When Richard Wharton first learned of his wife’s second marriage during his own lifetime to that wicked wretch2 who had ousted3 and supplanted4 him, he believed also, on the strength of Vivian Callingham’s pretences5, that his own daughter had died in her babyhood in Australia. He fancied, therefore, that no person of his kin6 remained alive at all, and that he might proceed to denounce and punish Vivian Callingham. With that object in view, he tramped down all the way from London to Torquay, to make himself known to his wife’s relations, the Moores, and to their cousin, Courtenay Ivor of Babbicombe—my Jack, as I called him. For various reasons of his own, he called first on Jack, and proceeded to detail to him this terrible family story.
At first hearing, Jack could hardly believe such a tale was true—of his Una’s father, as he still thought Vivian Callingham. But a strange chance happened to reveal a still further complication. It came out in this way. I had given Jack a recent photograph of myself in fancy dress, which hung up over his mantelpiece. As the weather-worn visitor’s eye fell on the picture, he started and grew pale.
“Why, that’s her!” he cried with a sudden gasp7. “That’s my daughter—Mary Wharton!”
Well, naturally enough Jack thought, to begin with, this was a mere8 mistake on his strange visitor’s part.
“That’s her half-sister,” he said, “Una Callingham—your wife’s child by her second marriage. She may be like her, no doubt, as half-sisters often are. But Mary Wharton, I know, died some eighteen years ago or so, when Una was quite a baby, I believe. I’ve heard all about it, because, don’t you see, I’m engaged to Una.”
The poor wreck9 of a clergyman, however, shook his head with profound conviction. He knew better than that.
“Oh no,” he said decisively: “that’s my child, Mary Wharton. Even after all these years, I couldn’t possibly be mistaken. Blood is thicker than water: I’d know her among ten thousand. She’d be just that age now, too. I see the creature’s vile10 plot. His daughter died young, and he’s palmed off my Mary as his own child, to keep her money in his hands. But never mind the money. Thank Heaven, she’s alive! That’s her! That’s my Mary!”
The plot seemed too diabolical11 and too improbable for anybody to believe. Jack could hardly think it possible when his new friend told him. But the stranger persisted so—it’s hard for me even to think of him as quite really my father—that Jack at last brought out two or three earlier photographs I’d given him some time before; and his visitor recognised them at once, in all their stages, as his own daughter. This roused Jack’s curiosity. He determined12 to hunt the matter up with his unknown connection. And he hunted it up thenceforward with deliberate care, till he proved every word of it.
Meanwhile, the poor broken-down man, worn out with his long tramp and his terrible emotions, fell ill almost at once, in Jack’s own house, and became rapidly so feeble that Jack dared not question him further. The return to civilisation13 was more fatal than his long solitary14 banishment15. At the end of a week he died, leaving on Jack’s mind a profound conviction that all he had said was true, and that I was really Richard Wharton’s daughter, not Vivian Callingham’s.
“For a week or two I made inquiries16, Una,” Jack said to me as we sat there,—“inquiries which I won’t detail to you in full just now, but which gradually showed me the truth of the poor soul’s belief. What you yourself told me just now chimes in exactly with what I discovered elsewhere, by inquiry17 and by letters from Australia. The baby that died was the real Una Callingham. Shortly after its death, your stepfather and your mother left the colony. All your real father’s money had been bequeathed to his child: and your mother’s also was settled on you. Mr. Callingham saw that if your mother died, and you lived and married, he himself would be deprived of the fortune for which he had so wickedly plotted. So he made up another plot even more extraordinary and more diabolical still than the first. He decided18 to pretend it was Mary Wharton that died, and to palm you off on the world as his own child, Una Callingham. For if Mary Wharton died, the property at once became absolutely your mother’s, and she could will it away to her husband or anyone else she chose to.”
“But baby was so much younger than I!” I cried, going back on my recollections once more. “How could he ever manage to make the dates come right again?”
“Quite true,” Jack answered; “the baby was younger than you. But your step-father—I’ve no other name by which I can call him—made a clever plan to set that straight. He concealed19 from the people in Australia which child had been ill, and he entered her death as Mary Wharton. Then, to cover the falsification, he left Melbourne at once, and travelled about for some years on the Continent in out-of-the-way places till all had been forgotten. You went forth20 upon the world as Una Callingham, with your true personality as Mary Wharton all obscured even in your own memory. Fortunately for your false father’s plot, you were small for your age, and developed slowly: he gave out, on the contrary, that you were big for your years and had outgrown21 yourself, Australian-wise, both in wisdom and stature22.”
“But my mother!” I exclaimed, appalled23. “How could she ever consent to such a wicked deception24?”
“Mr. Callingham had your mother completely under his thumb,” Jack answered with promptitude. “She couldn’t call her soul her own, your poor mother—so I’ve heard: he cajoled her and terrified her till she didn’t dare to oppose him. Poor shrinking creature, she was afraid of her life to do anything except as he bade her. He must have persuaded her first to acquiesce25 passively in this hateful plot, and then must have terrified her afterwards into full compliance26 by threats of exposure.”
“He was a very unhappy man himself,” I put in, casting back. “His money did him no good. I can remember now how gloomy and moody27 he was often, at The Grange.”
“Quite true,” Jack replied. “He lived in perpetual fear of your real father’s return, or of some other breakdown28 to his complicated system of successive deceptions29. He never had a happy minute in his whole life, I believe. Blind terrors surrounded him. He was afraid of everything, and afraid of everybody. Only his scientific work seemed ever to give him any relief. There, he became a free man. He threw himself into that, heart and soul, on purpose, I fancy, because it absorbed him while he was at it, and prevented him for the time being from thinking of his position.”
“And how did you find it all out?” I asked eagerly, anxious to get on to the end.
“Well, that’s long to tell,” Jack replied. “Too long for one sitting. I won’t trouble you with it now. Discrepancies30 in facts and dates, and inquiries among servants both in England and in Victoria, first put me upon the track. But I said nothing at the time of my suspicions to anyone. I waited till I could appeal to the man’s own conscience with success, as I hoped. And then, besides, I hardly knew how to act for the best. I wanted to marry you; and therefore, as far as was consistent with justice and honour, I wished to spare your supposed father a complete exposure.”
“But why didn’t you tell the police?” I asked.
“Because I had really nothing definite in any way to go upon. Realise the position to yourself, and you’ll see how difficult it was for me. Mr. Callingham suspected I was paying you attentions. Clearly, under those circumstances, it was to my obvious interest that you should get possession of all his property. Any claims I might make for you would, therefore, be naturally regarded with suspicion. The shipwrecked man had told nobody but myself. I hadn’t even an affidavit31, a death-bed statement. All rested upon his word, and upon mine as retailing32 it. He was dead, and there was nothing but my narrative33 for what he told me. The story itself was too improbable to be believed by the police on such dubious34 evidence. I didn’t even care to try. I wanted to make your step-father confess: and I waited for that till I could compel confession35.”
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1
jack
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| n.插座，千斤顶，男人；v.抬起，提醒，扛举；n.（Jake）杰克 | |
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2
wretch
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| n.可怜的人，不幸的人；卑鄙的人 | |
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ousted
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| 驱逐( oust的过去式和过去分词 )； 革职； 罢黜； 剥夺 | |
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supplanted
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| 把…排挤掉，取代( supplant的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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pretences
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| n.假装( pretence的名词复数 )；作假；自命；自称 | |
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kin
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| n.家族，亲属，血缘关系；adj.亲属关系的，同类的 | |
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gasp
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| n.喘息，气喘；v.喘息；气吁吁他说 | |
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8
mere
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| adj.纯粹的；仅仅，只不过 | |
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wreck
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| n.失事，遇难；沉船；vt.(船等)失事，遇难 | |
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vile
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| adj.卑鄙的，可耻的，邪恶的；坏透的 | |
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diabolical
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| adj.恶魔似的，凶暴的 | |
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12
determined
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| adj.坚定的；有决心的 | |
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civilisation
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| n.文明，文化，开化，教化 | |
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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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15
banishment
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| n.放逐，驱逐 | |
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16
inquiries
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| n.调查( inquiry的名词复数 )；疑问；探究；打听 | |
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inquiry
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| n.打听，询问，调查，查问 | |
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18
decided
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| adj.决定了的，坚决的；明显的，明确的 | |
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concealed
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| a.隐藏的，隐蔽的 | |
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forth
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| adv.向前；向外，往外 | |
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outgrown
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| 长[发展] 得超过（某物）的范围( outgrow的过去分词 )； 长[发展]得不能再要（某物）； 长得比…快； 生长速度超过 | |
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stature
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| n.（高度）水平，（高度）境界，身高，身材 | |
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23
appalled
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| v.使惊骇，使充满恐惧( appall的过去式和过去分词)adj.惊骇的；丧胆的 | |
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24
deception
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| n.欺骗，欺诈；骗局，诡计 | |
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acquiesce
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| vi.默许，顺从，同意 | |
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compliance
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| n.顺从；服从；附和；屈从 | |
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moody
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| adj.心情不稳的，易怒的，喜怒无常的 | |
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28
breakdown
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| n.垮，衰竭；损坏，故障，倒塌 | |
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29
deceptions
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| 欺骗( deception的名词复数 )； 骗术，诡计 | |
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30
discrepancies
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| n.差异，不符合（之处），不一致（之处）( discrepancy的名词复数 ) | |
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31
affidavit
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| n.宣誓书 | |
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32
retailing
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| n.零售业v.零售(retail的现在分词) | |
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33
narrative
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| n.叙述，故事；adj.叙事的，故事体的 | |
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34
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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35
confession
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| n.自白，供认，承认 | |
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