"You will go and say goodbye to Miss Culpepper as a matter of course," said Mr. Cope to him. "But don't grow too sentimental3 over the parting. Do it in an easy, smiling way, as if you were merely going out of town for a few days. Don't make any promises--don't talk about the future--and, above all, don't say a word about marriage. Of course, you will have to write to her occasionally while you are away. Just a few lines, you know, to say how you are, and all that. No mawkish4 silly love-nonsense, but a sensible, manly5 letter; and be wisely reticent6 as to the date of your return. Very sorry, but you don't know how much longer your business may detain you--you know the sort of thing I mean."
When the idea had first entered Mr. Cope's mind that it would be an excellent thing if he could only succeed in getting his son engaged to Squire7 Culpepper's only child, it had not been without an ulterior eye to the fortune which that young lady would one day call her own that he had been induced to press forward the scheme to a successful issue. By marrying Miss Culpepper, his son would be enabled to take up a position in county society such as he could never hope to attain8 either by his own merits, which were of the most moderate kind, or from his father's money bags alone. But dearly as Mr. Cope loved position, he loved money still better; and it was no part of his programme that his son should marry a pauper9, even though that pauper could trace back her pedigree to the Conqueror10. And yet, if the squire went on speculating as madly as he was evidently doing now, it seemed only too probable that pauperism11, or something very much like it, would be the result, as far as Miss Culpepper was concerned. Instead of having a fortune of at least twenty thousand pounds, as she ought to have, would she come in for as many pence when the old man died? Mr. Cope groaned12 in spirit as he asked himself the question, and he became more determined14 than ever to carry out his policy of waiting and watching, before allowing the engagement of the young people to reach a point that would render a subsequent rupture15 impossible without open scandal--and scandal was a bugbear of which the banker stood in extreme dread16.
Fortunately, perhaps, for Mr. Cope's view, the feelings of neither of the people chiefly concerned were very deeply interested. Edward had obeyed his father in this as in everything else. He had known Jane from a child, and he liked her because she was clever and good-tempered. But she by no means realized his ideal of feminine beauty. She was too slender, too slightly formed to meet with his approval. "There's not enough of her," was the way he put it to himself. Miss Moggs, the confectioner's daughter, with her ample proportions and beaming smile, was far more to his taste. Equally to his taste was the pastry17 dispensed18 by Miss Moggs's plump fingers, of which he used to devour19 enormous quantities, seated on a three-legged stool in front of the counter, while chatting in a free and easy way about his horses and dogs, and the number of pigeons he had slaughtered20 of late. And then it was so much easier to talk to Miss Moggs than it was to talk to Jane. Miss Moggs looked up to him as to a young magnifico, and listened to his oracular utterances21 with becoming reverence22 and attention; but Jane, somehow, didn't seem to appreciate him as he wished to be appreciated, and he never felt, quite sure that she was not laughing at him in her sleeve.
"So you are going to leave us by the eight o'clock train to-morrow, are you?" asked Jane, when he went to Pincote to say a few last words of farewell. He had sat down by her side on the sofa, and had taken her unresisting hand in his; a somewhat thin, cold little hand, that returned his pressure very faintly. How different, as he could not help saying to himself, from the warm, plump fingers of Matilda Moggs.
"Yes, I'm going by the morning train. Perhaps I shall never come back. Perhaps I shall be drowned," he said, somewhat dolorously23.
"Not you, Edward, dear. You will live to plague us all for many a year to come. I wish I could do your business, and go instead of you."
"You don't mean to say that you would like to cross the Atlantic, Jane?"
"I mean to say that there are few things in the world would please me better. What a fresh and glorious experience it must be to one who has never been far from home!"
"But think of the sea-sickness."
"Think of being out of sight of commonplace land for days and days together. Think how delightful24 it must be to be rocked on the great Atlantic rollers, and what a new and pleasant sensation it must be to know that there is only a plank25 between yourself and the fishes, and yet not to feel the least bit afraid."
Edward shuddered26. "When you wake up in the middle of the night, and hear the wind blowing hard, you will think of me, won't you?" he said.
"Of course I shall. And I shall wish I were by your side to enjoy it. To be out in a gale27 on the Atlantic--that must indeed be glorious!"
Edward's fat cheeks became a shade paler, "Don't talk in that way, Jane," he said. "One never can tell what may happen. I shall write to you, of course, and all that; and you won't forget me while I'm away, will you?"
"No, I shall not forget you, Edward; of that you may be quite sure."
Then he drew her towards him, and kissed her; and then, after a few more words, he went away.
It was just the sort of parting that his father would have approved of, he said to himself, as he drove down the avenue. No tears, no sentimental nonsense, no fuss of any kind. Privately28 he felt somewhat aggrieved29 that she had not taken the parting more to heart. "There wasn't even a single tear in her eye," he said to himself. "She doesn't half know how to appreciate a fellow."
He would perhaps have altered his opinion in some measure could he have seen Jane half an hour later. She had locked herself in her bedroom, and was crying bitterly. Why she was crying thus she would have found it difficult to explain: in fact, she hardly knew herself. It is possible that her tears were not altogether tears of bitterness--that some other feeling than sorrow for her temporary separation from Edward Cope was stirring the fountains of her heart. She kept on upbraiding30 herself for her coldness and want of feeling, and trying to persuade herself that she was deeply sorry, rather than secretly--very secretly--glad to be relieved of the tedium31 of his presence for several weeks to come. She knew how wrong it was of her--it was almost wicked, she thought--to feel thus: but, underlying32 all her tears, was a gleam of precious sunshine, of which she was dimly conscious, although she would not acknowledge its presence even to herself.
After a time her tears ceased to flow. She got up and bathed her eyes. While thus occupied her maid knocked at the door.
Mr. Bristow was downstairs. He had brought some photographs for Miss Culpepper to look at.
"Tell Mr. Bristow how sorry I am that I cannot see him to-day," said Jane. "But my head aches so badly that I cannot possibly go down." Then when the girl was gone, "I won't see him to-day," she added to herself. "When Edward and I are married he will come and see us sometimes, perhaps. Edward will always be glad to see him."
Hearing the front-door clash, she ran to the window and pulled aside a corner of the blind. In a minute or two she saw Tom walking leisurely33 down the avenue. Presently he paused, and turned, and began to scan the house as if he knew that Jane were watching him. It was quite impossible that he should see her, but for all that she shrank back, with a blush and a shy little smile. But she did not loose her hold of the blind; and presently she peeped again, and never moved her eyes till Tom was lost to view.
Then she went downstairs into the drawing-room, and found there the photographs which Tom had left for her inspection34. There, too, lying close by, was a glove which he had dropped and had omitted to pick up again. "I will give it to him next time he comes," she said softly to herself. Strange to relate, her next action was to press the glove to her lips, after which she hid it away in the bosom35 of her dress. But young ladies' memories are proverbially treacherous36, and Jane's was no exception to the rule. Tom Bristow's glove never found its way back into his possession.
Jane Culpepper had drifted into her engagement with Edward Cope almost without knowing how such a state of affairs had been brought about. When her father first mentioned the matter to her, and told her that Edward was fond of her, she laughed at the idea of Edward being fond of anything but his horses and his gun. When, later on, the young banker, in obedience37 to parental instructions, blundered through a sort of declaration of love, she laughed again, but neither repulsed38 nor encouraged him. She was quite heart-whole and fancy-free; but certainly Mr. Cope, junior, bore only the faintest resemblance to the vague hero of her girlish dreams--who would come riding one day out of the enchanted40 Kingdom of Love, and, falling on his knees before her, implore41 her to share his heart and fortune for evermore. To speak the truth, there was no romance of any kind about Edward. He was hopelessly prosaic42: he was irredeemably commonplace; but they had known each other from childhood, and she had a kindly43 regard for him, arising from that very fact. So, pending44 the arrival of Prince Charming, she did not altogether repulse39 him, but went on treating his suit as a piece of pleasant absurdity45 which could never work itself out to a serious issue either for herself or him. She took the alarm a little when some whispers reached her that she would be asked, before long, to fix a day for the wedding; but, latterly, even those whispers had died away. Nobody seemed in a hurry to press the affair forward to its legitimate46 conclusion: even Edward himself showed no impatience47 on the point. So long as he could come and go at Pincote as he liked, and hover48 about Jane, and squeeze her hand occasionally, and drive her out once or twice a week behind his high-stepping bays, he seemed to want nothing more. They were just the same to each other as they had been when they were children, Jane said to herself--and why should they not remain so?
But, of late, a slight change had come o'er the spirit of Miss Culpepper's dream. New hopes, and thoughts, and fears, to which she had hitherto been a stranger, began to nestle and flutter round her heart, like love-birds building in spring. The thought of becoming the wife of Edward Cope was fast becoming--nay, had already become, utterly49 distasteful to her. She began to realize the fact that it is impossible to keep on playing with fire without getting burnt. She had allowed herself to drift into an engagement with a man for whom she really cared nothing, thinking, probably, at the time that for her no Prince Charming would ever come riding out of the woods; and that, if it would please her father, she might as well marry Edward Cope as any one else. But behold50! all at once Prince Charming had come, and although, as yet, he had not gone down on his knees and offered his hand and heart for evermore, she felt that she could never love but him alone. She felt, too, with a sort of dumb despair, that she had already given herself away beyond recall--or, at least, had led the world to think that she had so given herself away; and that she could not, with any show of maidenly51 honour, reclaim52 a gift which she had let slip from her so lightly and easily that she hardly knew herself when it was gone.
The eve of Lionel Dering's trial came at last. The Duxley assizes had opened on the previous Thursday. All the minor53 cases had been got through by Saturday night, and one of the two judges had already gone forward to the next town. The Park Newton murder case had been left purposely till Monday, and by those who were supposed to know best, it was considered not unlikely that trial, verdict, and sentence would all be got through in the course of one sitting.
The celebrated54 Mr. Tressil, who had been specially55 engaged for the defence, found it impossible to get down to Duxley before the five o'clock train on Sunday afternoon. He was met on the platform by Mr. Hoskyns and Mr. Bristow. His junior in the case, Mr. Little, was to meet him by appointment at his rooms later on. Tom was introduced to Mr. Tressil by Hoskyns as a particular friend of Mr. Dering's, and the three gentlemen at once drove to the prison. Mr. Tressil had gone carefully through his brief as he came down in the train. The information conveyed therein was so ample and complete that it was more as a matter of form than to serve any real purpose that he went to see his client. The interview was a very brief one. The few questions Mr. Tressil had to ask were readily answered, but it was quite evident that there was no fresh point to be elicited56. Then Mr. Tressil went away, accompanied by Mr. Hoskyns; and Tom was left alone with his friend.
Edith had taken leave of her husband an hour before. They would see each other no more till after the trial was over. What the result of the trial might possibly be they neither of them dared so much as whisper. Each of them put on a make-believe gaiety and cheerfulness of manner, hoping thereby58 to deceive the other--as if such a thing were possible.
"In two days' time you will be back again at Park Newton," Edith had said, "and will find yourself saddled with a wife, whom, while a prisoner, you were compelled to marry against your will. Surely, in so extreme a case, the Divorce Court would take pity on you, and grant you some relief."
"An excellent suggestion," said Lionel, with a laugh. "I must have some talk with Hoskyns about it. Meanwhile, suppose you get your trunks packed, and prepare for an early start on our wedding tour. Oh! to get outside these four walls again--to have 'the sky above my head, and the grass beneath my feet'--what happiness--what ecstasy--that will be! A week from this time, Edith, we shall be at Chamounix. Think of that, sweet one! In place of this grim cell--the Alps and Freedom! Ah me! what a world of meaning there is in those few words!"
The clock struck four. It was time to go. Only by a supreme59 effort could Edith keep back her tears--but she did keep them back.
"Goodbye--my husband!" she whispered, as she kissed him on the lips--the eyes--the forehead. "May He who knows all our sorrows, and can lighten all our burdens, grant you strength for the morrow!"
Lionel's lips formed the words, "Goodbye," but no sound came from them. One last clasp of the hand--one last yearning60, heartfelt look straight into each other's eyes, and then Edith was gone. Lionel fell back on his seat with a groan13 as the door shut behind her; and there, with bowed head and clasped fingers, he sat without moving till the coming of Mr. Tressil and the others warned him that he was no longer alone.
As soon as Mr. Tressil and Hoskyns were gone, Lionel lighted up his biggest meerschaum, and Tom was persuaded, for once, into trying a very mild cigarette. Neither of them spoke61 much--in fact, neither of them seemed to have much to say. They were Englishmen, and to-day they did not belie57 the taciturnity of their race. They made a few disjointed remarks about the weather, and they both agreed that there was every prospect62 of an excellent harvest. Lionel inquired after the Culpeppers, and was sorry to hear that the squire was confined to his room with gout. After that, there seemed to be nothing more to say, but they understood each other so well that there was no need of words to interpret between them. Simply to have Tom sitting there, was to Lionel a comfort and a consolation63 such as nothing else, except the presence of his wife, could have afforded him; and for Tom to have gone to his lodgings65 without spending that last hour with his friend, would have been a sheer impossibility.
"I shall see you to-morrow?" asked Lionel, as Tom rose to go.
"Certainly you will."
"Good-night, old fellow."
"Good-night, Dering. Take my advice, and don't sit up reading or anything to-night, but get off to bed as early as you can."
Lionel nodded and smiled, and so they parted.
Tom had called at Alder67 Cottage earlier in the day, and had seen Edith and Mrs. Garside, and had given them their final instructions. He had one other person still to see--Mr. Sprague, the chemist, and him he went in search of as soon as he had bidden Lionel good-night.
Mr. Sprague himself came in answer to Tom's ring at the bell, and ushered68 his visitor into a stuffy69 little parlour behind the shop, where he had been lounging on the sofa in his shirt-sleeves, reading Burton's "Anatomy70 of Melancholy71." And a very melancholy, careworn-looking man was this chemist whom Tom had come to see. He looked as if the perpetual battle for daily bread, which had been going on with him from year's end to year's end ever since he was old enough to handle a pestle72, was at last beginning to daunt73 him. He had a cowed, wobegone expression as he passed his fingers wearily through his thin grizzled locks: although he did his best to put on an air of cheerfulness at the tardy74 prospect of a customer.
Tom and the chemist were old acquaintances. Sprague's shop was one of the institutions of Duxley, and had been known to Tom from his early boyhood. Once or twice during his present visit to the town he had called there and made a few purchases, and chatted over old times, and old friends long dead and gone, with the melancholy chemist.
"You still stick to the old place, Mr. Sprague," said Tom, as he sat down on the ancient sofa.
"Yes, Mr. Bristow--yes. I don't know that I could do better. My father kept the shop before me, and everybody in Duxley knows it."
"I suppose you will be retiring on your fortune before long?"
The chemist laughed a hollow laugh. "With thirteen youthful and voracious75 mouths to feed, it looks like making a fortune, don't it, sir?"
"A baker76's dozen of youngsters! Fie, Mr. Sprague, fie!"
"Talking about the baker, sir, I give you my word of honour that he and the butcher take nearly every farthing of profit I get out of my business. It has come to this: that I can no longer make ends meet, as I used to do years ago. For the first time in my life, sir, I am behindhand with my rent, and goodness only knows when and how I shall get it made up." Mr. Sprague's voice was very pitiable as he finished.
"But, surely, some of your children are old enough to help themselves," said Tom.
"The eldest77 are all girls," answered poor Mr. Sprague, "and they have to stay at home and help their mother with the little ones. My eldest boy, Alex, is only nine years old."
"Just the age to get him off your hands--just the age to get him into the Downham Foundation School."
"Oh, sir, what a relief that would be, both to his poor mother and me! The same thought has struck me, sir, many a time, but I have no influence--none whatever."
"But it is possible that I may have a little," said Tom, kindly.
"Oh, Mr. Bristow!" gasped78 the chemist, and then could say no more.
"Supposing--merely supposing, you know," said Tom, "that I were to get your eldest boy into the Downham Foundation School, and were, in addition, to put a hundred-pound note into your hands with which to pay off your arrears79 of rent, you would be willing to do a trifling80 service for me in return?"
"I should be the most ungrateful wretch81 in the world were I to refuse to do so," replied the chemist, earnestly.
"Then listen," said Tom. "You are summoned to serve as one of the jury in the great murder case to-morrow."
Mr. Sprague nodded.
"You will serve, as a matter of course," continued Tom. "I shall be in the court, and in such a position that you can see me without difficulty. As soon as the clock strikes three, you will look at me, and you will keep on looking at me every two or three minutes, waiting for a signal from me. Perhaps it will not be requisite82 for me to give the signal at all--in that case I shall not need your services; but whether they are needed or no, your remuneration will in every respect be the same."
"And what is the signal, Mr. Bristow, for which I am to look out?"
"The scratching, with my little finger--thus--of the left-hand side of my nose."
"And what am I to do when I see the signal?"
"You are to pretend that you are taken suddenly ill, and you are to keep up that pretence83 long enough to render it impossible for the trial to be finished on Monday--long enough, in fact, to make its postponement84 to Tuesday morning an inevitable85 necessity."
"I understand, sir. You want the trial to extend into the second day; instead of being finished, as it might be, on the first?"
"That is exactly what I want. Can you counterfeit86 a sudden attack of illness, so as to give it an air of reality?"
"I ought to be able to do so, sir. I see plenty of the symptoms every day of my life."
"They will send for a doctor to examine you, you know."
"I suppose so, sir. But my plan will be this: not merely to pretend to be ill, but to be ill in reality. To swallow something, in fact--say a pill concocted87 by myself--which will really make me very sick and ill for two or three hours, without doing me any permanent injury."
"Not a bad idea by any means. But you understand that you are to take no action whatever in the matter until you see my signal."
"I understand that clearly."
After a little more conversation, Tom went, carrying with him in his waistcoat pocket a tiny phial, filled with some dark-coloured fluid which the chemist had mixed expressly for him.
On the point of leaving, Tom produced three or four rustling88 pieces of paper. "Here are thirty pounds on account, Mr. Sprague," said he. "I think we understand one another, eh?"
The chemist's fingers closed like a vice66 on the notes. His heart gave a great sigh of relief. "I am your humble89 servant to command, Mr. Bristow," he returned. "You have saved my credit and my good name, and you may depend upon me in every way."
As Tom was walking soberly towards his lodging64, he passed the open door of the Royal Hotel. Under the portico90 stood a man smoking a cigar. Their eyes met for an instant in the lamplight, but they were strangers to each other, and Tom passed on his way. Next moment he started, and turned to look again. He had heard a voice say: "Mr. St. George, your dinner is served."
He had come at last, then, this cousin, who had not been seen in Duxley since the day of the inquest--on whose evidence to-morrow so much would depend.
"Is that the man, I wonder," said Tom to himself, "in whose breast lies hidden the black secret of the murder? If not in his--then in whose?"
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parental
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| adj.父母的；父的；母的 | |
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opposition
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| n.反对，敌对 | |
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sentimental
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| adj.多愁善感的，感伤的 | |
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mawkish
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| adj.多愁善感的的；无味的 | |
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manly
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| adj.有男子气概的；adv.男子般地，果断地 | |
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reticent
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| adj.沉默寡言的；言不如意的 | |
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squire
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| n.护卫, 侍从, 乡绅 | |
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attain
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| vt.达到，获得，完成 | |
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pauper
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| n.贫民，被救济者，穷人 | |
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conqueror
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| n.征服者，胜利者 | |
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pauperism
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| n.有被救济的资格，贫困 | |
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groaned
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| v.呻吟( groan的过去式和过去分词 )；发牢骚；抱怨；受苦 | |
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groan
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| vi./n.呻吟，抱怨；(发出)呻吟般的声音 | |
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determined
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| adj.坚定的；有决心的 | |
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rupture
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| n.破裂；(关系的)决裂；v.(使)破裂 | |
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dread
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| vt.担忧，忧虑；惧怕，不敢；n.担忧，畏惧 | |
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pastry
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| n.油酥面团，酥皮糕点 | |
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dispensed
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devour
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| v.吞没；贪婪地注视或谛听，贪读；使着迷 | |
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slaughtered
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utterances
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reverence
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| n.敬畏，尊敬，尊严；Reverence:对某些基督教神职人员的尊称；v.尊敬，敬畏，崇敬 | |
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dolorously
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| adj. 悲伤的；痛苦的；悲哀的；阴沉的 | |
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delightful
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plank
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| n.板条，木板，政策要点，政纲条目 | |
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shuddered
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gale
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| n.大风，强风，一阵闹声（尤指笑声等） | |
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privately
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| adv.以私人的身份，悄悄地，私下地 | |
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aggrieved
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| adj.愤愤不平的，受委屈的；悲痛的；（在合法权利方面）受侵害的v.令委屈，令苦恼，侵害( aggrieve的过去式)；令委屈，令苦恼，侵害( aggrieve的过去式和过去分词) | |
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upbraiding
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| adj.& n.谴责（的）v.责备，申斥，谴责( upbraid的现在分词 ) | |
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tedium
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underlying
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| adj.在下面的，含蓄的，潜在的 | |
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leisurely
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| adj.悠闲的；从容的，慢慢的 | |
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inspection
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bosom
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| n.胸，胸部；胸怀；内心；adj.亲密的 | |
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treacherous
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obedience
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| n.服从，顺从 | |
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repulsed
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| v.击退( repulse的过去式和过去分词 )；驳斥；拒绝 | |
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repulse
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| n.击退，拒绝；vt.逐退，击退，拒绝 | |
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enchanted
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| adj. 被施魔法的，陶醉的，入迷的 动词enchant的过去式和过去分词 | |
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implore
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| vt.乞求，恳求，哀求 | |
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prosaic
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| adj.单调的，无趣的 | |
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kindly
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| adj.和蔼的，温和的，爽快的；adv.温和地，亲切地 | |
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pending
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| prep.直到，等待…期间；adj.待定的；迫近的 | |
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absurdity
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| n.荒谬，愚蠢；谬论 | |
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legitimate
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| adj.合法的，合理的，合乎逻辑的；v.使合法 | |
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impatience
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| n.不耐烦，急躁 | |
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hover
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| vi.翱翔，盘旋；徘徊；彷徨，犹豫 | |
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utterly
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| adv.完全地，绝对地 | |
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behold
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| v.看，注视，看到 | |
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maidenly
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| adj. 像处女的, 谨慎的, 稳静的 | |
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reclaim
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| v.要求归还，收回；开垦 | |
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minor
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| adj.较小(少)的，较次要的；n.辅修学科；vi.辅修 | |
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celebrated
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| adj.有名的，声誉卓著的 | |
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specially
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| adv.特定地；特殊地；明确地 | |
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elicited
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| 引出，探出( elicit的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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belie
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| v.掩饰，证明为假 | |
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thereby
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| adv.因此，从而 | |
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supreme
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| adj.极度的，最重要的；至高的，最高的 | |
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yearning
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| a.渴望的；向往的；怀念的 | |
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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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prospect
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| n.前景，前途；景色，视野 | |
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consolation
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| n.安慰，慰问 | |
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lodging
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| n.寄宿，住所；(大学生的)校外宿舍 | |
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lodgings
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| n. 出租的房舍, 寄宿舍 | |
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vice
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| n.坏事；恶习；[pl.]台钳，老虎钳；adj.副的 | |
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alder
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| n.赤杨树 | |
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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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stuffy
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| adj.不透气的，闷热的 | |
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anatomy
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| n.解剖学，解剖；功能，结构，组织 | |
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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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pestle
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| n.杵 | |
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daunt
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| vt.使胆怯，使气馁 | |
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tardy
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| adj.缓慢的，迟缓的 | |
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voracious
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| adj.狼吞虎咽的，贪婪的 | |
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baker
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| n.面包师 | |
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eldest
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| adj.最年长的，最年老的 | |
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gasped
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| v.喘气( gasp的过去式和过去分词 )；喘息；倒抽气；很想要 | |
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arrears
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| n.到期未付之债，拖欠的款项；待做的工作 | |
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trifling
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| adj.微不足道的；没什么价值的 | |
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wretch
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| n.可怜的人，不幸的人；卑鄙的人 | |
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requisite
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| adj.需要的，必不可少的；n.必需品 | |
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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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84
postponement
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| n.推迟 | |
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85
inevitable
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| adj.不可避免的，必然发生的 | |
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86
counterfeit
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| vt.伪造，仿造；adj.伪造的，假冒的 | |
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concocted
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| v.将（尤指通常不相配合的）成分混合成某物( concoct的过去式和过去分词 )；调制；编造；捏造 | |
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88
rustling
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| n. 瑟瑟声，沙沙声 adj. 发沙沙声的 | |
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89
humble
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| adj.谦卑的，恭顺的；地位低下的；v.降低，贬低 | |
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portico
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| n.柱廊，门廊 | |
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