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Weir of Hermiston-Part13_ROBERT LOUIS STEVENSON(1850-1894)_English Literature(文学名著)-第2页

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all that she had ever learned, all that she knew, bade her flee. But on



the other hand the cup of life now offered to her was too enchanting.

For one moment, she saw the question clearly, and definitely made her



choice. She stood up and showed herself an instant in the gap relieved

upon the sky line; and the next, fled trembling and sat down glowing



with excitement on the Weaver's stone. She shut her eyes, seeking,

praying for composure. Her hand shook in her lap, and her mind was full



of incongruous and futile speeches. What was there to make a work

about? She could take care of herself, she supposed! There was no harm



in seeing the laird. It was the best thing that could happen. She

would mark a proper distance to him once and for all. Gradually the



wheels of her nature ceased to go round so madly, and she sat in passive

expectation, a quiet, solitary figure in the midst of the grey moss. I



have said she was no hypocrite, but here I am at fault. She never

admitted to herself that she had come up the hill to look for Archie.



And perhaps after all she did not know, perhaps came as a stone falls.

For the steps of love in the young, and especially in girls, are



instinctive and unconscious.

In the meantime Archie was drawing rapidly near, and he at least was



consciously seeking her neighbourhood. The afternoon had turned to

ashes in his mouth; the memory of the girl had kept him from reading and



drawn him as with cords; and at last, as the cool of the evening began

to come on, he had taken his hat and set forth, with a smothered



ejaculation, by the moor path to Cauldstaneslap. He had no hope to find

her; he took the off chance without expectation of result and to relieve



his uneasiness. The greater was his surprise, as he surmounted the

slope and came into the hollow of the Deil's Hags, to see there, like an



answer to his wishes, the little womanly figure in the grey dress and

the pink kerchief sitting little, and low, and lost, and acutely



solitary, in these desolate surroundings and on the weather-beaten stone

of the dead weaver. Those things that still smacked of winter were all



rusty about her, and those things that already relished of the spring

had put forth the tender and lively colours of the season. Even in the



unchanging face of the death-stone, changes were to be remarked; and in

the channeled lettering, the moss began to renew itself in jewels of



green. By an afterthought that was a stroke of art, she had turned up

over her head the back of the kerchief; so that it now framed becomingly



her vivacious and yet pensive face. Her feet were gathered under her on

the one side, and she leaned on her bare arm, which showed out strong



and round, tapered to a slim wrist, and shimmered in the fading light.

Young Hermiston was struck with a certain chill. He was reminded that



he now dealt in serious matters of life and death. This was a grown

woman he was approaching, endowed with her mysterious potencies and



attractions, the treasury of the continued race, and he was neither

better nor worse than the average of his sex and age. He had a certain



delicacy which had preserved him hitherto unspotted, and which (had

either of them guessed it) made him a more dangerous companion when his



heart should be really stirred. His throat was dry as he came near; but

the appealing sweetness of her smile stood between them like a guardian



angel.

For she turned to him and smiled, though without rising. There was a



shade in this cavalier greeting that neither of them perceived; neither

he, who simply thought it gracious and charming as herself; nor yet she,



who did not observe (quick as she was) the difference between rising to

meet the laird, and remaining seated to receive the expected admirer.



"Are ye stepping west, Hermiston?" said she, giving him his territorial

name after the fashion of the country-side.



"I was," said he, a little hoarsely, "but I think I will be about the

end of my stroll now. Are you like me, Miss Christina? The house would



not hold me. I came here seeking air."

He took his seat at the other end of the tombstone and studied her,



wondering what was she. There was infiniteimport in the question alike

for her and him.



"Ay," she said. "I couldna bear the roof either. It's a habit of mine

to come up here about the gloaming when it's quaiet and caller."



"It was a habit of my mother's also," he said gravely. The recollection

half startled him as he expressed it. He looked around. "I have scarce



been here since. It's peaceful," he said, with a long breath.

"It's no like Glasgow," she replied. "A weary place, yon Glasgow! But






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