My dear J— — You are right, to be sure, in supposing that I know more than my neighbours in Ruan Lanihale concerning the unfortunate young man, Joseph Laquedem, and more than I care to divulge4; in particular concerning his tragical5 relations with the girl Julia Constantine, or July, as she was commonly called. The vulgar knowledge amounts to little more than this — that Laquedem, a young Hebrew of extraordinary commercial gifts, first came to our parish in 1807 and settled here as managing secretary of a privateering company at Porthlooe; that by his aptitude6 and daring in this and the illicit7 trade he amassed8 a respectable fortune, and at length opened a private bank at Porthlooe and issued his own notes; that on August 15, 1810, a forced “run” which, against his custom, he was personally supervising, miscarried, and he met his death by a carbine-shot on the sands of Sheba Cove; and, lastly, that his body was taken up and conveyed away by the girl Julia Constantine, under the fire of the preventive men.
The story has even in our time received what I may call some fireside embellishments; but these are the facts, and the parish knows little beyond them. I (as you conjecture) know a great deal more; and yet there is a sense in which I know nothing more. You and I, my old friend, have come to an age when men do not care to juggle9 with the mysteries of another world, but knowing that the time is near when all accounts must be rendered, desire to take stock honestly of what they believe and what they do not. And here lies my difficulty. On the one hand I would not make public an experience which, however honestly set down, might mislead others, and especially the young, into rash and mischievous10 speculations11. On the other, I doubt if it be right to keep total silence and withhold12 from devout13 and initiated14 minds any glimpse of truth, or possible truth, vouchsafed15 to me. As the Greek said, “Plenty are the thyrsus-bearers, but few the illuminate”; and among these few I may surely count my old friend.
It was in January 1807 — the year of the abominable16 business of Tilsit — that my churchwarden, the late Mr. Ephraim Pollard, and I, in cleaning the south wall of Lanihale Church for a fresh coat of whitewash17, discovered the frescoes18 and charcoal20 drawings, as well as the brass21 plaque22 of which I sent you a tracing; and I think not above a fortnight later that, on your suggestion, I set to work to decipher and copy out the old churchwardens’ accounts. On the Monday after Easter, at about nine o’clock P.M., I was seated in the Vicarage parlour, busily transcribing23, with a couple of candles before me, when my housekeeper25 Frances came in with a visiting-card, and the news that a stranger desired to speak with me. I took the card and read “Mr. Joseph Laquedem.”
“Show the gentleman in,” said I.
Now the fact is, I had just then a few guineas in my chest, and you know what a price gold fetched in 1807. I dare say that for twelve months together the most of my parishioners never set eyes on a piece, and any that came along quickly found its way to the Jews. People said that Government was buying up gold, through the Jews, to send to the armies. I know not the degree of truth in this, but I had some five and twenty guineas to dispose of, and had been put into correspondence with a Mr. Isaac Laquedem, a Jew residing by Plymouth Dock, whom I understood to be offering 25s. 6d. per guinea, or a trifle above the price then current.
I was fingering the card when the door opened again and admitted a young man in a caped26 overcoat and tall boots bemired high above the ankles. He halted on the threshold and bowed.
“Mr. —?”
“Joseph Laquedem,” said he in a pleasant voice.
“I guess your errand,” said I, “though it was a Mr. Isaac Laquedem whom I expected. — Your father, perhaps?”
He bowed again, and I left the room to fetch my bag of guineas. “You have had a dirty ride,” I began on my return.
“I have walked,” he answered, lifting a muddy boot. “I beg you to pardon these.”
“What, from Torpoint Ferry? And in this weather? My faith, sir, you must be a famous pedestrian!”
He made no reply to this, but bent27 over the guineas, fingering them, holding them up to the candlelight, testing their edges with his thumbnail, and finally poising28 them one by one on the tip of his forefinger29.
“I have a pair of scales,” suggested I.
“Thank you, I too have a pair in my pocket. But I do not need them. The guineas are good weight, all but this one, which is possibly a couple of grains short.”
“Surely you cannot rely on your hand to tell you that?”
His eyebrows30 went up as he felt in his pocket and produced a small velvet-lined case containing a pair of scales. He was a decidedly handsome young man, with dark intelligent eyes and a slightly scornful — or shall I say ironical31? — smile. I took particular note of the steadiness of his hand as he adjusted the scales and weighed my guinea.
“To be precise,” he announced, “1.898, or practically one and nine-tenths short.”
“I should have thought,” said I, fairly astounded32, “a lifetime too little for acquiring such delicacy33 of sense!”
He seemed to ponder. “I dare say you are right, sir,” he answered, and was silent again until the business of payment was concluded. While folding the receipt he added, “I am a connoisseur34 of coins, sir, and not of their weight alone.”
“Antique, as well as modern?”
“Certainly.”
“In that case,” said I, “you may be able to tell me something about this”: and going to my bureau I took out the brass plaque which Mr. Pollard had detached from the planks35 of the church wall. “To be sure, it scarcely comes within the province of numismatics.”
He took the plaque. His brows contracted, and presently he laid it on the table, drew my chair towards him in an absent-minded fashion, and, sitting down, rested his brow on his open palms. I can recall the attitude plainly, and his bent head, and the rain still glistening36 in the waves of his black hair.
“Where did you find this?” he asked, but without looking up.
I told him. “The engraving37 upon it is singular. I thought that possibly —”
“Oh, that,” said he, “is simplicity38 itself. An eagle displayed, with two heads, the legs resting on two gates, a crescent between, an imperial crown surmounting40 — these are the arms of the Greek Empire, the two gates are Rome and Constantinople. The question is, how it came where you found it? It was covered with plaster, you say, and the plaster whitewashed41? Did you discover anything near it?”
Upon this I told him of the frescoes and charcoal drawings, and roughly described them.
His fingers began to drum upon the table.
“Have you any documents which might tell us when the wall was first plastered?”
“The parish accounts go back to 1594 — here they are: the Registers to 1663 only. I keep them in the vestry. I can find no mention of plastering, but the entries of expenditure42 on whitewashing43 occur periodically, the first under the year 1633.” I turned the old pages and pointed44 to the entry “Ite paide to George mason for a dayes work about the churche after the Jew had been, and white wassche is vjd.”
“A Jew? But a Jew had no business in England in those days. I wonder how and why he came.” My visitor took the old volume and ran his finger down the leaf, then up, then turned back a page. “Perhaps this may explain it,” said he. “Ite deliued Mr. Beuill to make puision for the companie of a fforeste barke yt came ashoare iiis ivd.” He broke off, with a finger on the entry, and rose. “Pray forgive me, sir; I had taken your chair.”
“Don’t mention it,” said I. “Indeed I was about to suggest that you draw it to the fire while Frances brings in some supper.”
To be short, although he protested he must push on to the inn at Porthlooe, I persuaded him to stay the night; not so much, I confess, from desire of his company, as in the hope that if I took him to see the frescoes next morning he might help me to elucidate45 their history.
I remember now that during supper and afterwards my guest allowed me more than my share of the conversation. He made an admirable listener, quick, courteous46, adaptable47, yet with something in reserve (you may call it a facile tolerance48, if you will) which ended by irritating me. Young men should be eager, fervid49, sublimis cupidusque, as I was before my beard grew stiff. But this young man had the air of a spectator at a play, composing himself to be amused. There was too much wisdom in him and too little emotion. We did not, of course, touch upon any religious question — indeed, of his own opinions on any subject he disclosed extraordinarily51 little: and yet as I reached my bedroom that night I told myself that here, behind a mask of good manners, was one of those perniciously modern young men who have run through all beliefs by the age of twenty, and settled down to a polite but weary atheism52.
I fancy that under the shadow of this suspicion my own manner may have been cold to him next morning. Almost immediately after breakfast we set out for the church. The day was sunny and warm; the atmosphere brilliant after the night’s rain. The hedges exhaled53 a scent39 of spring. And, as we entered the churchyard, I saw the girl Julia Constantine seated in her favourite angle between the porch and the south wall, threading a chain of daisies.
“What an amazingly handsome girl!” my guest exclaimed.
“Why, yes,” said I, “she has her good looks, poor soul!”
“Why ‘poor soul’?”
“She is an imbecile, or nearly so,” said I, fitting the key in the lock.
We entered the church. And here let me say that, although I furnished you at the time of their discovery with a description of the frescoes and the ruder drawings which overlay them, you can scarcely imagine the grotesque54 and astonishing coup24 d’oeil presented by the two series. To begin with the frescoes, or original series. One, as you know, represented the Crucifixion. The head of the Saviour55 bore a large crown of gilded56 thorns, and from the wound in His left side flowed a continuous stream of red gouts of blood, extraordinarily intense in colour (and intensity57 of colour is no common quality in fresco19-painting). At the foot of the cross stood a Roman soldier, with two female figures in dark-coloured drapery a little to the right, and in the background a man clad in a loose dark upper coat, which reached a little below the knees.
The same man reappeared in the second picture, alone, but carrying a tall staff or hunting spear, and advancing up a road, at the top of which stood a circular building with an arched doorway58 and, within the doorway, the head of a lion. The jaws59 of this beast were open and depicted60 with the same intense red as the Saviour’s blood.
Close beside this, but further to the east, was a large ship, under sail, which from her slanting61 position appeared to be mounting over a long swell62 of sea. This vessel63 had four masts; the two foremost furnished with yards and square sails, the others with lateen-shaped sails, after the Greek fashion; her sides were decorated with six gaily64 painted bands or streaks65, each separately charged with devices — a golden saltire on a green ground, a white crescent on a blue, and so on; and each masthead bore a crown with a flag or streamer fluttering beneath.
Of the frescoes these alone were perfect, but fragments of others were scattered66 over the wall, and in particular I must mention a group of detached human limbs lying near the ship — a group rendered conspicuous67 by an isolated68 right hand and arm drawn69 on a larger scale than the rest. A gilded circlet adorned70 the arm, which was flexed71 at the elbow, the hand horizontally placed, the forefinger extended towards the west in the direction of the picture of the Crucifixion, and the thumb shut within the palm beneath the other three fingers.
So much for the frescoes. A thin coat of plaster had been laid over them to receive the second series, which consisted of the most disgusting and fantastic images, traced in black. One of these drawings represented Satan himself — an erect72 figure, with hairy paws clasped in a supplicating73 posture74, thick black horns, and eyes which (for additional horror) the artist had painted red and edged with a circle of white. At his feet crawled the hindmost limb of a peculiarly loathsome75 monster with claws stuck in the soil. Close by a nun76 was figured, sitting in a pensive77 attitude, her cheek resting on the back of her hand, her elbow supported by a hideous78 dwarf79, and at some distance a small house, or prison, with barred windows and a small doorway crossed with heavy bolts.
As I said, this upper series had been but partially80 scraped away, and as my guest and I stood at a little distance, I leave you to imagine, if you can, the incongruous tableau82; the Prince of Darkness almost touching83 the mourners beside the cross; the sorrowful nun and grinning dwarf side by side with a ship in full sail, which again seemed to be forcing her way into a square and forbidding prison, etc.
Mr. Laquedem conned84 all this for some while in silence, holding his chin with finger and thumb.
“And it was here you discovered the plaque?” he asked at length.
I pointed to the exact spot.
“H’m!” he mused50, “and that ship must be Greek or Levantine by its rig. Compare the crowns on her masts, too, with that on the plaque . . .” He stepped to the wall and peered into the frescoes. “Now this hand and arm —”
“They belong to me,” said a voice immediately behind me, and turning, I saw that the poor girl had followed us into the church.
The young Jew had turned also. “What do you mean by that?” he asked sharply.
“She means nothing,” I began, and made as if to tap my forehead significantly.
“Yes, I do mean something,” she persisted. “They belong to me. I remember —”
“What do you remember?”
Her expression, which for a moment had been thoughtful, wavered and changed into a vague foolish smile. “I can’t tell . . . something . . . it was sand, I think . . .”
“Who is she?” asked Mr. Laquedem.
“Her name is Julia Constantine. Her parents are dead; an aunt looks after her — a sister of her mother’s.”
He turned and appeared to be studying the frescoes. “Julia Constantine — an odd name,” he muttered. “Do you know anything of her parentage?”
“Nothing except that her father was a labourer at Sheba, the manor-farm. The family has belonged to this parish for generations. I believe July is the last of them.”
He faced round upon her again. “Sand, did you say? That’s a strange thing to remember. How does sand come into your mind? Think, now.”
She cast down her eyes; her fingers plucked at the daisy-chain. After a while she shook her head. “I can’t think,” she answered, glancing up timidly and pitifully.
“Surely we are wasting time,” I suggested. To tell the truth I disapproved85 of his worrying the poor girl.
He took the daisy-chain from her, looking at me the while with something between a “by-your-leave” and a challenge. A smile played about the corners of his mouth.
“Let us waste a little more.” He held up the chain before her and began to sway it gently to and fro. “Look at it, please, and stretch out your arm; look steadily86. Now your name is Julia Constantine, and you say that the arm on the wall belongs to you. Why?”
“Because . . . if you please, sir, because of the mark.”
“What mark?”
“The mark on my arm.”
This answer seemed to discompose as well as to surprise him. He snatched at her wrist and rolled back her sleeve, somewhat roughly, as I thought. “Look here, sir!” he exclaimed, pointing to a thin red line encircling the flesh of the girl’s upper arm, and from that to the arm and armlet in the fresco.
“She has been copying it,” said I, “with a string or ribbon, which no doubt she tied too tightly.”
“You are mistaken, sir; this is a birthmark. You have had it always?” he asked the girl.
She nodded. Her eyes were fixed87 on his face with the gaze of one at the same time startled and confiding88; and for the moment he too seemed to be startled. But his smile came back as he picked up the daisy-chain and began once more to sway it to and fro before her.
“And when that arm belonged to you, there was sand around you — eh! Tell us, how did the sand come there?”
She was silent, staring at the pendulum-swing of the chain. “Tell us,” he repeated in a low coaxing89 tone.
And in a tone just as low she began, “There was sand . . . red sand . . . it was below me . . . and something above . . . something like a great tent.” She faltered90, paused and went on, “There were thousands of people . . . .” She stopped.
“Yes, yes — there were thousands of people on the sand —”
“No, they were not on the sand. There were only two on the sand . . . the rest were around . . . under the tent . . . my arm was out . . . just like this . . . .”
The young man put a hand to his forehead. “Good Lord!” I heard him say, “the amphitheatre!”
“Come, sir,” I interrupted, “I think we have had enough of this jugglery91.”
But the girl’s voice went on steadily as if repeating a lesson:—
“And then you came —”
“I!” His voice rang sharply, and I saw a horror dawn in his eyes, and grow. “I!”
“And then you came,” she repeated, and broke off, her mind suddenly at fault. Automatically he began to sway the daisy-chain afresh. “We were on board a ship . . . a funny ship . . . with a great high stern . . . .”
“Is this the same story?” he asked, lowering his voice almost to a whisper; and I could hear his breath going and coming.
“I don’t know . . . one minute I see clear, and then it all gets mixed up again . . . we were up there, stretched on deck, near the tiller . . . another ship was chasing us . . . the men began to row, with long sweeps . . . .”
“But the sand,” he insisted, “is the sand there?”
“The sand? . . . Yes, I see the sand again . . . we are standing92 upon it . . . we and the crew . . . the sea is close behind us . . . some men have hold of me . . . they are trying to pull me away from you. . . . Ah! —”
And I declare to you that with a sob93 the poor girl dropped on her knees, there in the aisle94, and clasped the young man about the ankles, bowing her forehead upon the insteps of his high boots. As for him, I cannot hope to describe his face to you. There was something more in it than wonder — something more than dismay, even — at the success of his unhallowed experiment. It was as though, having prepared himself light-heartedly to witness a play, he was seized and terrified to find himself the principal actor. I never saw ghastlier fear on human cheeks.
“For God’s sake, sir,” I cried, stamping my foot, “relax your cursed spells! Relax them and leave us! This is a house of prayer.”
He put a hand under the girl’s chin, and, raising her face, made a pass or two, still with the daisy-chain in his hand. She looked about her, shivered and stood erect. “Where am I?” she asked. “Did I fall? What are you doing with my chain?” She had relapsed into her habitual95 childishness of look and speech.
I hurried them from the church, resolutely96 locked the door, and marched up the path without deigning97 a glance at the young man. But I had not gone fifty yards when he came running after.
“I entreat98 you, sir, to pardon me. I should have stopped the experiment before. But I was startled — thrown off my balance. I am telling you the truth, sir!”
“Very likely,” said I. “The like has happened to other rash meddlers before you.”
“I declare to you I had no thought —” he began. But I interrupted him:
“‘No thought,’ indeed! I bring you here to resolve me, if you can, a curious puzzle in archaeology99, and you fall to playing devil’s pranks100 upon a half-witted child. ‘No thought!’— I believe you, sir.”
“And yet,” he muttered, “it is an amazing business: the sand — the velarium— the outstretched arm and hand —pollice compresso— the exact gesture of the gladiatorial shows —”
“Are you telling me, pray, of gladiatorial shows under the Eastern Empire?” I demanded scornfully.
“Certainly not: and that,” he mused, “only makes it the more amazing.”
“Now, look here,” said I, halting in the middle of the road, “I’ll hear no more of it. Here is my gate, and there lies the highroad, on to Porthlooe or back to Plymouth, as you please. I wish you good morning, sir; and if it be any consolation101 to you, you have spoiled my digestion102 for a week.”
I am bound to say the young man took his dismissal with grace. He halted then and there and raised his hat; stood for a moment pondering; and, turning on his heel, walked quickly off towards Porthlooe.
It must have been a week before I learnt casually103 that he had obtained employment there as secretary to a small company owning the Lord Nelson and the Hand-inhand privateers. His success, as you know, was rapid; and naturally in a gossiping parish I heard about it — a little here, a little there — in all a great deal. He had bought the Providence104 schooner105; he had acted as freighter for Minards’ men in their last run with the Morning Star; he had slipped over to Cork106 and brought home a Porthlooe prize illegally detained there; he was in London, fighting a salvage107 case in the Admiralty Court; . . . Within twelve months he was accountant of every trading company in Porthlooe, and agent for receiving the moneys due to the Guernsey merchants. In 1809, as you know, he opened his bank and issued notes of his own. And a year later he acquired two of the best farms in the parish, Tresawl and Killifreeth, and held the fee simple of the harbour and quays108.
During the first two years of his prosperity I saw little of the man. We passed each other from time to time in the street of Porthlooe, and he accosted109 me with a politeness to which, though distrusting him, I felt bound to respond. But he never offered conversation, and our next interview was wholly of my seeking.
One evening towards the close of his second year at Porthlooe, and about the date of his purchase of the Providence schooner, I happened to be walking homewards from a visit to a sick parishioner, when at Cove Bottom, by the miller’s footbridge, I passed two figures — a man and a woman standing there and conversing110 in the dusk. I could not help recognising them; and halfway111 up the hill I came to a sudden resolution and turned back.
“Mr. Laquedem,” said I, approaching them, “I put it to you, as a man of education and decent feeling, is this quite honourable112?”
“I believe, sir,” he answered courteously113 enough, “I can convince you that it is. But clearly this is neither the time nor the place.”
“You must excuse me,” I went on, “but I have known Julia since she was a child.”
To this he made an extraordinary answer. “No longer?” he asked; and added, with a change of tone, “Had you not forbidden me the vicarage, sir, I might have something to say to you.”
“If it concern the girl’s spiritual welfare — or yours — I shall be happy to hear it.”
“In that case,” said he, “I will do myself the pleasure of calling upon you — shall we say tomorrow evening?”
He was as good as his word. At nine o’clock next evening — about the hour of his former visit — Frances ushered114 him into my parlour. The similarity of circumstance may have suggested to me to draw the comparison; at any rate I observed then for the first time that rapid ageing of his features which afterwards became a matter of common remark. The face was no longer that of the young man who had entered my parlour two years before; already some streaks of grey showed in his black locks, and he seemed even to move wearily.
“I fear you are unwell,” said I, offering a chair.
“I have reason to believe,” he answered, “that I am dying.” And then, as I uttered some expression of dismay and concern, he cut me short. “Oh, there will be no hurry about it! I mean, perhaps, no more than that all men carry about with them the seeds of their mortality — so why not I? But I came to talk of Julia Constantine, not of myself.”
“You may guess, Mr. Laquedem, that as her vicar, and having known her and her affliction all her life, I take something of a fatherly interest in the girl.”
“And having known her so long, do you not begin to observe some change in her, of late?”
“Why, to be sure,” said I, “she seems brighter.”
He nodded. “I have done that; or rather, love has done it.”
“Be careful, sir!” I cried. “Be careful of what you are going to tell me! If you have intended or wrought115 any harm to that girl, I tell you solemnly —”
But he held up a hand. “Ah, sir, be charitable! I tell you solemnly our love is not of that kind. We who have loved, and lost, and sought each other, and loved again through centuries, have outlearned that rougher passion. When she was a princess of Rome and I a Christian116 Jew led forth117 to the lions —”
I stood up, grasping the back of my chair and staring. At last I knew. This young man was stark118 mad.
He read my conviction at once. “I think, sir,” he went on, changing his tone, “the learned antiquary to whom, as you told me, you were sending your tracing of the plaque, has by this time replied with some information about it.”
Relieved at this change of subject, I answered quietly (while considering how best to get him out of the house), “My friend tells me that a similar design is found in Landulph Church, on the tomb of Theodore Paleologus, who died in 1636.”
“Precisely; of Theodore Paleologus, descendant of the Constantines.”
I began to grasp his insane meaning. “The race, so far as we know, is extinct,” said I.
“The race of the Constantines,” said he slowly and composedly, “is never extinct; and while it lasts, the soul of Julia Constantine will come to birth again and know the soul of the Jew, until —”
I waited.
“— Until their love lifts the curse, and the Jew can die.”
“This is mere119 madness,” said I, my tongue blurting120 it out at length.
“I expected you to say no less. Now look you, sir — in a few minutes I leave you, I walk home and spend an hour or two before bedtime in adding figures, balancing accounts; tomorrow I rise and go about my daily business cheerfully, methodically, always successfully. I am the long-headed man, making money because I know how to make it, respected by all, with no trace of madness in me. You, if you meet me tomorrow, shall recognise none. Just now you are forced to believe me mad. Believe it then; but listen while I tell you this:— When Rome was, I was; when Constantinople was, I was. I was that Jew rescued from the lions. It was I who sailed from the Bosphorus in that ship, with Julia beside me; I from whom the Moorish121 pirates tore her, on the beach beside Tetuan; I who, centuries after, drew those obscene figures on the wall of your church — the devil, the nun, and the barred convent — when Julia, another Julia but the same soul, was denied to me and forced into a nunnery. For the frescoes, too, tell my history. I was that figure in the dark habit, standing a little back from the cross. Tell me, sir, did you never hear of Joseph Kartophilus, Pilate’s porter?”
I saw that I must humour him. “I have heard his legend,” said I;4 “and have understood that in time he became a Christian.”
He smiled wearily. “He has travelled through many creeds122; but he has never travelled beyond Love. And if that love can be purified of all passion such as you suspect, he has not travelled beyond forgiveness. Many times I have known her who shall save me in the end; and now in the end I have found her and shall be able, at length, to die; have found her, and with her all my dead loves, in the body of a girl whom you call half-witted — and shall be able, at length, to die.”
And with this he bent over the table, and, resting his face on his arms, sobbed123 aloud. I let him sob there for a while, and then touched his shoulder gently.
He raised his head. “Ah,” said he, in a voice which answered the gentleness of my touch, “you remind me!” And with that he deliberately124 slipped his coat off his left arm and, rolling up the shirt sleeve, bared the arm almost to the shoulder. “I want you close,” he added with half a smile; for I have to confess that during the process I had backed a couple of paces towards the door. He took up a candle, and held it while I bent and examined the thin red line which ran like a circlet around the flesh of the upper arm just below the apex125 of the deltoid muscle. When I looked up I met his eyes challenging mine across the flame.
“Mr. Laquedem,” I said, “my conviction is that you are possessed126 and are being misled by a grievous hallucination. At the same time I am not fool enough to deny that the union of flesh and spirit, so passing mysterious in everyday life (when we pause to think of it), may easily hold mysteries deeper yet. The Church Catholic, whose servant I am, has never to my knowledge denied this; yet has providentially made a rule of St. Paul’s advice to the Colossians against intruding127 into those things which she hath not seen. In the matter of this extraordinary belief of yours I can give you no such comfort as one honest man should offer to another: for I do not share it. But in the more practical matter of your conduct towards July Constantine, it may help you to know that I have accepted your word and propose henceforward to trust you as a gentleman.”
“I thank you, sir,” he said, as he slipped on his coat. “May I have your hand on that?”
“With pleasure,” I answered, and, having shaken hands, conducted him to the door.
From that day the affection between Joseph Laquedem and July Constantine, and their frequent companionship, were open and avowed128. Scandal there was, to be sure; but as it blazed up like straw, so it died down. Even the women feared to sharpen their tongues openly on Laquedem, who by this time held the purse of the district, and to offend whom might mean an empty skivet on Saturday night. July, to be sure, was more tempting129 game; and one day her lover found her in the centre of a knot of women fringed by a dozen children with open mouths and ears. He stepped forward. “Ladies,” said he, “the difficulty which vexes130 you cannot, I feel sure, be altogether good for your small sons and daughters. Let me put an end to it.” He bent forward and reverently131 took July’s hand. “My dear, it appears that the depth of my respect for you will not be credited by these ladies unless I offer you marriage. And as I am proud of it, so forgive me if I put it beyond their doubt. Will you marry me?” July, blushing scarlet132, covered her face with her hands, but shook her head. There was no mistaking the gesture: all the women saw it. “Condole with me, ladies!” said Laquedem, lifting his hat and including them in an ironical bow; and placing July’s arm in his, escorted her away.
I need not follow the history of their intimacy133, of which I saw, indeed, no more than my neighbours. On two points all accounts of it agree: the rapid ageing of the man during this period and the improvement in the poor girl’s intellect. Some profess134 to have remarked an equally vehement135 heightening of her beauty; but, as my recollection serves me, she had always been a handsome maid; and I set down the transfiguration — if such it was — entirely136 to the dawn and growth of her reason. To this I can add a curious scrap81 of evidence. I was walking along the cliff track, one afternoon, between Porthlooe and Lanihale church-town, when, a few yards ahead, I heard a man’s voice declaiming in monotone some sentences which I could not catch; and rounding the corner, came upon Laquedem and July. She was seated on a rock; and he, on a patch of turf at her feet, held open a small volume which he laid face downwards137 as he rose to greet me. I glanced at the back of the book and saw it was a volume of Euripides. I made no comment, however, on this small discovery; and whether he had indeed taught the girl some Greek, or whether she merely listened for the sake of hearing his voice, I am unable to say.
Let me come then to the last scene, of which I was one among many spectators.
On the morning of August 15th, 1810, and just about daybreak, I was awakened138 by the sound of horses’ hoofs139 coming down the road beyond the vicarage gate. My ear told me at once that they were many riders and moving at a trot140; and a minute later the jingle141 of metal gave me an inkling of the truth. I hurried to the window and pulled up the blind. Day was breaking on a grey drizzle142 of fog which drove up from seaward, and through this drizzle I caught sight of the last five or six scarlet plumes143 of a troop of dragoons jogging down the hill past my bank of laurels144.
Now our parish had stood for some weeks in apprehension145 of a visit from these gentry146. The riding-officer, Mr. Luke, had threatened us with them more than once. I knew, moreover, that a run of goods was contemplated147: and without questions of mine — it did not become a parish priest in those days to know too much — it had reached my ears that Laquedem was himself in Roscoff bargaining for the freight. But we had all learnt confidence in him by this time — his increasing bodily weakness never seemed to affect his cleverness and resource — and no doubt occurred to me that he would contrive148 to checkmate this new move of the riding-officer’s. Nevertheless, and partly I dare say out of curiosity, to have a good look at the soldiers, I slipped on my clothes and hurried downstairs and across the garden.
My hand was on the gate when I heard footsteps, and July Constantine came running down the hill, her red cloak flapping and her hair powdered with mist.
“Hullo!” said I, “nothing wrong, I hope?” She turned a white, distraught face to me in the dawn.
“Yes, yes! All is wrong! I saw the soldiers coming — I heard them a mile away, and sent up the rocket from the church-tower. But the lugger stood in-they must have seen! — she stood in, and is right under Sheba Point now — and he—”
I whistled. “This is serious. Let us run out towards the point; we — you, I mean — may be in time to warn them yet.”
So we set off running together. The morning breeze had a cold edge on it, but already the sun had begun to wrestle149 with the bank of sea-fog. While we hurried along the cliffs the shoreward fringe of it was ripped and rolled back like a tent-cloth, and through the rent I saw a broad patch of the cove below; the sands (for the tide was at low ebb) shining like silver; the dragoons with their greatcoats thrown back from their scarlet breasts and their accoutrements flashing against the level rays. Seaward, the lugger loomed150 through the weather; but there was a crowd of men and black boats — half a score of them — by the water’s edge, and it was clear to me at once that a forced run had been at least attempted.
I had pulled up, panting, on the verge151 of the cliff, when July caught me by the arm.
“The sand!”
She pointed; and well I remember the gesture — the very gesture of the hand in the fresco — the forefinger extended, the thumb shut within the palm. “The sand . . . he told me . . .”
Her eyes were wide and fixed. She spoke152, not excitedly at all, but rather as one musing153, much as she had answered Laquedem on the morning when he waved the daisy-chain before her.
I heard an order shouted, high up the beach, and the dragoons came charging down across the sand. There was a scuffle close by the water’s edge; then, as the soldiers broke through the mob of free-traders and wheeled their horses round, fetlock deep in the tide, I saw a figure break from the crowd and run, but presently check himself and walk composedly towards the cliff up which climbed the footpath154 leading to Porthlooe. And above the hubbub155 of oaths and shouting, I heard a voice crying distinctly, “Run, man! Tis after thee they are! Man, go faster!”
Even then, had he gained the cliff-track, he might have escaped; for up there no horseman could follow. But as a trooper came galloping156 in pursuit, he turned deliberately. There was no defiance157 in his attitude; of that I am sure. What followed must have been mere blundering ferocity. I saw a jet of smoke, heard the sharp crack of a firearm, and Joseph Laquedem flung up his arms and pitched forward at full length on the sand.
The report woke the girl as with the stab of a knife. Her cry — it pierces through my dreams at times — rang back with the echoes from the rocks, and before they ceased she was halfway down the cliffside, springing as surely as a goat, and, where she found no foothold, clutching the grass, the rooted samphires and sea pinks, and sliding. While my head swam with the sight of it, she was running across the sands, was kneeling beside the body, had risen, and was staggering under the weight of it down to the water’s edge.
“Stop her!” shouted Luke, the riding-officer. “We must have the man! Dead or alive, we must have’n!”
She gained the nearest boat, the free-traders forming up around her, and hustling158 the dragoons. It was old Solomon Tweedy’s boat, and he, prudent159 man, had taken advantage of the skirmish to ease her off, so that a push would set her afloat. He asserts that as July came up to him she never uttered a word, but the look on her face said “Push me off,” and though he was at that moment meditating160 his own escape, he obeyed and pushed the boat off “like a mazed161 man.” I may add that he spent three months in Bodmin Gaol162 for it.
She dropped with her burden against the stern sheets, but leapt up instantly and had the oars163 between the thole-pins almost as the boat floated. She pulled a dozen strokes, and hoisted164 the main-sail, pulled a hundred or so, sprang forward and ran up the jib. All this while the preventive men were straining to get off two boats in pursuit; but, as you may guess, the free-traders did nothing to help and a great deal to impede165. And first the crews tumbled in too hurriedly, and had to climb out again (looking very foolish) and push afresh, and then one of the boats had mysteriously lost her plug and sank in half a fathom166 of water. July had gained a full hundred yards’ offing before the pursuit began in earnest, and this meant a good deal. Once clear of the point the small cutter could defy their rowing and reach away to the eastward167 with the wind just behind her beam. The riding-officer saw this, and ordered his men to fire. They assert, and we must believe, that their object was merely to disable the boat by cutting up her canvas.
Their first desultory168 volley did no damage. I stood there, high on the cliff, and watched the boat, making a spy-glass of my hands. She had fetched in close under the point, and gone about on the port tack169 — the next would clear — when the first shot struck her, cutting a hole through her jib, and I expected the wind to rip the sail up immediately; yet it stood. The breeze being dead on-shore, the little boat heeled towards us, her mainsail hiding the steerswoman.
It was a minute later, perhaps, that I began to suspect that July was hit, for she allowed the jib to shake and seemed to be running right up into the wind. The stern swung round and I strained my eyes to catch a glimpse of her. At that moment a third volley rattled170 out, a bullet shore through the peak halliards, and the mainsail came down with a run. It was all over.
The preventive men cheered and pulled with a will. I saw them run alongside, clamber into the cutter, and lift the fallen sail.
And that was all. There was no one on board, alive or dead. Whilst the canvas hid her, in the swift two minutes between the boat’s putting about and her running up into the wind, July Constantine must have lifted her lover’s body overboard and followed it to the bottom of the sea, There is no other explanation; and of the bond that knit these two together there is, when I ask myself candidly171, no explanation at all, unless I give more credence172 than I have any wish to give to the wild tale which Joseph Laquedem told me. I have told you the facts, my friend, and leave them to your judgment173.
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1
slain
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| 杀死，宰杀，杀戮( slay的过去分词 )； (slay的过去分词) | |
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cove
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| n.小海湾，小峡谷 | |
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rev
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| v.发动机旋转，加快速度 | |
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4
divulge
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| v.泄漏(秘密等)；宣布，公布 | |
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tragical
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| adj. 悲剧的, 悲剧性的 | |
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6
aptitude
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| n.(学习方面的)才能，资质，天资 | |
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7
illicit
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| adj.非法的，禁止的，不正当的 | |
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8
amassed
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| v.积累，积聚( amass的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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9
juggle
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| v.变戏法，纂改，欺骗，同时做；n.玩杂耍，纂改，花招 | |
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10
mischievous
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| adj.调皮的，恶作剧的，有害的，伤人的 | |
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speculations
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| n.投机买卖( speculation的名词复数 )；思考；投机活动；推断 | |
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12
withhold
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| v.拒绝，不给；使停止，阻挡 | |
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13
devout
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| adj.虔诚的，虔敬的，衷心的 (n.devoutness) | |
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14
initiated
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| n. 创始人 adj. 新加入的 vt. 开始，创始，启蒙，介绍加入 | |
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15
vouchsafed
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| v.给予，赐予( vouchsafe的过去式和过去分词 )；允诺 | |
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16
abominable
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| adj.可厌的，令人憎恶的 | |
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17
whitewash
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| v.粉刷，掩饰；n.石灰水，粉刷，掩饰 | |
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18
frescoes
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| n.壁画( fresco的名词复数 )；温壁画技法，湿壁画 | |
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19
fresco
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| n.壁画；vt.作壁画于 | |
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20
charcoal
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| n.炭，木炭，生物炭 | |
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21
brass
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| n.黄铜；黄铜器，铜管乐器 | |
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22
plaque
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| n.饰板，匾，(医)血小板 | |
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23
transcribing
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| （用不同的录音手段）转录( transcribe的现在分词 )； 改编（乐曲）（以适应他种乐器或声部）； 抄写； 用音标标出（声音） | |
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24
coup
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| n.政变；突然而成功的行动 | |
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25
housekeeper
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| n.管理家务的主妇，女管家 | |
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caped
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| 披斗篷的 | |
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bent
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| n.爱好，癖好；adj.弯的；决心的，一心的 | |
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28
poising
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| 使平衡( poise的现在分词 )； 保持（某种姿势）； 抓紧； 使稳定 | |
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29
forefinger
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| n.食指 | |
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30
eyebrows
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| 眉毛( eyebrow的名词复数 ) | |
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31
ironical
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| adj.讽刺的，冷嘲的 | |
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32
astounded
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| v.使震惊(astound的过去式和过去分词)；愕然；愕；惊讶 | |
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33
delicacy
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| n.精致，细微，微妙，精良；美味，佳肴 | |
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34
connoisseur
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| n.鉴赏家，行家，内行 | |
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35
planks
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| （厚）木板( plank的名词复数 )； 政纲条目，政策要点 | |
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36
glistening
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| adj.闪耀的，反光的v.湿物闪耀，闪亮( glisten的现在分词 ) | |
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37
engraving
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| n.版画；雕刻（作品）；雕刻艺术；镌版术v.在（硬物）上雕刻（字，画等）( engrave的现在分词 )；将某事物深深印在（记忆或头脑中） | |
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38
simplicity
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| n.简单，简易；朴素；直率，单纯 | |
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39
scent
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| n.气味，香味，香水，线索，嗅觉；v.嗅，发觉 | |
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40
surmounting
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| 战胜( surmount的现在分词 )； 克服（困难）； 居于…之上； 在…顶上 | |
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41
whitewashed
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| 粉饰，美化，掩饰( whitewash的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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42
expenditure
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| n.(时间、劳力、金钱等)支出；使用，消耗 | |
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43
whitewashing
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| 粉饰，美化，掩饰( whitewash的现在分词 )； 喷浆 | |
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44
pointed
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| adj.尖的，直截了当的 | |
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45
elucidate
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| v.阐明，说明 | |
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46
courteous
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| adj.彬彬有礼的，客气的 | |
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47
adaptable
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| adj.能适应的，适应性强的，可改编的 | |
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48
tolerance
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| n.宽容；容忍，忍受；耐药力；公差 | |
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49
fervid
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| adj.热情的；炽热的 | |
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50
mused
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| v.沉思，冥想( muse的过去式和过去分词 )；沉思自语说（某事） | |
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51
extraordinarily
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| adv.格外地；极端地 | |
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52
atheism
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| n.无神论，不信神 | |
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53
exhaled
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| v.呼出，发散出( exhale的过去式和过去分词 )；吐出（肺中的空气、烟等），呼气 | |
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54
grotesque
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| adj.怪诞的，丑陋的；n.怪诞的图案，怪人（物） | |
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55
saviour
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| n.拯救者，救星 | |
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56
gilded
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| a.镀金的，富有的 | |
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57
intensity
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| n.强烈，剧烈；强度；烈度 | |
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58
doorway
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| n.门口，(喻)入门；门路，途径 | |
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59
jaws
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| n.口部；嘴 | |
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60
depicted
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| 描绘，描画( depict的过去式和过去分词 )； 描述 | |
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61
slanting
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| 倾斜的，歪斜的 | |
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62
swell
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| vi.膨胀，肿胀；增长，增强 | |
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63
vessel
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| n.船舶；容器，器皿；管，导管，血管 | |
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64
gaily
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| adv.欢乐地，高兴地 | |
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65
streaks
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| n.（与周围有所不同的）条纹( streak的名词复数 )；（通常指不好的）特征（倾向）；（不断经历成功或失败的）一段时期v.快速移动( streak的第三人称单数 )；使布满条纹 | |
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66
scattered
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| adj.分散的，稀疏的；散步的；疏疏落落的 | |
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67
conspicuous
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| adj.明眼的，惹人注目的；炫耀的，摆阔气的 | |
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68
isolated
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| adj.与世隔绝的 | |
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69
drawn
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| v.拖，拉，拔出；adj.憔悴的，紧张的 | |
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70
adorned
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| [计]被修饰的 | |
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71
flexed
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| adj.[医]曲折的，屈曲v.屈曲( flex的过去式和过去分词 )；弯曲；（为准备大干而）显示实力；摩拳擦掌 | |
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72
erect
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| n./v.树立，建立，使竖立；adj.直立的，垂直的 | |
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73
supplicating
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| v.祈求，哀求，恳求( supplicate的现在分词 ) | |
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74
posture
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| n.姿势，姿态，心态，态度；v.作出某种姿势 | |
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75
loathsome
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| adj.讨厌的，令人厌恶的 | |
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76
nun
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| n.修女，尼姑 | |
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77
pensive
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| a.沉思的,哀思的,忧沉的 | |
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78
hideous
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| adj.丑陋的，可憎的，可怕的，恐怖的 | |
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79
dwarf
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| n.矮子，侏儒，矮小的动植物；vt.使…矮小 | |
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80
partially
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| adv.部分地，从某些方面讲 | |
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81
scrap
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| n.碎片；废料；v.废弃，报废 | |
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82
tableau
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| n.画面，活人画（舞台上活人扮的静态画面） | |
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83
touching
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| adj.动人的，使人感伤的 | |
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84
conned
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| adj.被骗了v.指挥操舵( conn的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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85
disapproved
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| v.不赞成( disapprove的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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86
steadily
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| adv.稳定地；不变地；持续地 | |
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87
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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88
confiding
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| adj.相信人的，易于相信的v.吐露（秘密，心事等）( confide的现在分词 )；（向某人）吐露（隐私、秘密等） | |
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89
coaxing
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| v.哄，用好话劝说( coax的现在分词 )；巧言骗取；哄劝，劝诱；“锻炼”效应 | |
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90
faltered
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| （嗓音）颤抖( falter的过去式和过去分词 )； 支吾其词； 蹒跚； 摇晃 | |
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91
jugglery
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| n.杂耍，把戏 | |
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92
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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93
sob
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| n.空间轨道的轰炸机；呜咽，哭泣 | |
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94
aisle
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| n.（教堂、教室、戏院等里的）过道，通道 | |
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95
habitual
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| adj.习惯性的；通常的，惯常的 | |
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96
resolutely
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| adj.坚决地，果断地 | |
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97
deigning
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| v.屈尊，俯就( deign的现在分词 ) | |
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98
entreat
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| v.恳求，恳请 | |
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99
archaeology
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| n.考古学 | |
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100
pranks
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| n.玩笑，恶作剧( prank的名词复数 ) | |
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101
consolation
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| n.安慰，慰问 | |
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102
digestion
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| n.消化，吸收 | |
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103
casually
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| adv.漠不关心地，无动于衷地，不负责任地 | |
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104
providence
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| n.深谋远虑，天道，天意；远见；节约；上帝 | |
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105
schooner
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| n.纵帆船 | |
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106
cork
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| n.软木，软木塞 | |
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107
salvage
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| v.救助，营救，援救；n.救助，营救 | |
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108
quays
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| 码头( quay的名词复数 ) | |
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109
accosted
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| v.走过去跟…讲话( accost的过去式和过去分词 )；跟…搭讪；（乞丐等）上前向…乞讨；（妓女等）勾搭 | |
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110
conversing
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| v.交谈，谈话( converse的现在分词 ) | |
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111
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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112
honourable
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| adj.可敬的；荣誉的，光荣的 | |
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113
courteously
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| adv.有礼貌地，亲切地 | |
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114
ushered
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| v.引，领，陪同( usher的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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115
wrought
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| v.引起；以…原料制作；运转；adj.制造的 | |
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116
Christian
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| adj.基督教徒的；n.基督教徒 | |
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117
forth
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| adv.向前；向外，往外 | |
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118
stark
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| adj.荒凉的；严酷的；完全的；adv.完全地 | |
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119
mere
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| adj.纯粹的；仅仅，只不过 | |
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120
blurting
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| v.突然说出，脱口而出( blurt的现在分词 ) | |
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121
moorish
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| adj.沼地的，荒野的，生[住]在沼地的 | |
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122
creeds
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| （尤指宗教）信条，教条( creed的名词复数 ) | |
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123
sobbed
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| 哭泣，啜泣( sob的过去式和过去分词 )； 哭诉，呜咽地说 | |
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124
deliberately
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| adv.审慎地；蓄意地；故意地 | |
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125
apex
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| n.顶点，最高点 | |
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126
possessed
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| adj.疯狂的；拥有的，占有的 | |
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127
intruding
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| v.侵入，侵扰，打扰( intrude的现在分词)；把…强加于 | |
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128
avowed
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| adj.公开声明的，承认的v.公开声明，承认( avow的过去式和过去分词) | |
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129
tempting
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| a.诱人的, 吸引人的 | |
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130
vexes
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| v.使烦恼( vex的第三人称单数 )；使苦恼；使生气；详细讨论 | |
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131
reverently
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| adv.虔诚地 | |
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132
scarlet
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| n.深红色，绯红色，红衣；adj.绯红色的 | |
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133
intimacy
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| n.熟悉，亲密，密切关系，亲昵的言行 | |
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134
profess
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| v.声称，冒称，以...为业，正式接受入教，表明信仰 | |
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135
vehement
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| adj.感情强烈的；热烈的；(人)有强烈感情的 | |
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136
entirely
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| ad.全部地，完整地；完全地，彻底地 | |
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137
downwards
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| adj./adv.向下的（地），下行的（地） | |
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138
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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139
hoofs
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| n.（兽的）蹄，马蹄( hoof的名词复数 )v.（兽的）蹄，马蹄( hoof的第三人称单数 ) | |
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140
trot
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| n.疾走，慢跑；n.老太婆；现成译本；(复数）trots:腹泻（与the 连用）；v.小跑，快步走，赶紧 | |
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141
jingle
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| n.叮当声，韵律简单的诗句；v.使叮当作响，叮当响，押韵 | |
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142
drizzle
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| v.下毛毛雨；n.毛毛雨，蒙蒙细雨 | |
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143
plumes
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| 羽毛( plume的名词复数 )； 羽毛饰； 羽毛状物； 升上空中的羽状物 | |
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144
laurels
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| n.桂冠，荣誉 | |
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145
apprehension
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| n.理解，领悟；逮捕，拘捕；忧虑 | |
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146
gentry
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| n.绅士阶级，上层阶级 | |
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147
contemplated
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| adj. 预期的 动词contemplate的过去分词形式 | |
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148
contrive
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| vt.谋划，策划；设法做到；设计，想出 | |
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149
wrestle
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| vi.摔跤，角力；搏斗；全力对付 | |
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150
loomed
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| v.隐约出现，阴森地逼近( loom的过去式和过去分词 )；隐约出现，阴森地逼近 | |
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151
verge
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| n.边，边缘；v.接近，濒临 | |
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152
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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153
musing
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| n. 沉思，冥想 adj. 沉思的, 冥想的 动词muse的现在分词形式 | |
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154
footpath
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| n.小路，人行道 | |
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155
hubbub
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| n.嘈杂；骚乱 | |
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156
galloping
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| adj. 飞驰的, 急性的 动词gallop的现在分词形式 | |
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157
defiance
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| n.挑战，挑衅，蔑视，违抗 | |
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158
hustling
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| 催促（hustle的现在分词形式） | |
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159
prudent
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| adj.谨慎的，有远见的，精打细算的 | |
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160
meditating
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| a.沉思的，冥想的 | |
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161
mazed
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| 迷惘的，困惑的 | |
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162
gaol
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| n.(jail)监狱；(不加冠词)监禁；vt.使…坐牢 | |
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163
oars
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| n.桨，橹( oar的名词复数 )；划手v.划（行）( oar的第三人称单数 ) | |
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164
hoisted
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| 把…吊起，升起( hoist的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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165
impede
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| v.妨碍，阻碍，阻止 | |
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166
fathom
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| v.领悟，彻底了解 | |
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167
eastward
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| adv.向东；adj.向东的；n.东方，东部 | |
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168
desultory
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| adj.散漫的，无方法的 | |
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169
tack
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| n.大头钉；假缝，粗缝 | |
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170
rattled
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| 慌乱的，恼火的 | |
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171
candidly
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| adv.坦率地，直率而诚恳地 | |
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172
credence
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| n.信用，祭器台，供桌，凭证 | |
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173
judgment
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| n.审判；判断力，识别力，看法，意见 | |
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