Kitabı oku: «Robert Falconer», sayfa 21
In the evening Ericson asked again for his papers, from which he handed Robert the following poem:—
WORDS IN THE NIGHT
I woke at midnight, and my heart,
My beating heart said this to me:
Thou seest the moon how calm and bright
The world is fair by day and night,
But what is that to thee?
One touch to me—down dips the light
Over the land and sea.
All is mine, all is my own!
Toss the purple fountain high!
The breast of man is a vat of stone;
I am alive, I, only I!
One little touch and all is dark;
The winter with its sparkling moons
The spring with all her violets,
The crimson dawns and rich sunsets,
The autumn’s yellowing noons.
I only toss my purple jets,
And thou art one that swoons
Upon a night of gust and roar,
Shipwrecked among the waves, and seems
Across the purple hills to roam;
Sweet odours touch him from the foam,
And downward sinking still he dreams
He walks the clover field at home,
And hears the rattling teams.
All is mine; all is my own!
Toss the purple fountain high!
The breast of man is a vat of stone;
I am alive, I, only I!
Thou hast beheld a throated fountain spout
Full in the air, and in the downward spray
A hovering Iris span the marble tank,
Which as the wind came, ever rose and sank
Violet and red; so my continual play
Makes beauty for the Gods with many a prank
Of human excellence, while they,
Weary of all the noon, in shadows sweet
Supine and heavy-eyed rest in the boundless heat:
Let the world’s fountain play!
Beauty is pleasant in the eyes of Jove;
Betwixt the wavering shadows where he lies
He marks the dancing column with his eyes
Celestial, and amid his inmost grove
Upgathers all his limbs, serenely blest,
Lulled by the mellow noise of the great world’s unrest.
One heart beats in all nature, differing
But in the work it works; its doubts and clamours
Are but the waste and brunt of instruments
Wherewith a work is done; or as the hammers
On forge Cyclopean plied beneath the rents
Of lowest Etna, conquering into shape
The hard and scattered ore:
Choose thou narcotics, and the dizzy grape
Outworking passion, lest with horrid crash
Thy life go from thee in a night of pain.
So tutoring thy vision, shall the flash
Of dove white-breasted be to thee no more
Than a white stone heavy upon the plain.
Hark the cock crows loud!
And without, all ghastly and ill,
Like a man uplift in his shroud,
The white white morn is propped on the hill;
And adown from the eaves, pointed and chill,
The icicles ‘gin to glitter;
And the birds with a warble short and shrill,
Pass by the chamber-window still—
With a quick uneasy twitter.
Let me pump warm blood, for the cold is bitter;
And wearily, wearily, one by one,
Men awake with the weary sun.
Life is a phantom shut in thee;
I am the master and keep the key;
So let me toss thee the days of old,
Crimson and orange and green and gold;
So let me fill thee yet again
With a rush of dreams from my spout amain;
For all is mine; all is my own;
Toss the purple fountain high!
The breast of man is a vat of stone;
And I am alive, I, only I.
Robert having read, sat and wept in silence. Ericson saw him, and said tenderly,
‘Robert, my boy, I’m not always so bad as that. Read this one—though I never feel like it now. Perhaps it may come again some day, though. I may once more deceive myself and be happy.’
‘Dinna say that, Mr. Ericson. That’s waur than despair. That’s flat unbelief. Ye no more ken that ye’re deceivin’ yersel’ than ye ken that ye’re no doin’ ‘t.’
Ericson did not reply; and Robert read the following sonnet aloud, feeling his way delicately through its mazes:—
Lie down upon the ground, thou hopeless one!
Press thy face in the grass, and do not speak.
Dost feel the green globe whirl? Seven times a week
Climbeth she out of darkness to the sun,
Which is her god; seven times she doth not shun
Awful eclipse, laying her patient cheek
Upon a pillow ghost-beset with shriek
Of voices utterless which rave and run
Through all the star-penumbra, craving light
And tidings of the dawn from East and West.
Calmly she sleepeth, and her sleep is blest
With heavenly visions, and the joy of Night
Treading aloft with moons. Nor hath she fright
Though cloudy tempests beat upon her breast.
Ericson turned his face to the wall, and Robert withdrew to his own chamber.
CHAPTER XIII. SHARGAR’S ARM
Not many weeks passed before Shargar knew Aberdeen better than most Aberdonians. From the Pier-head to the Rubislaw Road, he knew, if not every court, yet every thoroughfare and short cut. And Aberdeen began to know him. He was very soon recognized as trustworthy, and had pretty nearly as much to do as he could manage. Shargar, therefore, was all over the city like a cracker, and could have told at almost any hour where Dr. Anderson was to be found—generally in the lower parts of it, for the good man visited much among the poor; giving them almost exclusively the benefit of his large experience. Shargar delighted in keeping an eye upon the doctor, carefully avoiding to show himself.
One day as he was hurrying through the Green (a non virendo) on a mission from the Rothieden carrier, he came upon the doctor’s chariot standing in one of the narrowest streets, and, as usual, paused to contemplate the equipage and get a peep of the owner. The morning was very sharp. There was no snow, but a cold fog, like vaporized hoar-frost, filled the air. It was weather in which the East Indian could not venture out on foot, else he could have reached the place by a stair from Union Street far sooner than he could drive thither. His horses apparently liked the cold as little as himself. They had been moving about restlessly for some time before the doctor made his appearance. The moment he got in and shut the door, one of them reared, while the other began to haul on his traces, eager for a gallop. Something about the chain gave way, the pole swerved round under the rearing horse, and great confusion and danger would have ensued, had not Shargar rushed from his coign of vantage, sprung at the bit of the rearing horse, and dragged him off the pole, over which he was just casting his near leg. As soon as his feet touched the ground he too pulled, and away went the chariot and down went Shargar. But in a moment more several men had laid hold of the horses’ heads, and stopped them.
‘Oh Lord!’ cried Shargar, as he rose with his arm dangling by his side, ‘what will Donal’ Joss say? I’m like to swarf (faint). Haud awa’ frae that basket, ye wuddyfous (withy-fowls, gallows-birds),’ he cried, darting towards the hamper he had left in the entry of a court, round which a few ragged urchins had gathered; but just as he reached it he staggered and fell. Nor did he know anything more till he found the carriage stopping with himself and the hamper inside it.
As soon as the coachman had got his harness put to rights, the doctor had driven back to see how the lad had fared, for he had felt the carriage go over something. They had found him lying beside his hamper, had secured both, and as a preliminary measure were proceeding to deliver the latter.
‘Whaur am I? whaur the deevil am I?’ cried Shargar, jumping up and falling back again.
‘Don’t you know me, Moray?’ said the doctor, for he felt shy of calling the poor boy by his nickname: he had no right to do so.
‘Na, I dinna ken ye. Lat me awa’.—I beg yer pardon, doctor: I thocht ye was ane o’ thae wuddyfous rinnin’ awa’ wi’ Donal’ Joss’s basket. Eh me! sic a stoun’ i’ my airm! But naebody ca’s me Moray. They a’ ca’ me Shargar. What richt hae I to be ca’d Moray?’ added the poor boy, feeling, I almost believe for the first time, the stain upon his birth. Yet he had as good a right before God to be called Moray as any other son of that worthy sire, the Baron of Rothie included. Possibly the trumpet-blowing angels did call him Moray, or some better name.
‘The coachman will deliver your parcel, Moray,’ said the doctor, this time repeating the name with emphasis.
‘Deil a bit o’ ‘t!’ cried Shargar. ‘He daurna lea’ his box wi’ thae deevils o’ horses. What gars he keep sic horses, doctor? They’ll play some mischeef some day.’
‘Indeed, they’ve played enough already, my poor boy. They’ve broken your arm.’
‘Never min’ that. That’s no muckle. Ye’re welcome, doctor, to my twa airms for what ye hae dune for Robert an’ that lang-leggit frien’ o’ his—the Lord forgie me—Mr. Ericson. But ye maun jist pay him what I canna mak for a day or twa, till ‘t jines again—to haud them gaein’, ye ken.—It winna be muckle to you, doctor,’ added Shargar, beseechingly.
‘Trust me for that, Moray,’ returned Dr. Anderson. ‘I owe you a good deal more than that. My brains might have been out by this time.’
‘The Lord be praised!’ said Shargar, making about his first profession of Christianity. ‘Robert ‘ill think something o’ me noo.’
During this conversation the coachman sat expecting some one to appear from the shop, and longing to pitch into the ‘camstary’ horse, but not daring to lift his whip beyond its natural angle. No one came. All at once Shargar knew where he was.
‘Guid be here! we’re at Donal’s door! Guid day to ye, doctor; an’ I’m muckle obleeged to ye. Maybe, gin ye war comin’ oor gait, the morn, or the neist day, to see Maister Ericson, ye wad tie up my airm, for it gangs wallopin’ aboot, an’ that canna be guid for the stickin’ o’ ‘t thegither again.’
‘My poor boy! you don’t think I’m going to leave you here, do you?’ said the doctor, proceeding to open the carriage-door.
‘But whaur’s the hamper?’ said Shargar, looking about him in dismay.
‘The coachman has got it on the box,’ answered the doctor.
‘Eh! that’ll never do. Gin thae rampaugin’ brutes war to tak a start again, what wad come o’ the bit basket? I maun get it doon direckly.’
‘Sit still. I will get it down, and deliver it myself.’ As he spoke the doctor got out.
‘Tak care o’ ‘t, sir; tak care o’ ‘t. William Walker said there was a jar o’ drained hinney i’ the basket; an’ the bairns wad miss ‘t sair gin ‘t war spult.’
‘I will take good care of it,’ responded the doctor.
He delivered the basket, returned to the carriage, and told the coachman to drive home.
‘Whaur are ye takin’ me till?’ exclaimed Shargar. ‘Willie hasna payed me for the parcel.’
‘Never mind Willie. I’ll pay you,’ said the doctor.
‘But Robert wadna like me to tak siller whaur I did nae wark for ‘t,’ objected Shargar. ‘He’s some pernickety (precise)—Robert. But I’ll jist say ‘at ye garred me, doctor. Maybe that ‘ll saitisfee him. An’ faith! I’m queer aboot my left fin here.’
‘We’ll soon set it all right,’ said the doctor.
When they reached his house he led the way to his surgery, and there put the broken limb in splints. He then told Johnston to help the patient to bed.
‘I maun gang hame,’ objected Shargar. ‘What wad Robert think?’
‘I will tell him all about it,’ said the doctor.
‘Yersel, sir?’ stipulated Shargar.
‘Yes, myself.’
‘Afore nicht?’
‘Directly,’ answered the doctor, and Shargar yielded.
‘But what will Robert say?’ were his last words, as he fell asleep, appreciating, no doubt, the superiority of the bed to his usual lair upon the hearthrug.
Robert was delighted to hear how well Shargar had acquitted himself. Followed a small consultation about him; for the accident had ripened the doctor’s intentions concerning the outcast.
‘As soon as his arm is sound again, he shall go to the grammar-school,’ he said.
‘An’ the college?’ asked Robert.
‘I hope so,’ answered the doctor. ‘Do you think he will do well? He has plenty of courage, at all events, and that is a fine thing.’
‘Ow ay,’ answered Robert; ‘he’s no ill aff for smeddum (spirit)—that is, gin it be for ony ither body. He wad never lift a han’ for himsel’; an’ that’s what garred me tak till him sae muckle. He’s a fine crater. He canna gang him lane, but he’ll gang wi’ onybody—and haud up wi’ him.’
‘What do you think him fit for, then?’
Now Robert had been building castles for Shargar out of the hopes which the doctor’s friendliness had given him. Therefore he was ready with his answer.
‘Gin ye cud ensure him no bein’ made a general o’, he wad mak a gran’ sojer. Set’s face foret, and say “quick mairch,” an’ he’ll ca his bagonet throu auld Hornie. But lay nae consequences upo’ him, for he cudna stan’ unner them.’
Dr. Anderson laughed, but thought none the less, and went home to see how his patient was getting on.
CHAPTER XIV. MYSIE’S FACE
Meantime Ericson grew better. A space of hard, clear weather, in which everything sparkled with frost and sunshine, did him good. But not yet could he use his brain. He turned with dislike even from his friend Plato. He would sit in bed or on his chair by the fireside for hours, with his hands folded before him, and his eyelids drooping, and let his thoughts flow, for he could not think. And that these thoughts flowed not always with other than sweet sounds over the stones of question, the curves of his lip would testify to the friendly, furtive glance of the watchful Robert. None but the troubled mind knows its own consolations; and I believe the saddest life has its own presence—however it may be unrecognized as such—of the upholding Deity. Doth God care for the hairs that perish from our heads? To a mind like Ericson’s the remembered scent, the recurring vision of a flower loved in childhood, is enough to sustain anxiety with beauty, for the lovely is itself healing and hope-giving, because it is the form and presence of the true. To have such a presence is to be; and while a mind exists in any high consciousness, the intellectual trouble that springs from the desire to know its own life, to be assured of its rounded law and security, ceases, for the desire itself falls into abeyance.
But although Ericson was so weak, he was always able and ready to help Robert in any difficulty not unfrequently springing from his imperfect preparation in Greek; for while Mr. Innes was an excellent Latin scholar, his knowledge of Greek was too limited either to compel learning or inspire enthusiasm. And with the keen instinct he possessed in everything immediate between man and man, Robert would sometimes search for a difficulty in order to request its solution; for then Ericson would rouse himself to explain as few men could have explained: where a clear view was to be had of anything, Ericson either had it or knew that he had it not. Hence Robert’s progress was good; for one word from a wise helper will clear off a whole atmosphere of obstructions.
At length one day when Robert came home he found him seated at the table, with his slate, working away at the Differential Calculus. After this he recovered more rapidly, and ere another week was over began to attend one class a day. He had been so far in advance before, that though he could not expect prizes, there was no fear of his passing.
One morning, Robert, coming out from a lecture, saw Ericson in the quadrangle talking to an elderly gentleman. When they met in the afternoon Ericson told him that that was Mr. Lindsay, and that he had asked them both to spend the evening at his house. Robert would go anywhere to be with his friend.
He got out his Sunday clothes, and dressed himself with anxiety: he had visited scarcely at all, and was shy and doubtful. He then sat down to his books, till Ericson came to his door—dressed, and hence in Robert’s eyes ceremonial—a stately, graceful gentleman. Renewed awe came upon him at the sight, and renewed gratitude. There was a flush on Ericson’s cheek, and a fire in his eye. Robert had never seen him look so grand. But there was a something about him that rendered him uneasy—a look that made Ericson seem strange, as if his life lay in some far-off region.
‘I want you to take your violin with you, Robert,’ he said.
‘Hoots!’ returned Robert, ‘hoo can I do that? To tak her wi’ me the first time I gang to a strange hoose, as gin I thocht a’body wad think as muckle o’ my auld wife as I do mysel’! That wadna be mainners—wad it noo, Mr. Ericson?’
‘But I told Mr. Lindsay that you could play well. The old gentleman is fond of Scotch tunes, and you will please him if you take it.’
‘That maks a’ the differ,’ answered Robert.
‘Thank you,’ said Ericson, as Robert went towards his instrument; and, turning, would have walked from the house without any additional protection.
‘Whaur are ye gaein’ that gait, Mr. Ericson? Tak yer plaid, or ye’ll be laid up again, as sure’s ye live.’
‘I’m warm enough,’ returned Ericson.
‘That’s naething. The cauld ‘s jist lyin’ i’ the street like a verra deevil to get a grup o’ ye. Gin ye dinna pit on yer plaid, I winna tak my fiddle.’
Ericson yielded; and they set out together.
I will account for Ericson’s request about the violin.
He went to the episcopal church on Sundays, and sat where he could see Mysie—sat longing and thirsting ever till the music returned. Yet the music he never heard; he watched only its transmutation into form, never taking his eyes off Mysie’s face. Reflected thence in a metamorphosed echo, he followed all its changes. Never was one powerless to produce it more strangely responsive to its influence. She had no voice; she had never been taught the use of any instrument. A world of musical feeling was pent up in her, and music raised the suddener storms in her mobile nature, that she was unable to give that feeling utterance. The waves of her soul dashed the more wildly against their shores, inasmuch as those shores were precipitous, and yielded no outlet to the swelling waters. It was that his soul might hover like a bird of Paradise over the lovely changes of her countenance, changes more lovely and frequent than those of an English May, that Ericson persuaded Robert to take his violin.
The last of the sunlight was departing, and a large full moon was growing through the fog on the horizon. The sky was almost clear of clouds, and the air was cold and penetrating. Robert drew Eric’s plaid closer over his chest. Eric thanked him lightly, but his voice sounded eager; and it was with a long hasty stride that he went up the hill through the gathering of the light frosty mist. He stopped at the stair upon which Robert had found him that memorable night. They went up. The door had been left on the latch for their entrance. They went up more steps between rocky walls. When in after years he read the Purgatorio, as often as he came to one of its ascents, Robert saw this stair with his inward eye. At the top of the stair was the garden, still ascending, and at the top of the garden shone the glow of Mr. Lindsay’s parlour through the red-curtained window. To Robert it shone a refuge for Ericson from the night air; to Ericson it shone the casket of the richest jewel of the universe. Well might the ruddy glow stream forth to meet him! Only in glowing red could such beauty be rightly closed. With trembling hand he knocked at the door.
They were shown at once into the parlour. Mysie was putting away her book as they entered, and her back was towards them. When she turned, it seemed even to Robert as if all the light in the room came only from her eyes. But that light had been all gathered out of the novel she had just laid down. She held out her hand to Eric, and her sweet voice was yet more gentle than wont, for he had been ill. His face flushed at the tone. But although she spoke kindly, he could hardly have fancied that she showed him special favour.
Robert stood with his violin under his arm, feeling as awkward as if he had never handled anything more delicate than a pitchfork. But Mysie sat down to the table, and began to pour out the tea, and he came to himself again. Presently her father entered. His greeting was warm and mild and sleepy. He had come from poring over Spotiswood, in search of some Will o’ the wisp or other, and had grown stupid from want of success. But he revived after a cup of tea, and began to talk about northern genealogies; and Ericson did his best to listen. Robert wondered at the knowledge he displayed: he had been tutor the foregoing summer in one of the oldest and poorest, and therefore proudest families in Caithness. But all the time his host talked Ericson’s eyes hovered about Mysie, who sat gazing before her with look distraught, with wide eyes and scarce-moving eyelids, beholding something neither on sea or shore; and Mr. Lindsay would now and then correct Ericson in some egregious blunder; while Mysie would now and then start awake and ask Robert or Ericson to take another cup of tea. Before the sentence was finished, however, she would let it die away, speaking the last words mechanically, as her consciousness relapsed into dreamland. Had not Robert been with Ericson, he would have found it wearisome enough; and except things took a turn, Ericson could hardly be satisfied with the pleasure of the evening. Things did take a turn.
‘Robert has brought his fiddle,’ said Ericson, as the tea was removed.
‘I hope he will be kind enough to play something,’ said Mr. Lindsay.
‘I’ll do that,’ answered Robert, with alacrity. ‘But ye maunna expec’ ower muckle, for I’m but a prentice-han’,’ he added, as he got the instrument ready.
Before he had drawn the bow once across it, attention awoke in Mysie’s eyes; and before he had finished playing, Ericson must have had quite as much of the ‘beauty born of murmuring sound’ as was good for him. Little did Mysie think of the sky of love, alive with silent thoughts, that arched over her. The earth teems with love that is unloved. The universe itself is one sea of infinite love, from whose consort of harmonies if a stray note steal across the sense, it starts bewildered.
Robert played better than usual. His touch grew intense, and put on all its delicacy, till it was like that of the spider, which, as Pope so admirably says,
Feels at each thread, and lives along the line.
And while Ericson watched its shadows, the music must have taken hold of him too; for when Robert ceased, he sang a wild ballad of the northern sea, to a tune strange as itself. It was the only time Robert ever heard him sing. Mysie’s eyes grew wider and wider as she listened. When it was over,
‘Did ye write that sang yersel’, Mr. Ericson?’ asked Robert.
‘No,’ answered Ericson. ‘An old shepherd up in our parts used to say it to me when I was a boy.’
‘Didna he sing ‘t?’ Robert questioned further.
‘No, he didn’t. But I heard an old woman crooning it to a child in a solitary cottage on the shore of Stroma, near the Swalchie whirlpool, and that was the tune she sang it to, if singing it could be called.’
‘I don’t quite understand it, Mr. Ericson,’ said Mysie. ‘What does it mean?’
‘There was once a beautiful woman lived there-away,’ began Ericson.—But I have not room to give the story as he told it, embellishing it, no doubt, as with such a mere tale was lawful enough, from his own imagination. The substance was that a young man fell in love with a beautiful witch, who let him go on loving her till he cared for nothing but her, and then began to kill him by laughing at him. For no witch can fall in love herself, however much she may like to be loved. She mocked him till he drowned himself in a pool on the seashore. Now the witch did not know that; but as she walked along the shore, looking for things, she saw his hand lying over the edge of a rocky basin. Nothing is more useful to a witch than the hand of a man, so she went to pick it up. When she found it fast to an arm, she would have chopped it off, but seeing whose it was, she would, for some reason or other best known to a witch, draw off his ring first. For it was an enchanted ring which she had given him to bewitch his love, and now she wanted both it and the hand to draw to herself the lover of a young maiden whom she hated. But the dead hand closed its fingers upon hers, and her power was powerless against the dead. And the tide came rushing up, and the dead hand held her till she was drowned. She lies with her lover to this day at the bottom of the Swalchie whirlpool; and when a storm is at hand, strange moanings rise from the pool, for the youth is praying the witch lady for her love, and she is praying him to let go her hand.
While Ericson told the story the room still glimmered about Robert as if all its light came from Mysie’s face, upon which the flickering firelight alone played. Mr. Lindsay sat a little back from the rest, with an amused expression: legends of such sort did not come within the scope of his antiquarian reach, though he was ready enough to believe whatever tempted his own taste, let it be as destitute of likelihood as the story of the dead hand. When Ericson ceased, Mysie gave a deep sigh, and looked full of thought, though I daresay it was only feeling. Mr. Lindsay followed with an old tale of the Sinclairs, of which he said Ericson’s reminded him, though the sole association was that the foregoing was a Caithness story, and the Sinclairs are a Caithness family. As soon as it was over, Mysie, who could not hide all her impatience during its lingering progress, asked Robert to play again. He took up his violin, and with great expression gave the air of Ericson’s ballad two or three times over, and then laid down the instrument. He saw indeed that it was too much for Mysie, affecting her more, thus presented after the story, than the singing of the ballad itself. Thereupon Ericson, whose spirits had risen greatly at finding that he could himself secure Mysie’s attention, and produce the play of soul in feature which he so much delighted to watch, offered another story; and the distant rush of the sea, borne occasionally into the ‘grateful gloom’ upon the cold sweep of a February wind, mingled with one tale after another, with which he entranced two of his audience, while the third listened mildly content.
The last of the tales Ericson told was as follows:—
‘One evening-twilight in spring, a young English student, who had wandered northwards as far as the outlying fragments of Scotland called the Orkney and Shetland islands, found himself on a small island of the latter group, caught in a storm of wind and hail, which had come on suddenly. It was in vain to look about for any shelter; for not only did the storm entirely obscure the landscape, but there was nothing around him save a desert moss.
‘At length, however, as he walked on for mere walking’s sake, he found himself on the verge of a cliff, and saw, over the brow of it, a few feet below him, a ledge of rock, where he might find some shelter from the blast, which blew from behind. Letting himself down by his hands, he alighted upon something that crunched beneath his tread, and found the bones of many small animals scattered about in front of a little cave in the rock, offering the refuge he sought, He went in, and sat upon a stone. The storm increased in violence, and as the darkness grew he became uneasy, for he did not relish the thought of spending the night in the cave. He had parted from his companions on the opposite side of the island, and it added to his uneasiness that they must be full of apprehension about him. At last there came a lull in the storm, and the same instant he heard a footfall, stealthy and light as that of a wild beast, upon the bones at the mouth of the cave. He started up in some fear, though the least thought might have satisfied him that there could be no very dangerous animals upon the island. Before he had time to think, however, the face of a woman appeared in the opening. Eagerly the wanderer spoke. She started at the sound of his voice. He could not see her well, because she was turned towards the darkness of the cave.
‘“Will you tell me how to find my way across the moor to Shielness?” he asked.
‘“You cannot find it to-night,” she answered, in a sweet tone, and with a smile that bewitched him, revealing the whitest of teeth.
‘“What am I to do, then?” he asked.
‘“My mother will give you shelter, but that is all she has to offer.”
‘“And that is far more than I expected a minute ago,” he replied. “I shall be most grateful.”
‘She turned in silence and left the cave. The youth followed.
‘She was barefooted, and her pretty brown feet went catlike over the sharp stones, as she led the way down a rocky path to the shore. Her garments were scanty and torn, and her hair blew tangled in the wind. She seemed about five-and-twenty, lithe and small. Her long fingers kept clutching and pulling nervously at her skirts as she went. Her face was very gray in complexion, and very worn, but delicately formed, and smooth-skinned. Her thin nostrils were tremulous as eyelids, and her lips, whose curves were faultless, had no colour to give sign of indwelling blood. What her eyes were like he could not see, for she had never lifted the delicate films of her eyelids.
‘At the foot of the cliff they came upon a little hut leaning against it, and having for its inner apartment a natural hollow within it. Smoke was spreading over the face of the rock, and the grateful odour of food gave hope to the hungry student. His guide opened the door of the cottage; he followed her in, and saw a woman bending over a fire in the middle of the floor. On the fire lay a large fish boiling. The daughter spoke a few words, and the mother turned and welcomed the stranger. She had an old and very wrinkled, but honest face, and looked troubled. She dusted the only chair in the cottage, and placed it for him by the side of the fire, opposite the one window, whence he saw a little patch of yellow sand over which the spent waves spread themselves out listlessly. Under this window was a bench, upon which the daughter threw herself in an unusual posture, resting her chin upon her hand. A moment after the youth caught the first glimpse of her blue eyes. They were fixed upon him with a strange look of greed, amounting to craving, but as if aware that they belied or betrayed her, she dropped them instantly. The moment she veiled them, her face, notwithstanding its colourless complexion, was almost beautiful.
