It was these hours of darkness, when the rest of the world was abed, and the long, long hours of daylight in the early summer mornings before it was yet awake, which tried him more than anything else. At such times, when he was tired of reading--and he had never before read so much in so short a space of time--he could do nothing but lie back on his pallet, with his arms curled under his head, and think. The mornings were balmy, soft, and bright. Through the cell-casement, which he could open at will, he could hear the merry twittering of innumerable sparrows. He could see the slow shadows sliding, inch by inch, down the gray stone walls of the prison yard, as the sun rose higher in the sky. Now and then the sweet west wind brought him faint wafts10 of fragrance11 from the hay-slopes just outside the prison gates. Sometimes he could hear the barking of a dog on some far far-off farm, or the dull lowing of cattle; sounds which reminded him that the great world, with its life, and hopes, and fears, lay close around him, though he himself might have no part therein. At such moments he often felt that he would give half of all he was possessed12 of for an hour's freedom outside those tomb-like walls--for one hour's blessed freedom, with Edith by his side, to wander at their own sweet will through lane and coppice and by river's brim, with the free air of heaven blowing around them, and nothing to bound their eyes but the dim horizon, lying like a purple ring on woods and meadows far away.
Little wonder that during these long, solitary13 hours a sense of depression, of melancholy14 even, would now and then take possession of him for a little while; that his mind was oppressed with vague forebodings of what that future, which was now drawing near with sure but unhasting footsteps, might possibly have in store for him. He had just won for himself the sweetest prize which this world had in its power to offer him, and his very soul shrank within him when he thought that he had won it only, perhaps, to lose it for ever in a few short weeks. Bitter, very bitter--despairing almost--grew his thoughts at such times; but he struggled bravely against them, and never let them master him for long. When the clock struck six, and the tramp of heavy feet was heard along the corridors, and the jingling15 of huge keys--when the warders were changed, and the little wicket in his cell door was opened and a cheerful voice said, "Good-morning, sir. Hope you have slept well," Lionel's cheery response would ring out, clear and full, "Good-morning, Jeavons. I've had an excellent night, thank you." And Jeavons would go back to his mates and say, "Mr. Dering's just wonderful. Always the same. Never out o' sorts."
Later on would come Hoskyns, and Edith, and Tom. It was impossible for Edith to visit the prison alone, and the lawyer would often make a pretence16 of having business with his client when he had none in reality, rather than withstand the piteous, pleading look which would spring to Edith's eyes the moment he told her that there would be no occasion for him to visit the gaol17 that day. While he lives Hoskyns will never forget those pretty pictures of the lover-husband and his bride, as they sat together, hand in hand, in the grim old cell, comforting each other, strengthening each other, and drawing pictures of the happy future in store for them; deceiving each other with a make-believe gaiety; and hiding, with desperate earnestness, the terrible dread18 which lay lurking19, like a foul20 witch in a cavern21, low down in the heart of each--that, for them, the coming months might bring, not sunshine, flowers, and the joys of mutual22 love, but life-long separation and the unspeakable darkness that broods beneath the awful wings of Death.
On these occasions, Hoskyns never neglected to provide himself with a newspaper, and, buried behind the huge broadsheet of "The Times," with spectacles poised23 on nose, he would go calmly on with his reading, leaving Lionel and Edith almost as much to themselves as though he had not been there. The sterling24 qualities of the old lawyer, and the thorough sincerity25 of his character, gradually forced themselves on the notice of Lionel and his wife, both of whom came, after a time, to regard him almost in the light of a second father, and to treat him with an affectionate familiarity which he was not slow to appreciate.
As Tom Bristow was turning the corner of Duxley High Street, one afternoon about three days after his arrival from London, he was met, face to face, by Squire26 Culpepper. The squire stopped and stared at Tom, but failed for the moment to recognize him.
"Good-morning, sir," said Tom, heartily27. "Glad to see you looking so well."
"Why--eh?--surely I must know that face," said the squire. "It's young Tom Bristow, if I'm not mistaken."
"You are not mistaken, sir," answered Tom.
"Then I'm very glad to see you, Tom--very," said the squire, as he shook Tom warmly by the hand. "Your father was a man whom I liked and respected immensely. I can never forget his kindness and attention to my poor dear wife during her last illness--never. He did all that man could do to preserve her to me--but it was not to be. For your father's sake, Tom, you will always find Titus Culpepper stand your friend."
"It is very kind of you to say so, sir."
"Not at all--not at all. So you're back again at the old place, eh? Going to stop with us this time, I hope. You ought never to have left us, young sir, but have settled down quietly in your father's shoes. Vagabondizing's a bad thing for any young man."
"I quite agree with you, sir," said Tom, in a tone of assumed simplicity28.
"Glad you've come round to my way of thinking at last. Knew you would. Well, if I can do anything for you in the way of helping29 you to get a decent living, you may command me fully30. Think over what I've said, and come and dine with me at Pincote to-morrow at seven sharp."
"It would be worth something," said Tom to himself as he went on his way, "to know what the squire's opinion about me really is; to have a glimpse at the portrait of me in all its details which he has evolved from his own inner consciousness. Strange that in a little town like this, where everybody knows everybody else's business better than he knows his own, if a man venture to step out of the beaten track prescribed for him by custom and tradition, and is bold enough to strike out a path for himself, he is at once set down as being, of necessity, either a lunatic or a scapegrace--unless, indeed, his lunacy chance to win for him either a fortune or a name. And then how changed the tone!"
Next evening Tom found himself at Pincote. The squire introduced him in brief terms to his daughter, and then left the room for a few minutes, for which Tom did not thank him. "What can I say to Miss Culpepper that will be likely to interest her?" he asked himself. "Does she go in for private theatricals31, or for ritualism and pet parsons? Does she believe in soup kitchens and visiting the poor, or would she rather talk about the new prima donna, and the last new poem?"
Miss Culpepper had sat down again at the piano, and was striking a few chords now and then, in an absent-minded way. She was by no means a pretty girl in the ordinary acceptation of the term. Her face was a good one, without being strikingly handsome. She had something of her father's shrewd, keen look, but with an underlying32 expression of goodness and kindliness33, difficult to define, but unmistakably there. She had large blue-gray eyes and magnificent teeth. Her complexion34, lily-clear during the winter months, was already freckled35 by the warm May sunshine, and would be more so before the summer was over. Finally, her hair was red--not auburn, but an unmistakable red.
But Tom Bristow had rather a weakness for red hair--not perhaps for the deep, dull, fiery36 red which we sometimes see. He accepted it, as the old Venetians accepted it--as one of the rarest types of beauty, as something far superior to your commonplace browns and blacks. And then he did not object to freckles--in moderation. He looked upon them as one of the signs of a sound country-bred constitution. As Jane Culpepper sat there by the piano, in the sunny May eventide, in her white dress, trimmed with pale green velvet37, with her red hair coiled in great hands round her little head--with her frank smile, and her clear honest-looking eyes, she filled up in Tom's mind his ideal picture of a healthy, pure-minded English country girl, and it struck him that he could have made a very pleasant water-colour sketch38 of herself and her surroundings.
Jane spared him the trouble of finding a topic that would be likely to interest her by being the first to speak. "Do you find Duxley much changed since you were here last?" She asked.
"Very little changed indeed. These small country towns never do change, or only by such imperceptible degrees that one never notices the difference. But may I ask, Miss Culpepper, how you know that I am not a stranger to Duxley?"
"Oh, I have often heard papa speak of you, and wonder what had become of you."
"And heard him blame me, I doubt not, for running away from the friends of my youth, and the town of my birth."
"I cannot say that you are altogether wrong," answered Jane with a smile. "Papa is a little impulsive39 at times, as I dare say you know, and judges every one from his own peculiar40 standpoint."
"Which means, in my case, I suppose, that because I was born in Duxley, I ought to have earned my bread there, died there, and been buried there."
"Something of the kind, doubtless. Old-fashioned prejudices you would call them, Mr. Bristow."
"I dare say I should. But they are worthy41 of respect for all that."
"Is not that somewhat of a paradox42?"
"Hardly so, I think. Men like Mr. Culpepper, with their conservatism, and their traditions of a past--which, it should not be forgotten, was not a past, but a present, when they were young people, and is, consequently, not so very antiquated--with their faith in old institutions, old modes of thought, old friendships, and--and old wine, are simply invaluable43 in this shifty, restless, out-of-breath era in which we live. They are like the roots of grass and tangle44 which bind45 together the sandhills on a windy shore. They conserve46 for us the essence of an experience which dates from years before we were born; which will sweeten our lives, if we know how to use it: as yonder pot-pourri of faded rose-leaves sweetens this room, and whispers to us that, in summers long ago, flowers as sweet bloomed and faded, as those which blossom for us to-day and will fade and leave us to-morrow."
"When you are as old as papa, Mr. Bristow," said Jane, with a laugh, "I believe you will be just as conservative and full of prejudices as he is."
"I hope so, I'm sure," said Tom, earnestly. "Only, my prejudices will differ in some degree from his--as his would doubtless differ in degree from those of his father--because I happen to have been born some thirty years later in the world's history."
At this moment the servant ushered47 in Mr. Cope the banker, and Mr. Edward Cope the banker's son. Jane rose, and introduced Tom to them as "Mr. Bristow, a friend of papa's." The banker's son stared at Tom for a moment, nodded his bull head, and then drawing a chair up to the piano, proceeded to take possession of Jane with an air of proprietorship48 which brought the colour for a moment into that young lady's face.
The banker himself was more affable, in the pompous49 way that was habitual50 with him. He never remembered to have heard the name of Bristow before, but being a friend of the squire, the young man was probably worth cultivating, and, in any case, there was nothing lost by a little politeness. So Mr. Cope cleared his throat, and planting himself like a colossus before the vacant grate, entered with becoming seriousness upon the state of the weather and the prospects51 of the crops. When the squire came in, five minutes later, Tom and the banker were chatting together, as if they had known each other for years.
They all went in to dinner. Over the soup, said the squire to Mr. Cope: "You were telling me, the other day, that one of your fellows at the bank died a week or two ago?"
"Yes: young Musgrave. Clever young man. Great loss to the firm."
"Well, if you have not filled up the place it might, perhaps, suit our young friend here," indicating Tom, "if you like to take him on my recommendation. I don't know whether Jenny introduced him properly, but he's the son of Dr. Bristow, who attended my wife in her last illness. I respected his father, and I like the lad, and would gladly do something for him."
The banker was scandalized. It might almost be said that he was horrified52. To think that he had been invited to meet, and, worse than that, had talked on terms of perfect equality with, a young man who was in want of an ordinary clerkship--who would, doubtless, be glad of a stool in the back office of his bank! It was monstrous--it was disgusting! But it was just the sort of inconsiderate conduct that might be expected from a man like Culpepper. His manner towards Tom froze in a moment.
"What say you? Can you do anything for him?" urged the squire.
"Why--ah--really, you know--should be most happy to oblige you, or to serve Mr.--Mr.----"
"Bristow," said the squire.
"Bristow--thank you--but you see--ah--young Musgrave's berth53 was filled up a week ago, and I'm sorry that I've nothing else just now at all likely to suit the requirements of your--ah--protégé. I'll take another spoonful of clear soup, if you please."
Tom's face was a study all this time. "I'm in for it now," he said to himself. "The banker will never speak to me again."
"Ah, well," said the squire, "I'll see McKenna, the electioneering agent, to-morrow. I dare say he'll know of something that will suit our young friend."
"Pardon me, Mr. Culpepper," said Tom quietly, "but I'm afraid there's a slight mistake somewhere. I am not aware that I ever expressed myself as being in want of a situation, either in Mr. Cope's bank, or elsewhere. My business, such as it is, lies in London. I have only come down to Duxley to see a few old friends."
"Why, bless my heart," said the squire, "I thought you told me yesterday that you were in want of something to do!"
"A misunderstanding, I assure you, sir. Many thanks to you all the same."
"And what the deuce is your business, if I may make bold to ask?" said the squire, testily54.
Tom hesitated for a moment. "I believe, sir, I might describe myself as an individual who lives by his wits--such as they are," he said at last.
"And can you manage to make money by your wits?" asked the squire, with ill-concealed contempt.
"A little, sir," answered Tom. "Enough to find me in food and clothes. Enough to satisfy my few and simple needs."
The squire gave a grunt55 of discontent, and turned towards the banker, who, ignoring any further notice of Tom, at once broached56 the interminable subject of local politics--a subject that had a fascination57 for the squire which he was never able to resist. Tom revenged himself by turning his attention to the opposite end of the table, where sat Miss Culpepper, with her faithful squire, Mr. Edward Cope, in close proximity58 to her. "They are engaged, I suppose," said Tom to himself, "or else she wouldn't let him sit so near her, and glare at her so with those pig's eyes of his. But I'll never believe that she can care for a fellow like that. She's just the kind of girl," he went on mentally, "that, if I were a marrying man, I should like to win for myself--and, by Jove! he's just the sort of fellow that I should glory in cutting out. Has he a word of any kind to say for himself, I wonder? At present his whole soul seems given up to the pleasures of the table."
Certainly, Mr. Edward Cope was no Adonis; but he might have been accepted as a very tolerable representation of Bacchus clothed in modern evening dress. For a young man, he was abnormally stout59. Already, at three-and-twenty, he had no waist worth speaking of. What he would be ten years hence was a mystery. His dress was usually a compromise between that of a horse trainer and a gentleman. He turned his toes in when he walked, and he had a fat, vacuous60 face, which, in his case, was a fair index to the vacuous mind within. He was a crack whip, and a tolerable shot--pigeon shooting was his favourite pastime--but much farther than that his intellect did not carry him.
He did venture on a remark at last. "I gave Beauty a new set of shoes this morning," he said. "She didn't at all like having them put on, and kicked out furiously. Ferris did not half like the job, I can tell you; especially after she sent him sprawling61 into a corner of his own smithy. I never laughed so much in my life before."
"I can't see what there was to laugh at, Edward. I hope the poor man was not much hurt."
"Oh, we got some brandy into him, and he came round all right in about ten minutes. I'm going to try Beauty to-morrow in the new dog-cart. You might let me call for you about eleven."
"You may call for me, if you like, but only on one condition: that you drive me over to see how poor Ferris is getting on.
"All right. I'll call. But you women do make such a jolly fuss about nothing."
"What a beautiful sunset, is it not, Mr. Bristow?" said Jane, turning to Tom.
"Beautiful, indeed--for England; but in no wise comparable, in point of sheer splendour, to the sunsets of the East."
"From which, I presume, we may infer that you are not unacquainted with the East."
"Three months since I was living in the desert as the guest of an Arab scheik."
Jane brightened up in a moment. Here was a chance at last of hearing about something that would interest her. Question and answer followed each other in quick succession, and in less than five minutes the conversation had drifted away into regions far beyond the reach of Edward le Gros, who sat glowering62 at them in a sulky silence, which remained unbroken till the cloth was drawn63, and Miss Culpepper left the gentlemen to themselves.
"Draw up, boys--draw up closer," said the squire. "Jenkins, bring in two bottles of the blue seal."
Edward drew his chair up closer to the squire, who was totally unaware64 that everything among his guests was not on the pleasantest possible footing. Both the banker and his son had evidently determined65 to ignore Tom utterly66, but Tom accepted his fate with unbroken serenity.
After a little time, the conversation turned on the probability of a new line of railway being made before long to connect Duxley with a certain manufacturing town about forty miles away. Mr. Culpepper was strongly opposed to the scheme, but Mr. Cope was rather inclined to view it with favour.
"One thing is quite clear," said the banker. "Sir Harry67 Fulke will do his best to get the bill smuggled68 through Parliament. The proposed line would just cut through the edge of his estate, and the money he would get for the land would be very useful to him just now--as I happen to know."
"Pardon me," interrupted Tom, "but if Sir Harry Fulke's word is worth anything at all, he is as strongly opposed as Mr. Culpepper himself to the line in question."
"And pray, sir," asked the banker, with considerable hauteur69, "may I be allowed to ask how you happen to know Sir Harry's opinion on this important point?"
"Because I had it from Sir Harry's own lips," answered Tom, simply. "We were talking together on this very subject, only a few evenings ago, at Lord Tynedale's."
Mr. Cope stared at Tom as though he could hardly believe the evidence of his own senses.
"Ah, well," said the squire, with a chuckle70, "if Sir Harry's opposed to the line, we may make our minds easy that we shall hear very little more about it."
"I'm not so sure on that point," answered Tom. "I know for a fact that Bloggs and Hayling, the great engineers, are very much interested in getting the scheme pushed forward, and they are generally credited with knowing pretty well what they are about."
"As you seem, sir, to be on such intimate terms with Lord Tynedale," said the banker, with a sneer71, "you can, perhaps, tell us the real ins and outs of that strange gambling72 transaction with which his lordship's youngest son was so recently mixed up."
"I cannot tell you the real facts of the case," answered Tom. "I presume that they are known only to the parties most concerned. But this I can tell you, that I and Mr. Cecil Drake, the young gentleman in question, lived together for three months in Algeria on the most intimate terms; and from my knowledge of him, I feel perfectly73 sure that his share of the transaction you allude74 to was that of a strictly75 honourable76 man."
The banker blew his nose violently. This Mr. Bristow was a very strange young man, he said to himself. There was evidently a mistake somewhere. Probably the squire had blundered as usual. In the meantime, it might be just as well to be decently civil to him.
When the evening came to an end, and the banker was putting on his overcoat in the hall, he whispered in the squire's ear: "I suppose you know that your balance is seventy pounds overdrawn77?"
The squire's face for a moment turned quite ghastly, and he clutched at a chair for support. He recovered himself with a laugh. "I knew it was very low, but I didn't know it was overdrawn," he whispered back. "But I know what I'm about, never fear. Just mark my words: before you are two months older, you'll have a bigger balance to the credit of Titus Culpepper than you've ever had yet. Oh yes, I know perfectly well what I'm about."
"I'm very glad to hear it, I'm sure," said the banker with a dubious78 cough. "I think we shall have some rain before morning. Good-night, Mr. Bristow. Very pleased to have made your acquaintance. Hope we shall meet again."
The banker took counsel with himself as he was being driven home by his son. "I think it will be advisable to send Edward to New York for a couple of months," he thought. "In case the worst comes to the worst, the affair can then be broken off without scandal. The squire's playing some underhand game which will bring him to grief if he's not very, very careful. Meanwhile, all I can do is to wait and watch."
Strange to say, Tom Bristow's dreams that night were of Jane Culpepper. "I wonder whether she dreamed about me," he murmured to himself next morning as he was stropping his razor. "Not likely. And I was no better than a fool to dream about her."
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dispositions
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| 安排( disposition的名词复数 )； 倾向； （财产、金钱的）处置； 气质 | |
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accusation
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| n.控告，指责，谴责 | |
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distressed
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| 痛苦的 | |
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serenity
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| n.宁静，沉着，晴朗 | |
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animated
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| adj.生气勃勃的，活跃的，愉快的 | |
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ordeal
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| n.苦难经历，（尤指对品格、耐力的）严峻考验 | |
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infinitely
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recurring
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| adj.往复的，再次发生的 | |
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sufficiently
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| adv.足够地，充分地 | |
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wafts
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| n.空中飘来的气味，一阵气味( waft的名词复数 )；摇转风扇v.吹送，飘送，（使）浮动( waft的第三人称单数 ) | |
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fragrance
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| n.芬芳，香味，香气 | |
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possessed
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| adj.疯狂的；拥有的，占有的 | |
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solitary
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| adj.孤独的，独立的，荒凉的；n.隐士 | |
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melancholy
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| n.忧郁，愁思；adj.令人感伤（沮丧）的，忧郁的 | |
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jingling
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| 叮当声 | |
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pretence
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| n.假装，作假；借口，口实；虚伪；虚饰 | |
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gaol
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dread
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lurking
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foul
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cavern
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mutual
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poised
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| a.摆好姿势不动的 | |
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sterling
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| adj.英币的(纯粹的，货真价实的)；n.英国货币(英镑) | |
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sincerity
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squire
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heartily
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simplicity
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helping
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| n.食物的一份&adj.帮助人的，辅助的 | |
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fully
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theatricals
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underlying
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| adj.在下面的，含蓄的，潜在的 | |
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kindliness
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complexion
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freckled
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| adj.雀斑；斑点；晒斑；（使）生雀斑v.雀斑，斑点( freckle的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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fiery
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velvet
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| n.丝绒，天鹅绒；adj.丝绒制的，柔软的 | |
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sketch
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impulsive
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| adj.冲动的，刺激的；有推动力的 | |
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peculiar
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| adj.古怪的，异常的；特殊的，特有的 | |
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worthy
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| adj.(of)值得的，配得上的；有价值的 | |
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paradox
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| n.似乎矛盾却正确的说法；自相矛盾的人(物) | |
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invaluable
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| adj.无价的，非常宝贵的，极为贵重的 | |
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tangle
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| n.纠缠；缠结；混乱；v.(使)缠绕；变乱 | |
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bind
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| vt.捆，包扎；装订；约束；使凝固；vi.变硬 | |
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conserve
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| vt.保存，保护，节约，节省，守恒，不灭 | |
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ushered
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| v.引，领，陪同( usher的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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proprietorship
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| n.所有（权）；所有权 | |
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pompous
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| adj.傲慢的，自大的；夸大的；豪华的 | |
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habitual
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| adj.习惯性的；通常的，惯常的 | |
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prospects
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| n.希望，前途(恒为复数) | |
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horrified
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| a.(表现出)恐惧的 | |
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berth
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| n.卧铺，停泊地，锚位；v.使停泊 | |
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testily
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| adv. 易怒地, 暴躁地 | |
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grunt
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| v.嘟哝；作呼噜声；n.呼噜声，嘟哝 | |
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broached
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| v.谈起( broach的过去式和过去分词 )；打开并开始用；用凿子扩大（或修光）；（在桶上）钻孔取液体 | |
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fascination
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| n.令人着迷的事物，魅力，迷恋 | |
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proximity
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| n.接近，邻近 | |
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vacuous
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| adj.空的，漫散的，无聊的，愚蠢的 | |
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sprawling
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| adj.蔓生的，不规则地伸展的v.伸开四肢坐[躺]( sprawl的现在分词 )；蔓延；杂乱无序地拓展；四肢伸展坐着（或躺着） | |
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glowering
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| v.怒视( glower的现在分词 ) | |
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drawn
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| v.拖，拉，拔出；adj.憔悴的，紧张的 | |
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unaware
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| a.不知道的，未意识到的 | |
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determined
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| adj.坚定的；有决心的 | |
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utterly
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| adv.完全地，绝对地 | |
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harry
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| vt.掠夺，蹂躏，使苦恼 | |
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smuggled
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| 水货 | |
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hauteur
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| n.傲慢 | |
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chuckle
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| vi.／n.轻声笑，咯咯笑 | |
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sneer
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| v.轻蔑；嘲笑；n.嘲笑，讥讽的言语 | |
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gambling
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| n.赌博；投机 | |
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perfectly
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| adv.完美地，无可非议地，彻底地 | |
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allude
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| v.提及，暗指 | |
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strictly
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| adv.严厉地，严格地；严密地 | |
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honourable
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| adj.可敬的；荣誉的，光荣的 | |
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overdrawn
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| 透支( overdraw的过去分词 )； (overdraw的过去分词) | |
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dubious
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| adj.怀疑的，无把握的；有问题的，靠不住的 | |
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