‘Sit down, Le Breton,’ Mr. Lancaster said slowly when Ernest entered. ‘The matter I want to see you about’s a very peculiar5 one. I understand from some of my friends that you’re a son of Sir Owen Le Breton, the Indian general.’
‘Yes, I am,’ Ernest answered, wondering within himself to what end this curious preamble6 could possibly be leading up. If there’s any one profession, he thought, which is absolutely free from the slightest genealogical interest in the persons of its professors, surely that particular calling ought to be the profession of journalism7.
‘Well, so I hear, Le Breton. Now, I believe I’m right in saying, am I not, that it was your father who first subdued8 and organised a certain refractory9 hill-tribe on the Tibetan frontier, known as the Bodahls, wasn’t it?’
‘Quite right,’ Ernest replied, with a glimmering10 idea slowly rising in his mind as to what Mr. Lancaster was now driving at.
‘Ah, that’s good, very good indeed, certainly. Well, tell me, Le Breton, do you yourself happen to know anything on earth about these precious insignificant11 people?’
‘I know all about them,’ Ernest answered quickly. ‘I’ve read all my father’s papers and despatches, and seen his maps and plans and reports in our house at home from my boyhood upward. I know as much about the Bodahls, in fact, as I know about Bayswater, or Holborn, or Fleet Street.’
‘Capital, capital,’ the editor said, fondling his big hands softly; ‘that’ll exactly suit us. And could you get at these plans and papers now, this very evening, just to refresh the gaps in your memory?’
‘I could have them all down here,’ Ernest answered, ‘at an hour’s notice.’
‘Good,’ the editor said again. ‘I’ll send a boy for them with a cab. Meanwhile, you’d better be perpending this telegram from our Simla correspondent, just received. It’s going to be the question of the moment, and we should very much like you to give us a leader of a full column about the matter.’
Ernest took the telegram and read it over carefully. It ran in the usual very abbreviated12 newspaper fashion: ‘Russian agents revolted Bodahls Tibetan frontier. Advices Peshawur state Russian army marching on Merv. Bodahls attacked Commissioner13, declared independence British raj.’
‘Will you write us a leader?’ the editor asked, simply.
Ernest drew a long breath. Three guineas! Edie, Dot, an empty exchequer14! If he could only have five minutes to make his mind up! But he couldn’t. After all, what did it matter what he said about these poor unknown Bodahls? If HE didn’t write the leader, somebody else who knew far less about the subject than he did would be sure to do it. He wasn’t responsible for that impalpable entity15 ‘the policy of the paper.’ Beside the great social power of the ‘Morning Intelligence,’ of the united English people, what was he, Ernest Le Breton, but a miserable16 solitary17 misplaced unit? One way or the other, he could do very little indeed, for good or for evil. After half a minute’s internal struggle, he answered back the editor faintly, ‘Yes, I will.’ ‘For Edie,’ he muttered half audibly to himself; ‘I must do it for dear Edie.’
‘And you’ll allow me to make whatever alterations18 I think necessary in the article to suit the policy of the paper?’ the editor asked once more, looking through him with his sleepy keen grey eyes. ‘You see, Le Breton, I don’t want to annoy you, and I know your own principles are rather peculiar; but of course all we want you for is just to give us the correct statement of facts about these outlandish people. All that concerns our own attitude towards them as a nation falls naturally under the head of editorial matter. You must see yourself that it’s quite impossible for us to let any one single contributor dictate19 from his own standpoint the policy of the paper.’
Ernest bent20 his head slowly. ‘You’re very kind to argue out the matter with me so, Mr. Lancaster,’ he said, trembling with excitement. ‘Yes, I suppose I must bury my scruples21. I’ll write a leader about these Bodahls, and let you deal with it afterwards as you think proper.’
They showed him into the bare little back room, and sent a boy up with a hastily written note to Ronald for the maps and papers. There Ernest sat for an hour or two, writing away for very life, and putting on paper everything that he knew about the poor Bodahls. By two o’clock, the proofs had all come up to him, and he took his hat in a shamefaced manner to sally out into the cold street, where he hoped to hide his rising remorse22 and agony under cover of the solitary night. He knew too well what ‘the policy of the paper’ would be, to venture upon asking any questions about it. As he left the office, a boy brought him down a sealed envelope from Mr. Lancaster. With his usual kindly23 thoughtfulness the editor had sent him at once the customary cheque for three guineas. Ernest folded it up with quivering fingers, and felt the blood burn in his cheeks as he put it away in his waistcoat pocket. That accursed money! For it he had that night sold his dearest principles! And yet, not for it, not for it, not for it—oh, no, not for it, but for Dot and Edie!
The boy had a duplicate proof in his other hand, and Ernest saw at once that it was his own leader, as altered and corrected by Mr. Lancaster. He asked the boy whether he might see it; and the boy, knowing it was Ernest’s own writing, handed it to him at once without further question. Ernest did not dare to look at it then and there for fear he should break down utterly24 before the boy; he put it for the moment into his inner pocket, and buttoned his thin overcoat tightly around him. It was colder still in the frosty air of early morning, and the contrast to the heated atmosphere of the printing house struck him with ominous25 chill as he issued slowly forth into the silent precincts of unpeopled Fleet Street.
It was a terrible memorable26 night, that awful Tuesday; the coldest night known for many years in any English winter. Snow lay deep upon the ground, and a few flakes27 were falling still from the cloudy sky, for it was in the second week of January. The wind was drifting it in gusty28 eddies29 down the long streets, and driving the drifts before it like whirling dust in an August storm. Not a cab was to be seen anywhere, not even a stray hansom crawling home from clubs or theatres; and Ernest set out with a rueful countenance30 to walk as best he might alone through the snow all the way to Holloway. It is a long and dreary31 trudge32 at any time; it seemed very long and dreary indeed to Ernest Le Breton, with his delicate frame and weak chest, battling against the fierce wind on a dark and snowy winter’s night, and with the fever of a great anxiety and a great remorse silently torturing his distracted bosom33. At each step he took through the snow, he almost fancied himself a hunted Bodahl. Would British soldiers drive those poor savage34 women and children to die so of cold and hunger on their snowy hilltops? Would English fathers and mothers, at home at their ease, applaud the act with careless thoughtlessness as a piece of our famous spirited foreign policy? And would his own article, written with his own poor thin cold fingers in that day’s ‘Morning Intelligence,’ help to spur them on upon that wicked and unnecessary war? What right had we to conquer the Bodahls? What right had we to hold them in subjection or to punish them for revolting? And above all, what right had he, Ernest Le Breton, upon whose head the hereditary35 guilt36 of the first conquest ought properly to have weighed with such personal heaviness—what right had he, of all men, directly or indirectly38, to aid or abet39 the English people in their immoral40 and inhuman41 resolve? Oh, God, his sin was worse than theirs; for they sinned, thinking they did justly; but as for him, he sinned against the light; he knew the better, and, bribed42 by gold, he did the worse. At that moment, the little slip of printed paper in his waistcoat pocket seemed to burn through all the frosts of that awful evening like a chain of molten steel into his very marrow43!
Trudging44 on slowly through the white stainless45 snow, step by step,—snow that cast a sheet of pure white even over the narrow lanes behind the Farringdon Road,—cold at foot and hot at heart, he reached at last the wide corner by the Angel at Islington. The lights in the windows were all out long ago, of course, but the lamps outside were still flaring46 brightly, and a solitary policeman was standing47 under one of them, trying to warm his frozen hands by breathing rapidly on the curved and distorted fingers. Ernest was very tired of his tramp by that time, and emboldened48 by companionship he stopped awhile to rest himself in the snow and wind under the opposite lamplight. Putting his back against the post, he drew the altered proof of his article slowly out of his inner pocket. It had a strange fascination49 for him, and yet he dreaded50 to look at it. With an effort, he unfolded it in his stiff fingers, and held the paper up to the light, regardless of the fact that the policeman was watching his proceedings51 with the interest naturally due from a man of his profession to a suspicious-looking character who was probably a convicted pickpocket52. The first sentence once more told him the worst. There was no doubt at all about it. The three guineas in his pocket were the price of blood!
‘The insult to British prestige in the East,’ ran that terrible opening paragraph, ‘implied in the brief telegram which we publish this morning from our own Correspondent at Simla, calls for a speedy and a severe retribution. It must be washed out in blood.’ Blood, blood, blood! The letters swam before his eyes. It was this, then, that he, the disciple53 of peace-loving Max Schurz, the hater of war and conquest, the foe54 of unjust British domination over inferior races—it was this that he had helped to make plausible55 with his special knowledge and his ready pen! Oh, heaven, what reparation could he make for this horrid56 crime he had knowingly and wilfully57 committed? What could he do to avoid the guilt of those poor savages58’ blood upon his devoted59 head? In one moment he thought out a hundred scenes of massacre60 and pillage—scenes such as he knew only too well always precede and accompany the blessings61 of British rule in distant dependencies. The temptation had been strong—the money had been sorely wanted—there was very little food in the house; but how could he ever have yielded to such a depth of premeditated wickedness! He folded the piece of paper into his pocket once more, and buried his face in his hands for a whole minute. The policeman now began to suspect that he was not so much a pickpocket as an escaped lunatic.
And so he was, no doubt. Of course we who are practical men of the world know very well that all this foolish feeling on Ernest Le Breton’s part was very womanish and weak and overwrought; that he ought to have done the work that was set before him, asking no questions for conscience’ sake; and that he might honestly have pocketed the three guineas, letting his supposed duty to a few naked brown people somewhere up in the Indian hill-country take care of itself, as all the rest of us always do. But some allowance must naturally be made for his peculiar temperament62 and for his particular state of health. Consumptive people are apt to take a somewhat hectic63 view of life in every way; they lack the common-sense ballast that makes most of us able to value the lives of a few hundred poor distant savages at their proper infinitesimal figure. At any rate, Ernest Le Breton, as a matter of fact, rightly or wrongly, did take this curious standpoint about things in general; and did then and there turn back through the deep snow, all his soul burning within him, fired with dire37 remorse, and filled only with one idea—how to prevent this wicked article to which he had contributed so many facts and opinions from getting printed in to-morrow’s paper. True, it was not he who had put in the usual newspaper platitudes64 about the might of England, and the insult to the British flag, and the immediate necessity for a stern retaliation65; but all that vapouring wicked talk (as he thought it) would go forth to the world fortified66 by the value of his special facts and his obviously intimate acquaintance with the whole past history of the Bodahl people. So he turned back and battled once more with the wind and snow as far as Fleet Street; and then he rushed excitedly into the ‘Morning Intelligence’ office, and asked with the wildness of despair to see the editor.
Mr. Lancaster had gone home an hour since, the porter said; but Mr. Wilks, the sub-editor, was still there, superintending the printing of the paper, and if Ernest liked, Mr. Wilks would see him immediately.
Ernest nodded assent67 at once, and was forthwith ushered68 up into Mr. Wilks’s private sanctum. The sub-editor was a dry, grizzly-bearded man, with a prevailing69 wolfish greyness of demeanour about his whole person; and he shook Ernest’s proffered70 hand solemnly, in the dreary fashion that is always begotten71 of the systematic72 transposition of night and day.
‘For heaven’s sake, Mr. Wilks,’ Ernest cried imploringly73, ‘I want to know whether you can possibly suppress or at least alter my leader on the Bodahl insurrection!’
Mr. Wilks looked at him curiously74, as one might look at a person who had suddenly developed violent symptoms of dangerous insanity75. ‘Suppress the Bodahl leader,’ he said slowly like one dreaming. ‘Suppress the Bodahl leader! Impossible! Why, it’s the largest type heading in the whole of to-day’s paper, is this Bodahl business. “Shocking Outrage76 upon a British Commissioner on the Indian Frontier. Revolt of the Entire Bodahl Tribe. Russian Intrigue77 in Central Asia. Dangerous Position of the Viceroy at Simla.” Oh, dear me, no; not to have a leader upon THAT, my dear sir, would be simply suicidal!’
‘But can’t you cut out my part of it, at least,’ Ernest said anxiously. ‘Oh, Mr. Wilks, you don’t know what I’ve suffered to-night on account of this dreadful unmerited leader. It’s wicked, it’s unjust, it’s abominable78, and I can’t bear to think that I have had anything to do with sending it out into the world to inflame79 the passions of unthinking people! Do please try to let my part of it be left out, and only Mr. Lancaster’s, at least, be printed.’
Mr. Wilks looked at him again with the intensest suspicion.
‘A sub-editor,’ he answered evasively, ‘has nothing at all to do with the politics of a paper. The editor alone manages that department on his own responsibility. But what on earth would you have me do? I can’t stop the machines for half an hour, can I, just to let you have the chance of doctoring your leader? If you thought it wrong to write it, you ought never to have written it; now it’s written it must certainly stand.’
Ernest sank into a chair, and said nothing; but he turned so deadly pale that Mr. Wilks was fain to have recourse to a little brown flask80 he kept stowed away in a corner of his desk, and to administer a prompt dose of brandy and water.
‘There, there,’ he said, in the kindest manner of which he was capable, ‘what are you going to do now? You can’t be going out again in this state and in this weather, can you?’
‘Yes, I am,’ Ernest answered feebly. ‘I’m going to walk home at once to Holloway.’
‘To Holloway!’ the sub-editor said in a tone of comparative horror. ‘Oh! no, I can’t allow that. Wait here an hour or two till the workmen’s trains begin running. Or, stay; Lancaster left his brougham here for me to-night, as I have to be off early to-morrow on business; I’ll send you home in that, and let Hawkins get me a cab from the mews by order.’
Ernest made no resistance; and so the sub-editor sent him home at once in Lancaster’s brougham.
When he got home in the early grey of morning, he found Edie still sitting up for him in her chair, and wondering what could be detaining him so long at the newspaper office. He threw himself wildly at her feet, and, in such broken sentences as he was able to command, he told her all the pitiful story. Edie soothed81 him and kissed him as he went along, but never said a word for good or evil till he had finished.
‘It was a terrible temptation, darling,’ she said softly: ‘a terrible temptation, indeed, and I don’t wonder you gave way to it; but we mustn’t touch the three guineas. As you say rightly, it’s blood-money.’
Ernest drew the cheque slowly from his pocket, and held it hesitatingly a moment in his hand. Edie looked at him curiously.
‘What are you going to do with it, darling?’ she asked in a low voice, as he gazed vacantly at the last dying embers in the little smouldering fireplace.
‘Nothing, Edie dearest,’ Ernest answered huskily, folding it up and putting it away in the drawer by the window. They neither of them dared to look the other in the face, but they had not the heart to burn it boldly. It was blood-money, to be sure; but three guineas are really so very useful!
Four days later, little Dot was taken with a sudden illness. Ernest and Edie sat watching by her little cradle throughout the night, and saw with heavy hearts that she was rapidly growing feebler. Poor wee soul, they had nothing to keep her for: it would be better, perhaps, if she were gone; and yet, the human heart cannot be stifled82 by such calm deliverances of practical reason; it WILL let its hot emotions overcome the cold calculations of better and worse supplied it by the unbiassed intellect.
All night long they sat there tearfully, fearing she would not live till morning; and in the early dawn they sent round hastily for a neighbouring doctor. They had no money to pay him with, to be sure; but that didn’t much matter; they could leave it over for the present, and perhaps some day before long Ernest might write another social, and earn an honest three guineas. Anyhow, it was a question of life and death, and they could not help sending for the doctor, whatever difficulty they might afterwards find in paying him.
The doctor came, and looked with the usual professional seriousness at the baby patient. Did they feed her entirely83 on London milk? he asked doubtfully. Yes, entirely. Ah! then that was the sole root of the entire mischief84. She was very dangerously ill, no doubt, and he didn’t know whether he could pull her through anyhow; but if anything would do it, it was a change to goat’s milk. There was a man who sold goat’s milk round the corner. He would show Ernest where to find him.
Ernest looked doubtfully at Edie, and Edie looked back again at Ernest. One thought rose at once in both their minds. They had no money to pay for it with, except—except that dreadful cheque. For four days it had lain, burning a hole in Ernest’s heart from its drawer by the window, and he had not dared to change it. Now he rose without saying a word, and opened the drawer in a solemn, hesitating fashion. He looked once more at Edie inquiringly; Edie nodded a faint approval. Ernest, pale as death, put on his hat, and went out totteringly with the doctor. He stopped on the way to change the cheque at the baker’s where they usually dealt, and then went on to the goat’s milk shop. How that sovereign he flung upon the counter seemed to ring the knell85 of his seif-respect! The man who changed it noticed the strangeness of Ernest’s look, and knew at once he had not come by the money honestly. He rang it twice to make sure it was good, and then gave the change to Ernest. But Dot, at least, was saved; that was a great thing. The milk arrived duly every morning for some weeks, and, after a severe struggle, Dot grew gradually better. While the danger lasted, neither of them dared think much of the cheque; but when Dot had got quite well again, Ernest was conscious of a certain unwonted awkwardness of manner in talking to Edie. He knew perfectly86 well what it meant; they were both accomplices87 in crime together.
When Ernest wrote his ‘social’ after Max Schurz’s affair, he felt he had already touched the lowest depths of degradation88. He knew now that he had touched a still lower one. Oh! horrible abyss of self-abasement!—he had taken the blood-money. And yet, it was to save Dot’s life! Herbert was right, after all: quite right. Yes, yes, all hope was gone: the environment had finally triumphed.
In the awful self-reproach of that deadly remorse for the acceptance of the blood-money, Ernest Le Breton felt at last in his heart that surely the bitterness of death was past. It would be better for them all to die together than to live on through such a life of shame and misery89. Ah, Peter, Peter, you are not the only one that has denied his Lord and Master!
And yet, Ernest Le Breton had only written part of a newspaper leader about a small revolt of the Bodahls. And he suffered more agony for it than many a sensitive man, even, has suffered for the commission of some obvious crime.
‘I say, Berkeley,’ Lancaster droned out in the lobby of their club one afternoon shortly afterwards, ‘what on earth am I ever to do about that socialistic friend of yours, Le Breton? I can’t ever give him any political work again, you know. Just fancy! first, you remember, I set him upon the Schurz imprisonment90 business, and he nearly went mad then because I didn’t back up Schurz for wanting to murder the Emperor of Russia. After that, just now the other day, I tried him on the Bodahl business, and hang me if he didn’t have qualms91 of conscience about it afterwards, and trudge back through all the snow that awful Tuesday, to see if he couldn’t induce Wilks to stop the press, and let him cut it all out at the last moment! He’s as mad as a March hare, you know, and if it weren’t that I’m really sorry for him I wouldn’t go on taking socials from him any longer. But I will; I’ll give him work as long as he’ll do it for me on any terms; though, of course, it’s obviously impossible under the circumstances to let him have another go at politics, isn’t it?’
‘You’re really awfully92 kind, Lancaster,’ Berkeley answered warmly. ‘No other fellow would do as much for Le Breton as you do. I admit he’s absolutely impracticable, but I would give more than I can tell you if only I thought he could be made to pull through somehow.’
‘Impracticable!’ the editor said shortly, ‘I believe you, indeed. Why, do you remember that ridiculous Schurz business? Well, I sent Le Breton a cheque for eight guineas for that lot, and can you credit it, it’s remained uncashed from that day to this. I really think he must have destroyed it.’
‘No doubt,’ Arthur answered, with a smile. ‘And the Bodahls? What about them?’
‘Oh! he kept that cheque for a few days uncashed—though I’m sure he wanted money at the time; but in the end, I’m happy to say, he cashed it.’
Arthur’s countenance fell ominously93.
‘He did!’ he said gloomily. ‘He cashed it! That’s bad news indeed, then. I must go and see them to-morrow morning early. I’m afraid they must be at the last pitch of poverty before they’d consent to do that. And yet, Solomon says, men do not despise a thief if he steal to satisfy his soul when he is hungry. And Le Breton, after all, has a wife and child to think of.’
Lancaster stared at him blankly, and turned aside to glance at the telegrams, saying to himself meanwhile, that all these young fellows of the new school alike were really quite too incomprehensible for a sensible, practical man like himself to deal with comfortably.
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immediate
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| adj.立即的；直接的，最接近的；紧靠的 | |
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specifying
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forth
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murmur
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peculiar
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preamble
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journalism
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subdued
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refractory
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glimmering
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insignificant
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abbreviated
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commissioner
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exchequer
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entity
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miserable
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solitary
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alterations
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dictate
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bent
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scruples
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remorse
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kindly
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utterly
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memorable
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countenance
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trudge
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savage
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guilt
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dire
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indirectly
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abet
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| v.教唆，鼓励帮助 | |
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immoral
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| adj.不道德的，淫荡的，荒淫的，有伤风化的 | |
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inhuman
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| adj.残忍的，不人道的，无人性的 | |
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42
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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marrow
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| n.骨髓；精华；活力 | |
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trudging
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| vt.& vi.跋涉，吃力地走（trudge的现在分词形式） | |
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45
stainless
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| adj.无瑕疵的，不锈的 | |
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46
flaring
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| a.火焰摇曳的，过份艳丽的 | |
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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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emboldened
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| v.鼓励，使有胆量( embolden的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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49
fascination
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| n.令人着迷的事物，魅力，迷恋 | |
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dreaded
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| adj.令人畏惧的；害怕的v.害怕，恐惧，担心( dread的过去式和过去分词) | |
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proceedings
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| n.进程，过程，议程；诉讼(程序)；公报 | |
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52
pickpocket
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| n.扒手；v.扒窃 | |
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disciple
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| n.信徒，门徒，追随者 | |
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foe
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| n.敌人，仇敌 | |
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plausible
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| adj.似真实的，似乎有理的，似乎可信的 | |
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horrid
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| adj.可怕的；令人惊恐的；恐怖的；极讨厌的 | |
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wilfully
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| adv.任性固执地；蓄意地 | |
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savages
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| 未开化的人，野蛮人( savage的名词复数 ) | |
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devoted
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| adj.忠诚的，忠实的，热心的，献身于...的 | |
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massacre
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| n.残杀，大屠杀；v.残杀，集体屠杀 | |
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blessings
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| n.（上帝的）祝福( blessing的名词复数 )；好事；福分；因祸得福 | |
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temperament
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| n.气质，性格，性情 | |
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hectic
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| adj.肺病的；消耗热的；发热的；闹哄哄的 | |
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platitudes
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| n.平常的话，老生常谈，陈词滥调( platitude的名词复数 )；滥套子 | |
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retaliation
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| n.报复，反击 | |
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fortified
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| adj. 加强的 | |
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assent
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| v.批准，认可；n.批准，认可 | |
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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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prevailing
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| adj.盛行的；占优势的；主要的 | |
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proffered
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| v.提供，贡献，提出( proffer的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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begotten
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| v.为…之生父( beget的过去分词 )；产生，引起 | |
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systematic
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| adj.有系统的，有计划的，有方法的 | |
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imploringly
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| adv. 恳求地, 哀求地 | |
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curiously
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| adv.有求知欲地；好问地；奇特地 | |
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insanity
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| n.疯狂，精神错乱；极端的愚蠢，荒唐 | |
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outrage
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| n.暴行，侮辱，愤怒；vt.凌辱，激怒 | |
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intrigue
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| vt.激起兴趣，迷住；vi.耍阴谋；n.阴谋，密谋 | |
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abominable
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| adj.可厌的，令人憎恶的 | |
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inflame
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| v.使燃烧；使极度激动；使发炎 | |
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flask
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| n.瓶，火药筒，砂箱 | |
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soothed
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| v.安慰( soothe的过去式和过去分词 )；抚慰；使舒服；减轻痛苦 | |
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stifled
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| （使）窒息， （使）窒闷( stifle的过去式和过去分词 )； 镇压，遏制； 堵 | |
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entirely
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| ad.全部地，完整地；完全地，彻底地 | |
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mischief
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| n.损害，伤害，危害；恶作剧，捣蛋，胡闹 | |
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knell
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| n.丧钟声；v.敲丧钟 | |
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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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accomplices
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| 从犯，帮凶，同谋( accomplice的名词复数 ) | |
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degradation
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| n.降级；低落；退化；陵削；降解；衰变 | |
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misery
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| n.痛苦，苦恼，苦难；悲惨的境遇，贫苦 | |
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imprisonment
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| n.关押，监禁，坐牢 | |
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qualms
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| n.不安；内疚 | |
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awfully
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| adv.可怕地，非常地，极端地 | |
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ominously
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| adv.恶兆地，不吉利地；预示地 | |
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