It was not a pleasant thought for a lover; but then how much worse, he reflected, would it have been for her, had she never made up her mind to confession5. And in his own person how much better he now stood. He had saved the Squire6's life, and had saved it in circumstances that must do him credit. He had run his risks, and been put to the test, and he had come manfully out of it; and he still felt that elation7 of spirit, that readiness to do and dare, to meet fresh ventures, which attends on a crisis successfully encountered.
He was not in a mood to be dashed by trifles therefore, or Arthur, when he came out to speak to him, would have dashed him, for Arthur was rather short with him. "You can do nothing here," he said. "We are tumbling over one another. Get after that rascal8. He has got away with four hundred in gold and we must recover it. Watkins at the Griffin may know where he'll make for."
"He's in livery, isn't he?"
"Begad, so he is! I'd not thought of that! I'll have his place watched in case he steals back to change. But do you see Watkins."
Clement took his dismissal meekly9 and went to Watkins. He soon learned all that the inn-keeper knew, which amounted to no more than a conviction that Thomas would make for Manchester. Watkins shook his head over the livery. The rascal was no fool; he'd have got rid of that. "Oh, he's a clever chap, sir, and a gallus bad one." he continued. "He'd talk here that daring that he'd lift the hair on my head. But I never thought that he'd devil enough," in a tone of admiration10, "to attack the Squire! Well, he'll swing this time, if he's taken! You're not in very good fettle yourself, sir. You know that your cheek's bleeding?"
"It's nothing. And you think he'll make for Manchester?"
"As sure as sure! He's done that this time, sir, as he never can be safe but in a crowd. And where'd he go but where he knows? He'll be in Manchester before tomorrow night, and it'll take you all your time, sir, finding him there! It's a mortal big place, I understand, and he'll have got rid of his livery, depend on it!"
"I'll find him," Clement said. And he meant it. His blood was hot, he had tasted of adventure and he found it more to his liking11 than day-books and ledgers13. And already he had made up his mind that it was his business to pursue Thomas. He was angered by the rascal's cowardly attack upon an old man, and were it only for that he would take him. But apart from that he saw that if he recovered the Squire's money it would be another point to his credit--if the Squire recovered. If the old man did not, well, still he would have done something. As he rode home, and passed the scene of the robbery, he laid his plans.
He would leave the search in that district to the Head Constable14 at Aldersbury. But he expected little from this. In those days if a man was robbed it was the man's own business and that of his friends to follow the thief and seize him if they could. In London the Bow Street Runners saw to it, and in one or two of the big cities there were police officers organized on similar lines. But in the country there were only parish constables15, elderly men, often chosen because they were past work.
Clement knew, then, that he must rely on himself, and he tried to imagine what Thomas would do, and what route he would take if he made for Manchester. Not through Aldersbury, for there he would run the risk of recognition. Nor would he venture into either of the direct roads thence--through Congleton or by Tarporley; for it was along these roads that he would be likely to be followed. How, then? Through Chester, Clement fancied. The man was already on the Chester side of Aldersbury, and he could make at once for that place, while in the full stream of traffic between Chester and Manchester his traces would be lost. Travelling on foot and by night, he might reach Chester about ten in the morning, and probably, having money and being footsore, he would take the first Manchester coach that left after ten.
At this point Clement found himself crossing the West Bridge, the faint scattered17 lights of the town rising to a point before him. His first business was to knock up the constable and tell his tale. This done, he made for the bank, where he found the household awaiting his coming in some alarm, for it was close on midnight. Here he had to tell his story afresh, amid expressions of wonder and pity, while Betty fetched sponge and water and bathed his cheek; nor, modestly as he related his doings, could he quite conceal18 the part that he had played. The banker listened, approved, and for once experienced a new sensation. He was proud of his son. Moreover, as a dramatic sequel to the Squire's withdrawal19 of the money, the story touched him home.
Then Clement, as he ate his supper, came to his point. "I'm going after him," he said.
The banker objected. "It's not your business, my lad," he said. "You've done enough, I'm sure."
"But the point is--it's bank money, sir." Clement had grown cunning.
"It was--this morning."
"And he was a client this morning--and may be tomorrow."
The banker considered. There was something in that; and this sudden interest in the bank was gratifying. Yet--yet he did not quite understand it. "You seem to be confoundedly taken up with this," he said, "but I don't see why you need mix yourself up with it farther. The scoundrel's neck is in a halter and he won't be taken without a struggle. Have you thought of that?"
"I'd take him if he were ten," Clement said--and blushed at his own enthusiasm. He muttered something about the man being a villain20, and the sooner he was laid by the heels the better.
"Yes, by someone. But I don't see why you need be the one."
"Anyway, I'm going to do it, sir," Clement replied with unexpected independence. "I shall go by the Nantwich coach at half-past five, drop off at Altringham, and catch him as he goes through. True, if he goes by Frodsham I may miss him, but I fancy that the morning coach by Frodsham leaves Chester too early for him. And, after all, I can't stop every bolt-hole."
Ovington wondered anew, seeing his son in a new light. This was not the idler with his eyes on the ledger12 and his thoughts abroad, whom he had known in the bank, but a young man with purpose in his glance and a cut on his cheek-bone, who looked as if he could be ugly if it came to a pinch. A quite new Clement--or new at any rate to him.
He reflected. The affair would be talked of, and certainly it would be a feather in the bank's cap if the money, which the Squire had withdrawn21, were recovered through the bank's exertions22. Viewed in that light there was method in the lad's madness, whatever had bitten him, "Well, I think it is a dangerous business," he said at last, "and it is not your business. But go, if you will, only you must take Payne with you."
Payne was the bank man-of-all-work, but Clement would not hear of Payne. If he could be called at five, he asked no more. Even if all the seats on the Victory were booked, they would find room for him somewhere.
"But your face?" Betty said. "Isn't it painful? It's turning black."
"I'll bet that villain's is as black!" he retorted. "I know I got home on him once. Only let me be called."
But his father saw that, as he passed through the hall, he took one of the bank pistols out of the case in which they were kept, and slipped it into his pocket. The banker wondered anew, and felt perhaps more anxiety than he showed. At any rate, it was he who called the lad at five and saw that he drank the coffee that Betty had prepared, and that he ate something. At the last, indeed, Clement feared that his father might offer to accompany him, but he did not. Possibly he had decided23 that if his son was bent24 on proving his mettle25 in this odd business, it was wisest not to balk26 him.
The sun was rising as Clement's coach rattled27 down the Foregate between the old Norman towers that crown the Castle Hill, and the long austere28 front of the school, with its wide low casements29 twinkling in the first beams. Early milk-carts drew aside to give the coach passage, white-eyed sweeps gazed enviously30 after it, mob-caps at windows dreamt of holidays and sighed to be on it and away. Soon it burst merrily from the crowded houses and met the morning freshness and the open country and the rolling fields. The mists were rising from the valley behind, as the horses breasted the ascent31 above the old battle-field, swept down the farther slope, and at eight miles an hour climbed up Armour32 Hill between meadows sparkling with dew and coverts33 flickering34 with conies. Down the hill at a canter, which presently carried it rejoicing into Wem. There the first relay was waiting, and away again they went, bowling35 over the barren gorse-clad heath that brought them presently through narrow twisting streets to the White Lion at Whitchurch. Again, "Horses on!" and merrily they travelled down the gentle slope to the Cheshire plain, where miles of green country spread themselves in the sunshine, a land of fatness and plenty, of cheese and milk and slow-running brooks36. The clock on Nantwich church was showing a half after eight, as with a long flourish from the bugle37 they passed below it, and halted for breakfast at the Crown, in the stubborn old Round-head town.
Half an hour to refresh, topping up with a glass of famous Nantwich ale, and away again. But now the sun was high, the world abroad, the roads were alive with traffic. Onwards from Nantwich, where they began to run alongside the Ellesmere Canal, with its painted barges39 and gay market boats, the road took on a new importance, and many a smiling wayside house, Lion or Swan, cheered the travellers on their way. Spanking40 four-in-hands, handled by lusty coachmen, the autocrats41 of the road, chaises-and-four with postboys in green or yellow, white-coated farmers and parsons on hackneys, commercials in gigs, and publicans in tax-carts, pedlars, packmen, the one-legged sailor, and Punch and Judy--all these met or passed them; and huge wains laden42 with Manchester goods and driven by teamsters in smocks with long whips on their shoulders. And the inns! The inns, with their swaying signs and open windows, their benches crowded with loungers and their yards echoing with the cry of "Next team!"--the inns, with their groaning43 tables and huge joints44 and gleaming silver, these came so often, swaggered so loudly, imposed themselves so royally, that half the life of the road seemed to be in and about them.
And Clement saw it all and rejoiced in it all, though his eyes never ceased to search for a dour-looking man with a bruised45 face. He rejoiced in the cantering horses and the abounding46 life about him, in the freedom of it and the joyousness47 of it, his pulses leaping in tune48 with it; and not the less in tune, so splendid a thing is it to be young and in love, because he had fought a fight and slept only three hours. He watched it all pass before him, and if he had ever believed in his father's scheme of an iron way and iron horses he lost faith in it now. For it was impossible to believe that any iron road running across fields and waste places could vie with this splendid highway, this orderly procession of coaches, travelling and stopping and meeting with the regularity49 of a weaver's shuttle, these long lines of laden wagons51, these swift chaises horsed at every stage! He saw stables that sheltered a hundred roadsters and were not full; ostlers to whom a handful of oats in every peck gave a gentleman's income; teams that were clothed and curried52 as tenderly as children; mighty53 caravanserais full to the attics54. A whole machinery55 of transport passed under his wondering eyes, and the railway, the Valleys Railway--he smiled at it as at the dream of a visionary.
They swept through Northwich before noon, and an hour later Clement dropped off the coach in front of the Bowling Green Inn at Altringham, and knew that his task lay before him. The little town had no church, but it boasted for its size more bustle56 than he had expected, and as he eyed its busy streets and its flow of traffic his spirits sank; it did not call itself one of the gates of Manchester for nothing. However, he had not come to stand idle, and the first step, to seek out a constable, was easy. But to secure that worthy's aid--he was but a deputy, a pot-bellied, spectacled shoemaker--was another matter. The man rolled up his leather apron57 and pushed his horn-rimmed glasses on to his forehead, but he shook his head. "A very desperate villain," he said, "a very desperate villain! But lor', master, a dark sullen58 chap with a black eye and legs a little bandy? Why, I be dark and I be bandy, and for black eyes--I'm afeared there's more than one o' that cut on the road."
"But not to-day," Clement urged. "He'll come through to-day or to-night."
"Ay, and more likely night than day. But how be I to see if he's a blackened peeper in the dark! I can't haul a gentleman off a coach to ask the color of his eyes."
"Well, anyway, do your best."
"We might bill him and cry him?"
"That's it! Do that!" Clement saw that that was about the extent of the help he would get in this quarter. "Send the crier to me at the Bowling Green, and I'll write a bill--Five pounds reward for information!"
The constable's eyes twinkled. "Now you're on a line, master," he said. "Now we'll do summat, maybe!"
Clement took the hint and bettered the line with a crownpiece, and hastening back to his inn he took seisin of a seat in the coffee room which commanded the main street. Here he wrote out a bill, and bribed59 a waiter to keep the place for him: and in it he sat patiently, scanning every person who passed. But so many passed that an hour had not elapsed before he held his task hopeless, though he continued to perform it. The constable had undertaken to go round the inns and to set a watch on a side street; and the bill might do something. But his fancy pictured half a dozen by-ways through the town, or the man might avoid the town, or he might go by another route. Altogether it began to seem a hopeless task, his fancied sagacity a silly conceit60. But he had undertaken the task, and as he had told his father he could not close all holes. He could only set his snare61 across the largest and hope for the best.
Presently he heard the crier ring his bell and cry his man. "Oh yes! Oh yes! Oh yes!" and the rest of it, ending with "God save the King!" And that cheered him for a while. That was something. But as hour after hour went by and coaches, carriages, and postchaises stopped and started before the door, and pedestrians62 passed, and still no Thomas appeared--though half a dozen times he ran out to take a nearer view of some traveller, or to inspect a slumberer63 in a hay-cart--he began to despair. There were so many chances against him. So many straws floated by, half seen in the current.
But Clement was dogged. He persisted, though hope had almost abandoned him, and it was long after midnight before, sinking with fatigue64, he left his post. Even so he was out again by six, but if there was anything of which he was now certain, it was that the villain had gone by in the night. Still he remained, his eyes roving ceaselessly over the passers-by, who were now few, now many, as the current ran fast or slow, as some coach high-laden drew up before the door with a noisy fanfaronade, or some heavy wagon50 toiled65 slowly by.
It was in one of these slack intervals66, when the street was tolerably empty, that his eyes fell on a man who was loitering on the other side of the way. The man had his hands in his pockets and a straw in his mouth, and he seemed to be a mere38 idler; but as his eyes met Clement's he winked67. Then, with an almost imperceptible gesture of the head, he lounged away in the direction of the inn yard.
Clement doubted if anything was meant, but grasping at every chance he hurried out and found the man standing68 in the yard, his hands in his pockets, the straw in his mouth. He was staring at an object, which, to judge from his aspect, could have no possible interest for him--a pump. "Do you want me?" Clement asked.
"Mebbe, mister. Do you see that stable?"
"Well?"
"D'you go in there and I'll--mebbe I'll join you."
But Clement was suspicious. "I am not going out of sight of the street," he said.
"Lord!" contemptuously. "Your man's gone these six hours. He's many a mile on by now! You come into the stable."
The fellow's looks did not commend him. He was blear-eyed and under-sized, wearing a mangy rabbit-skin waistcoat, and no coat. He had the air of a postboy run to seed. Still, Clement thought it better to go with him, and in the stable, "Be you the gent that offered five pounds?" the man asked, turning upon him.
"I am."
"Then fork out, squire. Open your purse, and I'll open my mouth."
"If you come with me to the constable----"
"Not I. I ben't sharing with no constable. That is flat."
"Well, what do you know?"
"What you want to know. Howsumdever, if you'll give me your word you'll act the gentleman?"
"Who are you, my lad?"
"Ostler at the Barley69 Sheaf in Malthouse Lane. You're on? Right. I see, you're a gentleman. Well, your chap come in 'bout16 eleven last night on an empty dray from Chester. He had four sacks of corn with him."
"Oh, but that can't be the man!" Clement exclaimed, his face falling.
"You listen, mister. He had four sacks of corn with him, and wagoner, he'd bargained to carry him to Manchester. But they had quarrelled, and t'other chucked off his sacks in our yard, and there was pretty nigh a fight. Wagoner he went off and left him cursing, and he offered me a shilling to find him a lift to Manchester first thing i' the morning. 'Bout daylight there come in a hay-cart, but driver'd only take the man and not the forage70. Howsumdever, he said at last he'd take one sack, and your chap up and asked me would I take care of t'other three till he sent for 'em. I see he was mighty keen to get on, and I sez, 'No,' sez I, 'but I'll buy 'em cheap.' 'Right,' sez he, and surprising little bones about it, and lets me have 'em cheap! So thinks I, who's this as chucks away money, and as he climbed up I managed to knock off his tile and see his eye was painted, and he the very spot of your bill! I'd half a mind to stop him, but he was over-weight for me--I'm a little chap--and I let him go.' He added some details which satisfied Clement that the traveller was really Thomas.
"Did you hear where he was going to in Manchester?"
"Five pound, mister!" The man held out his grimy paw.
Clement did not like the cunning in the bleary eyes, but he had gone so far that he could hardly draw back. He counted out four one-pound notes. "Now then?" he said, showing the fifth, but keeping a firm hold on it.
"The lad that took him is Jerry Stott--of the Apple-Tree Inn in Fennel Street. You go to him, mister. One of these will do it."
Clement gave him the other note. "He didn't tell you where he was going?"
"He very particlar did not. But I'm thinking you'll net him at Jerry's. Do you take one of Nadin's boys. He's a desperate-looking chap. He gave you that punch in the face, I guess?" with interest.
"He did."
"Ah, well, you marked him. But you get one of Nadin's boys. You'll not take him easy."
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收听单词发音
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1
clement
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| adj.仁慈的；温和的 | |
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wrung
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| 绞( wring的过去式和过去分词 )； 握紧（尤指别人的手）； 把（湿衣服）拧干； 绞掉（水） | |
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poignancy
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| n.辛酸事，尖锐 | |
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remorse
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| n.痛恨，悔恨，自责 | |
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confession
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| n.自白，供认，承认 | |
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squire
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| n.护卫, 侍从, 乡绅 | |
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elation
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| n.兴高采烈，洋洋得意 | |
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rascal
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| n.流氓；不诚实的人 | |
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meekly
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| adv.温顺地，逆来顺受地 | |
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admiration
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| n.钦佩，赞美，羡慕 | |
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liking
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| n.爱好；嗜好；喜欢 | |
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ledger
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| n.总帐，分类帐；帐簿 | |
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ledgers
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| n.分类账( ledger的名词复数 ) | |
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constable
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| n.(英国)警察，警官 | |
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constables
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| n.警察( constable的名词复数 ) | |
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bout
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| n.侵袭，发作；一次(阵，回)；拳击等比赛 | |
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scattered
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| adj.分散的，稀疏的；散步的；疏疏落落的 | |
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conceal
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| v.隐藏，隐瞒，隐蔽 | |
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withdrawal
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| n.取回，提款；撤退，撤军；收回，撤销 | |
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villain
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| n.反派演员，反面人物；恶棍；问题的起因 | |
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withdrawn
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| vt.收回；使退出；vi.撤退，退出 | |
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exertions
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| n.努力( exertion的名词复数 )；费力；（能力、权力等的）运用；行使 | |
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decided
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| adj.决定了的，坚决的；明显的，明确的 | |
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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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mettle
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| n.勇气，精神 | |
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balk
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| n.大方木料；v.妨碍；不愿前进或从事某事 | |
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rattled
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| 慌乱的，恼火的 | |
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austere
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| adj.艰苦的；朴素的，朴实无华的；严峻的 | |
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casements
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| n.窗扉( casement的名词复数 ) | |
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enviously
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| adv.满怀嫉妒地 | |
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ascent
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| n.(声望或地位)提高；上升，升高；登高 | |
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armour
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| （=armor）n.盔甲；装甲部队 | |
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coverts
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| n.隐蔽的，不公开的，秘密的( covert的名词复数 )；复羽 | |
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flickering
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| adj.闪烁的，摇曳的，一闪一闪的 | |
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bowling
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| n.保龄球运动 | |
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brooks
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| n.小溪( brook的名词复数 ) | |
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bugle
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| n.军号，号角，喇叭；v.吹号，吹号召集 | |
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mere
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| adj.纯粹的；仅仅，只不过 | |
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barges
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| 驳船( barge的名词复数 ) | |
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spanking
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| adj.强烈的，疾行的；n.打屁股 | |
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autocrats
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| n.独裁统治者( autocrat的名词复数 )；独断专行的人 | |
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laden
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| adj.装满了的；充满了的；负了重担的；苦恼的 | |
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groaning
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| adj. 呜咽的, 呻吟的 动词groan的现在分词形式 | |
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44
joints
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| 接头( joint的名词复数 )； 关节； 公共场所（尤指价格低廉的饮食和娱乐场所） （非正式）； 一块烤肉 （英式英语） | |
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bruised
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| [医]青肿的，瘀紫的 | |
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abounding
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| adj.丰富的，大量的v.大量存在，充满，富于( abound的现在分词 ) | |
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joyousness
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| 快乐，使人喜悦 | |
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tune
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| n.调子；和谐，协调；v.调音，调节，调整 | |
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regularity
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| n.规律性，规则性；匀称，整齐 | |
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wagon
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| n.四轮马车，手推车，面包车；无盖运货列车 | |
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wagons
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| n.四轮的运货马车( wagon的名词复数 )；铁路货车；小手推车 | |
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curried
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| adj.加了咖喱（或咖喱粉的），用咖哩粉调理的 | |
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mighty
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| adj.强有力的；巨大的 | |
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54
attics
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| n. 阁楼 | |
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55
machinery
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| n.(总称)机械，机器；机构 | |
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56
bustle
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| v.喧扰地忙乱，匆忙，奔忙；n.忙碌；喧闹 | |
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apron
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| n.围裙；工作裙 | |
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sullen
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| adj.愠怒的，闷闷不乐的，(天气等)阴沉的 | |
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bribed
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| v.贿赂( bribe的过去式和过去分词 )；向（某人）行贿，贿赂 | |
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conceit
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| n.自负，自高自大 | |
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61
snare
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| n.陷阱，诱惑，圈套；（去除息肉或者肿瘤的）勒除器；响弦，小军鼓；vt.以陷阱捕获，诱惑 | |
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62
pedestrians
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| n.步行者( pedestrian的名词复数 ) | |
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slumberer
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| 睡眠者，微睡者 | |
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fatigue
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| n.疲劳，劳累 | |
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toiled
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| 长时间或辛苦地工作( toil的过去式和过去分词 )； 艰难缓慢地移动，跋涉 | |
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intervals
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| n.[军事]间隔( interval的名词复数 )；间隔时间；[数学]区间；（戏剧、电影或音乐会的）幕间休息 | |
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winked
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| v.使眼色( wink的过去式和过去分词 )；递眼色（表示友好或高兴等）；（指光）闪烁；闪亮 | |
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68
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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69
barley
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| n.大麦，大麦粒 | |
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forage
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| n.(牛马的)饲料，粮草；v.搜寻，翻寻 | |
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