whom I had lived as a friend, I passed slowly by the last cottages, and ascended88 the cliff path which led to the moor.
The storm had raged at its fiercest some hours back. Soon after daylight the wind sank; but the majesty89 of the mighty sea had lost none of its terror and grandeur90 as yet. The huge Atlantic waves still hurled91 themselves, foaming93 and furious, against the massive granite of the Cornish cliffs. Overhead, the sky was hidden in a thick white mist, now hanging, still and dripping, down to the ground; now rolling in shapes like vast smoke-wreaths before the light wind which still blew at intervals94. At a distance of more than a few yards, the largest objects were totally invisible. I had nothing to guide me, as I advanced, but the ceaseless roaring of the sea on my right hand.
It was my purpose to get to Penzance by night. Beyond that, I had no project, no thought of what refuge I should seek next. Any hope I might have formerly95 felt of escaping from Mannion, had now deserted96 me for ever. I could not discover by any outward indications, that he was still following my footsteps. The mist obscured all objects behind me from view; the ceaseless crashing of the shore-waves overwhelmed all landward sounds, but I never doubted for a moment that he was watching me, as I proceeded along my onward97 way.
I walked slowly, keeping from the edge of the precipices98 only by keeping the sound of the sea always at the same distance from my ear; knowing that I was advancing in the proper direction, though very circuitously99, as long as I heard the waves on my right hand. To have ventured on the shorter way, by the moor and the cross-roads beyond it, would have been only to have lost myself past all chance of extrication100, in the mist.
In this tedious manner I had gone on for some time, before it struck me that the noise of the sea was altering completely to my sense of hearing. It seemed to be sounding very strangely on each side of me — both on my right hand and on my left. I stopped and strained my eyes to look through the mist, but it was useless. Crags only a few yards off, seemed like shadows in the thick white vapour. Again, I went on a little; and, ere long, I heard rolling towards me, as it were, under my own feet, and under the roaring of the sea, a howling, hollow, intermittent101 sound — like thunder at a distance. I stopped again, and rested against a rock. After some time, the mist began to part to seaward, but remained still as thick as ever on each side of me. I went on towards the lighter102 sky in front — the thunder-sound booming louder and louder, in the very heart, as it seemed, of the great cliff.
The mist brightened yet a little more, and showed me a landmark103 to ships, standing104 on the highest point of the surrounding rocks. I climbed to it, recognised the glaring red and white pattern in which it was painted, and knew that I had wandered, in the mist, away from the regular line of coast, out on one of the great granite promontories105 which project into the sea, as natural breakwaters, on the southern shore of Cornwall.
I had twice penetrated106 as far as this place, at the earlier period of my sojourn107 in the fishing-hamlet, and while I now listened to the thunder-sound, I knew from what cause it proceeded.
Beyond the spot where I stood, the rocks descended108 suddenly, and almost perpendicularly109, to the range below them. In one of the highest parts of the wall-side of granite thus formed, there opened a black, yawning hole that slanted110 nearly straight downwards111, like a tunnel, to unknown and unfathomable depths below, into which the waves found entrance through some subterranean112 channel. Even at calm times the sea was never silent in this frightful113 abyss, but on stormy days its fury was terrific. The wild waves boiled and thundered in their imprisonment114, till they seemed to convulse the solid cliff about them, like an earthquake. But, high as they leapt up in the rocky walls of the chasm115, they never leapt into sight from above. Nothing but clouds of spray indicated to the eye, what must be the horrible tumult116 of the raging waters below.
With my recognition of the place to which I had now wandered, came remembrance of the dangers I had left behind me on the rock-track that led from the mainland to the promontory — dangers of narrow ledges117 and treacherous118 precipices, which I had passed safely, while unconscious of them in the mist, but which I shrank from tempting119 again, now that I recollected120 them, until the sky had cleared, and I could see my way well before me. The atmosphere was still brightening slowly over the tossing, distant waves: I determined121 to wait until it had lost all its obscurity, before I ventured to retrace122 my steps.
I moved down towards the lower range of rocks, to seek a less exposed position than that which I now occupied. As I neared the chasm, the terrific howling of the waves inside it was violent enough to drown, not only the crashing sound of the surf on the outward crags of the promontory, but even the shrill123 cries of the hundreds on hundreds of sea-birds that whirled around me, except when their flight was immediately over my head. At each side of the abyss, the rocks, though very precipitous, afforded firm hold for hand and foot. As I descended them, the morbid124 longing125 to look on danger, which has led many a man to the very brink126 of a precipice, even while he dreaded127 it, led me to advance as near as I durst to the side of the great hole, and to gaze down into it. I could see but little of its black, shining, interior walls, or of the fragments of rock which here and there jutted128 out from them, crowned with patches of long, lank129, sea-weed waving slowly to and fro in empty space — I could see but little of these things, for the spray from the bellowing130 water in the invisible depths below, steamed up almost incessantly, like smoke, and shot, hissing131 in clouds out of the mouth of the chasm, on to a huge flat rock, covered with sea-weed, that lay beneath and in front of it. The very sight of this smooth, slippery plane of granite, shelving steeply downward, right into the gaping132 depths of the hole, made my head swim; the thundering of the water bewildered and deafened133 me — I moved away while I had the power: away, some thirty or forty yards in a lateral134 direction, towards the edges of the promontory which looked down on the sea. Here, the rocks rose again in wild shapes, forming natural caverns and penthouses. Towards one of these I now advanced, to shelter myself till the sky had cleared.
I had just entered the place, close to the edge of the cliff, when a hand was laid suddenly and firmly on my arm; and, through the crashing of the waves below, the thundering of the water in the abyss behind, and the shrieking135 of the seabirds overhead, I heard these words, spoken close to my ear:—
“Take care of your life. It is not your’s to throw away — it is mine!”
I turned, and saw Mannion standing by me. No shade concealed136 the hideous137 distortion of his face. His eye was on me, as he pointed138 significantly down to the surf foaming two hundred feet beneath us.
“Suicide!” he said slowly —“I suspected it, and, this time, I followed close: followed, to fight with death, which should have you.”
As I moved back from the edge of the precipice, and shook him from me, I marked the vacancy139 that glared even through the glaring triumph of his eye, and remembered how I had been warned against him at the hospital.
The mist was thickening again, but thickening now in clouds that parted and changed minute by minute, under the influence of the light behind them. I had noticed these sudden transitions before, and knew them to be the signs which preceded the speedy clearing of the atmosphere.
When I looked up at the sky, Mannion stepped back a few paces, and pointed in the direction of the fishing-hamlet from which I had departed.
“Even in that remote place,” he said, “and among those ignorant people, my deformed140 face has borne witness against you, and Margaret’s death has been avenged141, as I said it should. You have been expelled as a pest and a curse, by a community of poor fishermen; you have begun to live your life of excommunication, as I lived mine. Superstition!— barbarous, monstrous142 superstition, which I found ready made to my use, is the scourge143 with which I have driven you from that hiding-place. Look at me now! I have got back my strength; I am no longer the sick refuse of the hospital. Where you go, I have the limbs and the endurance to go too! I tell you again, we are linked together for life; I cannot leave you if I would. The horrible joy of hunting you through the world, leaps in my blood like fire! Look! look out on those tossing waves. There is no rest for them; there shall be no rest for you!”
The sight of him, standing close by me in that wild solitude144; the hoarse145 sound of his voice, as he raised it almost to raving146 in his exultation147 over my helplessness; the incessant52 crashing of the sea on the outer rocks; the roaring of the tortured waters imprisoned148 in the depths of the abyss behind us; the obscurity of the mist, and the strange, wild shapes it began to take, as it now rolled almost over our heads —— all that I saw, all that I heard, seemed suddenly to madden me, as Mannion uttered his last words. My brain felt turned to fire; my heart to ice. A horrible temptation to rid myself for ever of the wretch60 before me, by hurling149 him over the precipice at my feet, seized on me. I felt my hands stretching themselves out towards him without my willing it — if I had waited another instant, I should have dashed him or myself to destruction. But I turned back in time; and, reckless of all danger, fled from the sight of him, over the rugged and perilous150 surface of the cliff.
The shock of a fall among the rocks, before I had advanced more than a few yards, partly restored my self-possession. Still, I dared not look back to see if Mannion was following me, so long as the precipice behind him was within view.
I began to climb to the higher range of rocks almost at the same spot by which I had descended from them — judging by the close thunder of the water in the chasm. Halfway151 up, I stopped at a broad resting-place; and found that I must proceed a little, either to the right or to the left, in a horizontal direction, before I could easily get higher. At that moment, the mist was slowly brightening again. I looked first to the left, to see where I could get good foothold — then to the right, towards the outer sides of the riven rocks close at hand.
At the same instant, I caught sight dimly of the figure of Mannion, moving shadow-like below and beyond me, skirting the farther edge of the slippery plane of granite that shelved into the gaping mouth of the hole. The brightening atmosphere showed him that he had risked himself, in the mist, too near to a dangerous place. He stopped — looked up and saw me watching him — raised his hand — and shook it threateningly in the air. The ill-calculated violence of his action, in making that menacing gesture, destroyed his equilibrium152 — he staggered — tried to recover himself — swayed half round where he stood — then fell heavily backward, right on to the steep shelving rock.
The wet sea-weed slipped through his fingers, as they madly clutched at it. He struggled frantically153 to throw himself towards the side of the declivity154; slipping further and further down it at every effort. Close to the mouth of the abyss, he sprang up as if he had been shot. A tremendous jet of spray hissed155 out upon him at the same moment. I heard a scream, so shrill, so horribly unlike any human cry, that it seemed to silence the very thundering of the water. The spray fell. For one instant, I saw two livid and bloody156 hands tossed up against the black walls of the hole, as he dropped into it. Then, the waves roared again fiercely in their hidden depths; the spray flew out once more; and when it cleared off; nothing was to be seen at the yawning mouth of the chasm — nothing moved over the shelving granite, but some torn particles of sea-weed sliding slowly downwards in the running ooze157.
The shock of that sight must have paralysed within me the power of remembering what followed it; for I can recall nothing, after looking on the emptiness of the rock below, except that I crouched158 on the ledge under my feet, to save myself from falling off it — that there was an interval of oblivion — and that I seemed to awaken76 again, as it were, to the thundering of the water in the abyss. When I rose and looked around me, the seaward sky was lovely in its clearness; the foam92 of the leaping waves flashed gloriously in the sunlight: and all that remained of the mist was one great cloud of purple shadow, hanging afar off over the whole inland view.
I traced my way back along the promontory feebly and slowly. My weakness was so great, that I trembled in every limb. A strange uncertainty about directing myself in the simplest actions, overcame my mind. Sometimes, I stopped short, hesitating in spite of myself at the slightest obstacles in my path. Sometimes, I grew confused without any cause, about the direction in which I was proceeding159, and fancied I was going back to the fishing village.. The sight that I had witnessed, seemed to be affecting me physically160, far more than mentally. As I dragged myself on my weary way along the coast, there was always the same painful vacancy in my thoughts: there seemed to be no power in them yet, of realising Mannion’s appalling161 death.
By the time I arrived at this village, my strength was so utterly162 exhausted163, that the people at the inn were obliged to help me upstairs. Even now, after some hours’ rest, the mere exertion164 of dipping my pen in the ink begins to be a labour and a pain to me. There is a strange fluttering at my heart; my recollections are growing confused again — I can write no more.
23rd.— The frightful scene that I witnessed yesterday still holds the same disastrous165 influence over me. I have vainly endeavoured to think, not of Mannion’s death, but of the free prospect166 which that death has opened to my view. Waking or sleeping, it is as if some fatality kept all my faculties167 imprisoned within the black walls of the chasm. I saw the livid, bleeding hands flying past them again, in my dreams, last night. And now, while the morning is clear and the breeze is fresh, no repose168, no change comes to my thoughts. Time bright beauty of unclouded daylight seems to have lost the happy influence over me which it used formerly to possess.
25th.— All yesterday I had not energy enough even to add a line to this journal. The strength to control myself seems to have gone from me. The slightest accidental noise in the house, throws me into a fit of trembling which I cannot subdue169. Surely, if ever the death of one human being brought release and salvation170 to another, the death of Mannion has brought them to me; and yet, the effect left on my mind by the horror of having seen it, is still not lessened171 — not even by the knowledge of all that I have gained by being freed from the deadliest and most determined enemy that man ever had.
26th.— Visions — half waking, half dreaming — all through the night. Visions of my last lonely evening in the fishing-hamlet — of Mannion again — the livid hands whirling to and fro over my head in the darkness — then, glimpses of home; of Clara reading to me in my study — then, a change to the room where Margaret died — the sight of her again, with her long black hair streaming over her face — then, oblivion for a little while — then, Mannion once more; walking backwards172 and forwards by my bedside — his death, seeming like a dream; his watching me through the night like a reality to which I had just awakened — Clara walking opposite to him on the other side — Ralph between them, pointing at me.
27th.— I am afraid my mind is seriously affected173; it must have been fatally weakened before I passed through the terrible scenes among the rocks of the promontory. My nerves must have suffered far more than I suspected at the time, under the constant suspense in which I have been living since I left London, and under the incessant strain and agitation174 of writing the narrative of all that has happened to me. Shall I send a letter to Ralph? No — not yet. It might look like impatience175, like not being able to bear my necessary absence as calmly and resolutely176 as I ought.
28th.— A wakeful night — tormented177 by morbid apprehensions178 that the reports about me in the fishing-village may spread to this place; that inquiries179 may be made after Mannion; and that I may be suspected of having caused his death.
29th.— The people at the inn have sent to get me medical advice. The doctor came to-day. He was kindness itself; but I fell into a fit of trembling, the moment he entered the room — grew confused in attempting to tell him what was the matter with me — and, at last, could not articulate a single word distinctly. He looked very grave as he examined me and questioned the landlady180. I thought I heard him say something about sending for my friends, but could not be certain.
31st.— Weaker and weaker. I tried in despair, to-day, to write to Ralph; but knew not how to word the letter. The simplest forms of expression confused themselves inextricably in my mind. I was obliged to give it up. It is a surprise to me to find that I can still add with my pencil to the entries in this Journal! When I am no longer able to continue, in some sort, the employment to which I have been used for so many weeks past, what will become of me? Shall I have lost the only safeguard that keeps me in my senses?
Worse! worse! I have forgotten what day of the month it is; and cannot remember it for a moment together, when they tell me — cannot even recollect8 how long I have been confined to my bed. I feel as if my heart was wasting away. Oh! if I could only see Clara again.
The doctor and a strange man have been looking among my papers.
My God! am I dying? dying at the very time when there is a chance of happiness for my future life?
Clara!— far from her — nothing but the little book-marker she worked for me — leave it round my neck when I—
I can’t move, or breathe, or think — if I could only be taken back — if my father could see me as I am now! Night again — the dreams that will come — always of home; sometimes, the untried home in heaven, as well as the familiar home on earth —
Clara! I shall die out of my senses, unless Clara — break the news gently — it may kill her —
Her face so bright and calm! her watchful181, weeping eyes always looking at me, with a light in them that shines steady through the quivering tears. While the light lasts, I shall live; when it begins to die out —*
NOTE BY THE EDITOR.
* There are some lines of writing beyond this point; but they are illegible182.
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1
retrospect
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| n.回顾，追溯；v.回顾，回想，追溯 | |
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alteration
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| n.变更，改变；蚀变 | |
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3
rugged
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| adj.高低不平的，粗糙的，粗壮的，强健的 | |
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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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remains
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| n.剩余物，残留物；遗体，遗迹 | |
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narrative
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| n.叙述，故事；adj.叙事的，故事体的 | |
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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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recollect
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| v.回忆，想起，记起，忆起，记得 | |
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briefly
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| adv.简单地，简短地 | |
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retirement
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| n.退休，退职 | |
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granite
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| adj.花岗岩，花岗石 | |
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seclusion
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| n.隐遁，隔离 | |
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13
astonishment
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| n.惊奇，惊异 | |
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superstitions
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| 迷信，迷信行为( superstition的名词复数 ) | |
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superstition
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| n.迷信，迷信行为 | |
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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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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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unnatural
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| adj.不自然的；反常的 | |
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omen
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| n.征兆，预兆；vt.预示 | |
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curiously
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| adv.有求知欲地；好问地；奇特地 | |
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simplicity
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| n.简单，简易；朴素；直率，单纯 | |
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regain
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| vt.重新获得，收复，恢复 | |
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perplexed
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| adj.不知所措的 | |
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solitary
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| adj.孤独的，独立的，荒凉的；n.隐士 | |
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ominously
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| adv.恶兆地，不吉利地；预示地 | |
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lawfulness
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| 法制，合法 | |
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superstitious
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| adj.迷信的 | |
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28
inexplicable
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| adj.无法解释的，难理解的 | |
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29
ornaments
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| n.装饰( ornament的名词复数 )；点缀；装饰品；首饰v.装饰，点缀，美化( ornament的第三人称单数 ) | |
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30
situated
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| adj.坐落在...的，处于某种境地的 | |
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31
moor
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| n.荒野，沼泽；vt.(使)停泊；vi.停泊 | |
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32
scattered
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| adj.分散的，稀疏的；散步的；疏疏落落的 | |
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coffin
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| n.棺材，灵柩 | |
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mouldered
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| v.腐朽( moulder的过去式和过去分词 )；腐烂，崩塌 | |
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mighty
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| adj.强有力的；巨大的 | |
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trickles
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| n.细流( trickle的名词复数 )；稀稀疏疏缓慢来往的东西v.滴( trickle的第三人称单数 )；淌；使)慢慢走；缓慢移动 | |
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37
rivulet
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| n.小溪，小河 | |
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38
wavy
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| adj.有波浪的，多浪的，波浪状的，波动的，不稳定的 | |
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39
majestically
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| 雄伟地； 庄重地； 威严地； 崇高地 | |
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40
murmur
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| n.低语，低声的怨言；v.低语，低声而言 | |
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41
caverns
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| 大山洞，大洞穴( cavern的名词复数 ) | |
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42
soothing
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| adj.慰藉的；使人宽心的；镇静的 | |
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43
precipice
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| n.悬崖，危急的处境 | |
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44
dreary
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| adj.令人沮丧的，沉闷的，单调乏味的 | |
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45
uncertainty
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| n.易变，靠不住，不确知，不确定的事物 | |
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46
fatality
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| n.不幸，灾祸，天命 | |
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47
shrouds
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| n.裹尸布( shroud的名词复数 )；寿衣；遮蔽物；覆盖物v.隐瞒( shroud的第三人称单数 )；保密 | |
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48
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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49
judgment
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| n.审判；判断力，识别力，看法，意见 | |
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50
growling
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| n.吠声, 咆哮声 v.怒吠, 咆哮, 吼 | |
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51
doom
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| n.厄运，劫数；v.注定，命定 | |
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52
incessant
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| adj.不停的，连续的 | |
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53
incessantly
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| ad.不停地 | |
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54
arrogates
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| v.冒称，妄取( arrogate的第三人称单数 )；没来由地把…归属（于） | |
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55
lasting
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| adj.永久的，永恒的；vbl.持续，维持 | |
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56
tranquillity
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| n. 平静, 安静 | |
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57
derive
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| v.取得；导出；引申；来自；源自；出自 | |
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58
torment
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| n.折磨；令人痛苦的东西(人)；vt.折磨；纠缠 | |
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59
suspense
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| n.（对可能发生的事）紧张感，担心，挂虑 | |
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60
wretch
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| n.可怜的人，不幸的人；卑鄙的人 | |
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61
intercourse
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| n.性交；交流，交往，交际 | |
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62
mere
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| adj.纯粹的；仅仅，只不过 | |
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63
abruptly
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| adv.突然地，出其不意地 | |
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64
entirely
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| ad.全部地，完整地；完全地，彻底地 | |
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65
resentment
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| n.怨愤，忿恨 | |
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66
interval
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| n.间隔，间距；幕间休息，中场休息 | |
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67
abodes
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| 住所( abode的名词复数 )； 公寓； （在某地的）暂住； 逗留 | |
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68
friendliness
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| n.友谊，亲切，亲密 | |
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69
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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70
ledge
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| n.壁架，架状突出物；岩架，岩礁 | |
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71
blight
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| n.枯萎病；造成破坏的因素；vt.破坏，摧残 | |
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72
Christian
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| adj.基督教徒的；n.基督教徒 | |
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73
lurking
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| 潜在 | |
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74
hostility
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| n.敌对，敌意；抵制［pl.］交战，战争 | |
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75
dormant
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| adj.暂停活动的；休眠的；潜伏的 | |
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76
awaken
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| vi.醒，觉醒；vt.唤醒，使觉醒，唤起，激起 | |
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77
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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78
accomplished
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| adj.有才艺的；有造诣的；达到了的 | |
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79
embroidered
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| adj．绣花的 | |
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80
trifling
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| adj.微不足道的；没什么价值的 | |
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81
consolation
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| n.安慰，慰问 | |
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82
peril
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| n.(严重的)危险；危险的事物 | |
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83
gusts
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| 一阵强风( gust的名词复数 )； （怒、笑等的）爆发； （感情的）迸发； 发作 | |
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84
promontory
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| n.海角；岬 | |
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85
densest
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| 密集的( dense的最高级 )； 密度大的； 愚笨的； （信息量大得）难理解的 | |
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86
gathering
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| n.集会，聚会，聚集 | |
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87
incapable
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| adj.无能力的，不能做某事的 | |
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88
ascended
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| v.上升，攀登( ascend的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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89
majesty
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| n.雄伟，壮丽，庄严，威严；最高权威，王权 | |
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90
grandeur
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| n.伟大，崇高，宏伟，庄严，豪华 | |
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91
hurled
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| v.猛投，用力掷( hurl的过去式和过去分词 )；大声叫骂 | |
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92
foam
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| v./n.泡沫，起泡沫 | |
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93
foaming
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| adj.布满泡沫的；发泡 | |
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94
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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95
formerly
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| adv.从前，以前 | |
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96
deserted
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| adj.荒芜的，荒废的，无人的，被遗弃的 | |
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onward
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| adj.向前的，前进的；adv.向前，前进，在先 | |
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precipices
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| n.悬崖，峭壁( precipice的名词复数 ) | |
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99
circuitously
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| 曲折地 | |
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100
extrication
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| n.解脱；救出，解脱 | |
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101
intermittent
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| adj.间歇的，断断续续的 | |
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102
lighter
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| n.打火机，点火器；驳船；v.用驳船运送；light的比较级 | |
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103
landmark
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| n.陆标，划时代的事，地界标 | |
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104
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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105
promontories
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| n.岬，隆起，海角( promontory的名词复数 ) | |
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106
penetrated
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| adj. 击穿的，鞭辟入里的 动词penetrate的过去式和过去分词形式 | |
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107
sojourn
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| v./n.旅居，寄居；逗留 | |
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108
descended
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| a.为...后裔的，出身于...的 | |
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109
perpendicularly
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| adv. 垂直地, 笔直地, 纵向地 | |
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110
slanted
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| 有偏见的； 倾斜的 | |
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111
downwards
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| adj./adv.向下的（地），下行的（地） | |
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112
subterranean
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| adj.地下的，地表下的 | |
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113
frightful
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| adj.可怕的；讨厌的 | |
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114
imprisonment
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| n.关押，监禁，坐牢 | |
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115
chasm
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| n.深坑，断层，裂口，大分岐，利害冲突 | |
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116
tumult
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| n.喧哗；激动，混乱；吵闹 | |
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117
ledges
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| n.（墙壁，悬崖等）突出的狭长部分( ledge的名词复数 )；（平窄的）壁架；横档；（尤指）窗台 | |
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118
treacherous
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| adj.不可靠的，有暗藏的危险的；adj.背叛的，背信弃义的 | |
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119
tempting
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| a.诱人的, 吸引人的 | |
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120
recollected
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| adj.冷静的；镇定的；被回忆起的；沉思默想的v.记起，想起( recollect的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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121
determined
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| adj.坚定的；有决心的 | |
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122
retrace
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| v.折回；追溯，探源 | |
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123
shrill
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| adj.尖声的；刺耳的；v尖叫 | |
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124
morbid
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| adj.病的；致病的；病态的；可怕的 | |
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125
longing
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| n.（for）渴望 | |
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126
brink
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| n.(悬崖、河流等的)边缘，边沿 | |
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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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128
jutted
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| v.（使）突出( jut的过去式和过去分词 )；伸出；（从…）突出；高出 | |
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129
lank
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| adj.瘦削的；稀疏的 | |
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130
bellowing
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| v.发出吼叫声，咆哮（尤指因痛苦）( bellow的现在分词 )；（愤怒地）说出（某事），大叫 | |
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131
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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132
gaping
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| adj.口的；张口的；敞口的；多洞穴的v.目瞪口呆地凝视( gape的现在分词 )；张开，张大 | |
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133
deafened
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| 使聋( deafen的过去式和过去分词 )； 使隔音 | |
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lateral
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| adj.侧面的，旁边的 | |
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shrieking
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| v.尖叫( shriek的现在分词 ) | |
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136
concealed
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| a.隐藏的，隐蔽的 | |
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137
hideous
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| adj.丑陋的，可憎的，可怕的，恐怖的 | |
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138
pointed
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| adj.尖的，直截了当的 | |
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139
vacancy
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| n.（旅馆的）空位，空房，（职务的）空缺 | |
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140
deformed
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| adj.畸形的；变形的；丑的，破相了的 | |
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141
avenged
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| v.为…复仇，报…之仇( avenge的过去式和过去分词 )；为…报复 | |
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142
monstrous
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| adj.巨大的；恐怖的；可耻的，丢脸的 | |
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143
scourge
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| n.灾难，祸害；v.蹂躏 | |
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144
solitude
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| n. 孤独; 独居,荒僻之地,幽静的地方 | |
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145
hoarse
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| adj.嘶哑的，沙哑的 | |
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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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147
exultation
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| n.狂喜，得意 | |
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148
imprisoned
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| 下狱，监禁( imprison的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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149
hurling
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| n.爱尔兰式曲棍球v.猛投，用力掷( hurl的现在分词 )；大声叫骂 | |
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150
perilous
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| adj.危险的，冒险的 | |
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151
halfway
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| adj.中途的，不彻底的，部分的；adv.半路地，在中途，在半途 | |
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152
equilibrium
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| n.平衡，均衡，相称，均势，平静 | |
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153
frantically
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| ad.发狂地, 发疯地 | |
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declivity
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| n.下坡，倾斜面 | |
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155
hissed
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| 发嘶嘶声( hiss的过去式和过去分词 )； 发嘘声表示反对 | |
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156
bloody
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| adj.非常的的；流血的；残忍的；adv.很；vt.血染 | |
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157
ooze
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| n.软泥，渗出物；vi.渗出，泄漏；vt.慢慢渗出，流露 | |
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158
crouched
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| v.屈膝，蹲伏( crouch的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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proceeding
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| n.行动，进行，(pl.)会议录，学报 | |
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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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161
appalling
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| adj.骇人听闻的，令人震惊的，可怕的 | |
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utterly
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| adv.完全地，绝对地 | |
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exhausted
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| adj.极其疲惫的，精疲力尽的 | |
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exertion
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| n.尽力，努力 | |
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165
disastrous
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| adj.灾难性的，造成灾害的；极坏的，很糟的 | |
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166
prospect
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| n.前景，前途；景色，视野 | |
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167
faculties
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| n.能力( faculty的名词复数 )；全体教职员；技巧；院 | |
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168
repose
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| v.(使)休息；n.安息 | |
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169
subdue
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| vt.制服，使顺从，征服；抑制，克制 | |
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170
salvation
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| n.（尤指基督）救世，超度，拯救，解困 | |
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171
lessened
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| 减少的，减弱的 | |
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172
backwards
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| adv.往回地，向原处，倒，相反，前后倒置地 | |
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173
affected
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| adj.不自然的，假装的 | |
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174
agitation
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| n.搅动；搅拌；鼓动，煽动 | |
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175
impatience
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| n.不耐烦，急躁 | |
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176
resolutely
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| adj.坚决地，果断地 | |
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177
tormented
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| 饱受折磨的 | |
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178
apprehensions
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| 疑惧 | |
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179
inquiries
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| n.调查( inquiry的名词复数 )；疑问；探究；打听 | |
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180
landlady
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| n.女房东，女地主 | |
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181
watchful
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| adj.注意的，警惕的 | |
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182
illegible
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| adj.难以辨认的，字迹模糊的 | |
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