It was in vain that I endeavoured by hard work and a strict attention to the laird’s affairs to direct my mind into some more healthy channel. Do what I would, on land or on the water, I would still find myself puzzling over this one question, until it obtained such a hold upon me that I felt it was useless for me to attempt to apply myself to anything until I had come to some satisfactory solution of it.
I could never pass the dark line of five-foot fencing, and the great iron gate, with its massive lock, without pausing and racking my brain as to what the secret might be which was shut in by that inscrutable barrier. Yet, with all my conjectures2 and all my observations, I could never come to any conclusion which could for a moment be accepted as an explanation of the facts.
My sister had been out for a stroll one night, visiting a sick peasant or performing some other of the numerous acts of charity by which she had made herself beloved by the whole countryside.
“John,” she said when she returned, “have you seen Cloomber Hall at night?”
“No,” I answered, laying down the book which I was reading. “Not since that memorable3 evening when the general and Mr. McNeil came over to make an inspection4.”
“Well, John, will you put your hat on and come a little walk with me?”
I could see by her manner that something had agitated5 or frightened her.
“Why, bless the girl!” cried I boisterously6, “what is the matter? The old Hall is not on fire, surely? You look as grave as if all Wigtown were in a blaze.”
“Not quite so bad as that,” she said, smiling. “But do come out, Jack7. I should very much like you to see it.”
I had always refrained from saying anything which might alarm my sister, so that she knew nothing of the interest which our neighbours’ doings had for me. At her request I took my hat and followed her out into the darkness. She led the way along a little footpath8 over the moor9, which brought us to some rising ground, from which we could look down upon the Hall without our view being obstructed10 by any of the fir-trees which had been planted round it.
“Look at that!” said my sister, pausing at the summit of this little eminence11.
Cloomber lay beneath us in a blaze of light. In the lower floors the shutters12 obscured the illumination, but above, from the broad windows of the second storey to the thin slits13 at the summit of the tower, there was not a chink or an aperture14 which did not send forth15 a stream of radiance. So dazzling was the effect that for a moment I was persuaded that the house was on fire, but the steadiness and clearness of the light soon freed me from that apprehension16. It was clearly the result of many lamps placed systematically17 all over the building.
It added to the strange effect that all these brilliantly illuminated18 rooms were apparently19 untenanted, and some of them, so far as we could judge, were not even furnished. Through the whole great house there was no sign of movement or of life — nothing but the clear, unwinking flood of yellow light.
I was still lost in wonder at the sight when I heard a short, quick sob20 at my side.
“What is it, Esther, dear?” I asked, looking down at my companion.
“I feel so frightened. Oh, John, John, take me home, I feel so frightened!”
She clung to my arm, and pulled at my coat in a perfect frenzy21 of fear.
“It’s all safe, darling,” I said soothingly22. “There is nothing to fear. What has upset you so?”
“I am afraid of them, John; I am afraid of the Heatherstones. Why is their house lit up like this every night? I have heard from others that it is always so. And why does the old man run like a frightened hare if any one comes upon him. There is something wrong about it, John, and it frightens me.”
I pacified23 her as well as I could, and led her home with me, where I took care that she should have some hot port negus before going to bed. I avoided the subject of the Heatherstones for fear of exciting her, and she did not recur24 to it of her own accord. I was convinced, however, from what I had heard from her, that she had for some time back been making her own observations upon our neighbours, and that in doing so she had put a considerable strain upon her nerves.
I could see that the mere25 fact of the Hall being illuminated at night was not enough to account for her extreme agitation26, and that it must have derived27 its importance in her eyes from being one in a chain of incidents, all of which had left a weird28 or unpleasant impression upon her mind.
That was the conclusion which I came to at the time, and I have reason to know now that I was right, and that my sister had even more cause than I had myself for believing that there was something uncanny about the tenants29 of Cloomber.
Our interest in the matter may have arisen at first from nothing higher than curiosity, but events soon look a turn which associated us more closely with the fortunes of the Heatherstone family.
Mordaunt had taken advantage of my invitation to come down to the laird’s house, and on several occasions he brought with him his beautiful sister. The four of us would wander over the moors30 together, or perhaps if the day were fine set sail upon our little skiff and stand off into the Irish Sea.
On such excursions the brother and sister would be as merry and as happy as two children. It was a keen pleasure to them to escape from their dull fortress31, and to see, if only for a few hours, friendly and sympathetic faces round them.
There could be but one result when four young people were brought together in sweet, forbidden intercourse32. Acquaintance-ship warmed into friendship, and friendship flamed suddenly into love.
Gabriel sits beside me now as I write, and she agrees with me that, dear as is the subject to ourselves, the whole story of our mutual33 affection is of too personal a nature to be more than touched upon in this statement. Suffice it to say that, within a few weeks of our first meeting Mordaunt Heatherstone had won the heart of my clear sister, and Gabriel had given me that pledge which death itself will not be able to break.
I have alluded34 in this brief way to the double tie which sprang up between the two families, because I have no wish that this narrative35 should degenerate36 into anything approaching to romance, or that I should lose the thread of the facts which I have set myself to chronicle. These are connected with General Heatherstone, and only indirectly37 with my own personal history.
It is enough if I say that after our engagement the visits to Branksome became more frequent, and that our friends were able sometimes to spend a whole day with us when business had called the general to Wigtown, or when his gout confined him to his room.
As to our good father, he was ever ready to greet us with many small jests and tags of Oriental poems appropriate to the occasion, for we had no secrets from him, and he already looked upon us all as his children.
There were times when on account of some peculiarly dark or restless fit of the general’s it was impossible for weeks on end for either Gabriel or Mordaunt to get away from the grounds. The old man would even stand on guard, a gloomy and silent sentinel, at the avenue gate, or pace up and down the drive as though he suspected that attempts had been made to penetrate38 his seclusion39.
Passing of an evening I have seen his dark, grim figure flitting about in the shadow of the trees, or caught a glimpse of his hard, angular, swarthy face peering out suspiciously at me from behind the bars.
My heart would often sadden for him as I noticed his uncouth40, nervous movements, his furtive41 glances and twitching42 features. Who would have believed that this slinking, cowering43 creature had once been a dashing officer, who had fought the battles of his country and had won the palm of bravery among the host of brave men around him?
In spite of the old soldier’s vigilance, we managed to hold communication with our friends.
Immediately behind the Hall there was a spot where the fencing had been so carelessly erected44 that two of the rails could be removed without difficulty, leaving a broad gap, which gave us the opportunity for many a stolen interview, though they were necessarily short, for the general’s movements were erratic45, and no part of the grounds was secure from his visitations.
How vividly46 one of these hurried meetings rises before me! It stands out clear, peaceful, and distinct amid the wild, mysterious incidents which were destined47 to lead up to the terrible catastrophe48 which has cast a shade over our lives.
I can remember that as I walked through the fields the grass was damp with the rain of the morning, and the air was heavy with the smell of the fresh-turned earth. Gabriel was waiting for me under the hawthorn49 tree outside the gap, and we stood hand-inhand looking down at the long sweep of moorland and at the broad blue channel which encircled it with its fringe of foam50.
Far away in the north-west the sun glinted upon the high peak of Mount Throston. From where we stood we could see the smoke of the steamers as they ploughed along the busy water-way which leads to Belfast.
“Is it not magnificent?” Gabriel cried, clasping her hands round my arm. “Ah, John, why are we not free to sail away over these waves together, and leave all our troubles behind us on the shore?”
“And what are the troubles which you would leave behind you, dear one?” I asked. “May I not know them, and help you to bear them?”
“I have no secrets from you, John,” she answered, “Our chief trouble is, as you may guess, our poor father’s strange behaviour. Is it not a sad thing for all of us that a man who has played such a distinguished51 part in the world should skulk52 from one obscure corner of the country to another, and should defend himself with locks and barriers as though he were a common thief flying from justice? This is a trouble, John, which it is out of your power to alleviate53.”
“But why does he do it, Gabriel?” I asked.
“I cannot tell,” she answered frankly54. “I only know that he imagines some deadly danger to be hanging over his head, and that this danger was incurred55 by him during his stay in India. What its nature may be I have no more idea than you have.”
“Then your brother has,” I remarked. “I am sure from the way in which he spoke56 to me about it one day that he knows what it is, and that he looks upon it as real.”
“Yes, he knows, and so does my mother,” she answered, “but they have always kept it secret from me. My poor father is very excited at present. Day and night he is in an agony of apprehension, but it will soon be the fifth of October, and after that he will be at peace.”
“How do you know that?” I asked in surprise.
“By experience,” she answered gravely. “On the fifth of October these fears of his come to a crisis. For years back he has been in the habit of locking Mordaunt and myself up in our rooms on that date, so that we have no idea what occurs, but we have always found that he has been much relieved afterwards, and has continued to be comparatively in peace until that day begins to draw round again.”
“Then you have only ten days or so to wait,” I remarked, for September was drawing to a close. “By the way, dearest, why is it that you light up all your rooms at night?”
“You have noticed it, then?” she said. “It comes also from my father’s fears. He does not like to have one dark corner in the whole house. He walks about a good deal at night, and inspects everything, from the attics57 right down to the cellars. He has large lamps in every room and corridor, even the empty ones, and he orders the servants to light them all at dusk.”
“I am rather surprised that you manage to keep your servants,” I said, laughing. “The maids in these parts are a superstitious58 class, and their imaginations are easily excited by anything which they don’t understand.”
“The cook and both housemaids are from London, and are used to our ways. We pay them on a very high scale to make up for any inconvenience to which they may be put. Israel Stakes, the coachman, is the only one who comes from this part of the country, and he seems to be a stolid59, honest fellow, who is not easily scared.”
“Poor little girl,” I exclaimed, looking down at the slim, graceful60 figure by my side. “This is no atmosphere for you to live in. Why will you not let me rescue you from it? Why won’t you allow me to go straight and ask the general for your hand? At the worst he could only refuse.”
She turned quite haggard and pale at the very thought.
“For Heaven’s sake, John,” she cried earnestly, “do nothing of the kind. He would whip us all away in the dead of the night, and within a week we should be settling down again in some wilderness61 where we might never have a chance of seeing or hearing from you again. Besides, he never would forgive us for venturing out of the grounds.”
“I don’t think that he is a hard-hearted man,” I remarked. “I have seen a kindly62 look in his eyes, for all his stern face.”
“He can be the kindest of fathers,” she answered. “But he is terrible when opposed or thwarted63. You have never seen him so, and I trust you never will. It was that strength of will and impatience64 of opposition65 which made him such a splendid officer. I assure you that in India every one thought a great deal of him. The soldiers were afraid of him, but they would have followed him anywhere.”
“And had he these nervous attacks then?”
“Occasionally, but not nearly so acutely. He seems to think that the danger — whatever it may be — becomes more imminent66 every year. Oh, John, it is terrible to be waiting like this with a sword over our heads — and all the more terrible to me since I have no idea where the blow is to come from.”
“Dear Gabriel,” I said, taking her hand and drawing her to my side, “look over all this pleasant countryside and the broad blue sea. Is it not all peaceful and beautiful? In these cottages, with their red-tiled roofs peeping out from the grey moor, there live none but simple, God-fearing men, who toil67 hard at their crafts and bear enmity to no man. Within seven miles of us is a large town, with every civilised appliance for the preservation68 of order. Ten miles farther there is a garrison69 quartered, and a telegram would at any time bring down a company of soldiers. Now, I ask you, dear, in the name of common-sense, what conceivable danger could threaten you in this secluded70 neighbourhood, with the means of help so near? You assure me that the peril71 is not connected with your father’s health?”
“No, I am sure of that. It is true that Dr. Easterling, of Stranraer. has been over to see him once or twice, but that was merely for some small indisposition. I can assure you that the danger is not to be looked for in that direction.”
“Then I can assure you,” said I, laughing, “that there is no danger at all. It must be some strange monomania or hallucination. No other hypothesis will cover the facts.”
“Would my father’s monomania account for the fact of my brother’s hair turning grey and my mother wasting away to a mere shadow?”
“Undoubtedly,” I answered, “The long continued worry of the general’s restlessness and irritability72 would produce those effects on sensitive natures.”
“No, no!” said she, shaking her head sadly, “I have been exposed to his restlessness and irritability, but they have had no such effect upon me. The difference between us lies in the fact that they know this awful secret and I do not.”
“My dear girl,” said I, “the days of family apparitions73 and that kind of thing are gone. Nobody is haunted nowadays, so we can put that supposition out of the question. Having done so, what remains74? There is absolutely no other theory which could even be suggested. Believe me, the whole mystery is that the heat of India has been too much for your poor father’s brain.”
What she would have answered I cannot tell, for at that moment she gave a start as if some sound had fallen upon her ear. As she looked round apprehensively75, I suddenly saw her features become rigid76 and her eyes fixed77 and dilated78.
Following the direction of her gaze, I felt a sudden thrill of fear pass through me as I perceived a human face surveying us from behind one of the trees — a man’s face, every feature of which was distorted by the most malignant79 hatred80 and anger. Finding himself observed, he stepped out and advanced towards us, when I saw that it was none other than the general himself. His beard was all a-bristle with fury, and his deepset eyes glowed from under their heavily veined lids with a most sinister81 and demoniacal brightness.
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1
inquisitive
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| adj.求知欲强的，好奇的，好寻根究底的 | |
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conjectures
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| 推测，猜想( conjecture的名词复数 ) | |
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memorable
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| adj.值得回忆的，难忘的，特别的，显著的 | |
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inspection
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| n.检查，审查，检阅 | |
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agitated
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| adj.被鼓动的，不安的 | |
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boisterously
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| adv.喧闹地，吵闹地 | |
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7
jack
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| n.插座，千斤顶，男人；v.抬起，提醒，扛举；n.（Jake）杰克 | |
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8
footpath
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| n.小路，人行道 | |
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moor
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| n.荒野，沼泽；vt.(使)停泊；vi.停泊 | |
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obstructed
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| 阻塞( obstruct的过去式和过去分词 )； 堵塞； 阻碍； 阻止 | |
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eminence
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| n.卓越，显赫；高地，高处；名家 | |
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shutters
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| 百叶窗( shutter的名词复数 )； （照相机的）快门 | |
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slits
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| n.狭长的口子，裂缝( slit的名词复数 )v.切开，撕开( slit的第三人称单数 )；在…上开狭长口子 | |
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14
aperture
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| n.孔，隙，窄的缺口 | |
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forth
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| adv.向前；向外，往外 | |
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apprehension
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| n.理解，领悟；逮捕，拘捕；忧虑 | |
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systematically
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| adv.有系统地 | |
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illuminated
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| adj.被照明的；受启迪的 | |
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apparently
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| adv.显然地；表面上，似乎 | |
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sob
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| n.空间轨道的轰炸机；呜咽，哭泣 | |
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frenzy
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| n.疯狂，狂热，极度的激动 | |
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soothingly
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| adv.抚慰地，安慰地；镇痛地 | |
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pacified
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| 使（某人）安静( pacify的过去式和过去分词 )； 息怒； 抚慰； 在（有战争的地区、国家等）实现和平 | |
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recur
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| vi.复发，重现，再发生 | |
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mere
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| adj.纯粹的；仅仅，只不过 | |
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agitation
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| n.搅动；搅拌；鼓动，煽动 | |
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derived
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| vi.起源；由来；衍生；导出v.得到( derive的过去式和过去分词 )；（从…中）得到获得；源于；（从…中）提取 | |
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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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tenants
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| n.房客( tenant的名词复数 )；佃户；占用者；占有者 | |
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moors
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| v.停泊，系泊（船只）( moor的第三人称单数 ) | |
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fortress
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| n.堡垒，防御工事 | |
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intercourse
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| n.性交；交流，交往，交际 | |
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mutual
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| adj.相互的，彼此的；共同的，共有的 | |
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alluded
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| 提及，暗指( allude的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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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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degenerate
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| v.退步，堕落；adj.退步的，堕落的；n.堕落者 | |
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indirectly
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| adv.间接地，不直接了当地 | |
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penetrate
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| v.透(渗)入；刺入，刺穿；洞察，了解 | |
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seclusion
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| n.隐遁，隔离 | |
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uncouth
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| adj.无教养的，粗鲁的 | |
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furtive
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| adj.鬼鬼崇崇的，偷偷摸摸的 | |
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twitching
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| n.颤搐 | |
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43
cowering
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| v.畏缩，抖缩( cower的现在分词 ) | |
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44
ERECTED
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| adj. 直立的，竖立的，笔直的 vt. 使 ... 直立，建立 | |
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45
erratic
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| adj.古怪的，反复无常的，不稳定的 | |
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46
vividly
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| adv.清楚地，鲜明地，生动地 | |
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47
destined
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| adj.命中注定的；(for)以…为目的地的 | |
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48
catastrophe
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| n.大灾难，大祸 | |
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49
hawthorn
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| 山楂 | |
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50
foam
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| v./n.泡沫，起泡沫 | |
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51
distinguished
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| adj.卓越的，杰出的，著名的 | |
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52
skulk
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| v.藏匿；潜行 | |
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53
alleviate
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| v.减轻，缓和，缓解(痛苦等) | |
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54
frankly
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| adv.坦白地，直率地；坦率地说 | |
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55
incurred
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| [医]招致的，遭受的； incur的过去式 | |
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56
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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57
attics
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| n. 阁楼 | |
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58
superstitious
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| adj.迷信的 | |
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59
stolid
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| adj.无动于衷的，感情麻木的 | |
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60
graceful
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| adj.优美的，优雅的；得体的 | |
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61
wilderness
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| n.杳无人烟的一片陆地、水等，荒漠 | |
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kindly
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| adj.和蔼的，温和的，爽快的；adv.温和地，亲切地 | |
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63
thwarted
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| 阻挠( thwart的过去式和过去分词 )； 使受挫折； 挫败； 横过 | |
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64
impatience
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| n.不耐烦，急躁 | |
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65
opposition
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| n.反对，敌对 | |
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imminent
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| adj.即将发生的，临近的，逼近的 | |
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67
toil
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| vi.辛劳工作，艰难地行动；n.苦工，难事 | |
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68
preservation
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| n.保护，维护，保存，保留，保持 | |
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69
garrison
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| n.卫戍部队；驻地，卫戍区；vt.派(兵)驻防 | |
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70
secluded
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| adj.与世隔绝的；隐退的；偏僻的v.使隔开，使隐退( seclude的过去式和过去分词) | |
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71
peril
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| n.(严重的)危险；危险的事物 | |
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72
irritability
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| n.易怒 | |
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73
apparitions
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| n.特异景象( apparition的名词复数 )；幽灵；鬼；（特异景象等的）出现 | |
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74
remains
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| n.剩余物，残留物；遗体，遗迹 | |
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75
apprehensively
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| adv.担心地 | |
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76
rigid
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| adj.严格的，死板的；刚硬的，僵硬的 | |
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77
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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78
dilated
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| adj.加宽的，扩大的v.（使某物）扩大，膨胀，张大( dilate的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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79
malignant
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| adj.恶性的，致命的；恶意的，恶毒的 | |
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80
hatred
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| n.憎恶，憎恨，仇恨 | |
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81
sinister
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| adj.不吉利的，凶恶的，左边的 | |
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