Granville Kelmscott, of course, took a very different view of Guy Waring’s position. He had read in the paper he bought at Plymouth that Guy was the murderer of Montague Nevitt. Regarding him, therefore, as a criminal of the deepest dye now flying from justice, he wasn’t at all surprised at Guy’s shrinking and shunning4 him; what astonished him rather was the man’s occasional and incredible fits of effrontery5. How that fellow could ever laugh and talk at all among the ladies on deck—with the hangman at his back—simply appalled6 and horrified7 the proud soul of a Kelmscott. Granville had hard work to keep from expressing his horror openly at times. But still, with an effort, he kept his peace. With the picture of his father and Lady Emily now strong before his mind, he couldn’t find it in his heart to bring his own half-brother, however guilty and criminal the man might be, to the foot of the gallows8.
So they voyaged on together without once interchanging a single word, all the way from Plymouth to the Cape Colony. And the day they landed at Port Elizabeth, it was an infinite relief indeed to Guy to think he could now get well away for ever from that fellow Kelmscott. Not being by any means over-burdened with ready cash, however, Guy determined9 to waste no time in the coastwise towns, but to make his way at once boldly up country towards Kimberley. The railway ran then only as far as Grahamstown; the rest of his journey to the South African Golconda was accomplished10 by road, in a two-wheeled cart, drawn11 by four small horses, which rattled12 along with a will, up hill and down dale, over the precarious13 highways of that semi-civilized upland.
To Guy, just fresh from England and the monotonous14 sea, there was a certain exhilaration in this first hasty glimpse of the infinite luxuriance of sub-tropical nature. At times he almost forgot Montague Nevitt and the forgery15 in the boundless16 sense of freedom and novelty given him by those vast wastes of rolling tableland, thickly covered with grass or low thorny17 acacias, and stretching illimitably away in low range after range to the blue mountains in the distance. It was strange indeed to him on the wide plains through which they scurried18 in wild haste to see the springbok rush away from the doubtful track at the first whirr of their wheels, or the bolder bustard stand and gaze among the long grass, with his wary19 eye turned sideways to look at them. Guy felt for the moment he had left Europe and its reminiscences now fairly behind him; in this free new world, he was free once more himself; his shame was cast aside; he could revel20 like the antelopes21 in the immensity of a land where nobody knew him and he knew nobody.
What added most of all, however, to this quaint22 new sense of vastness and freedom was the occasional appearance of naked blacks, roaming at large through the burnt-up fields of which till lately they had been undisputed possessors. Day after day Guy drove on along the uncertain roads, past queer outlying towns of white wooden houses—Cradock, and Middelburg, and Colesberg, and others—till they crossed at last the boundary of Orange River into the Free State, and halted for a while in the main street of Philippolis.
It was a dreary23 place; Guy began now to see the other side of South Africa. Though he had left England in autumn, it was spring-time at the Cape, and the winter drought had parched24 up all the grass, leaving the bare red dust in the roads or streets as dry and desolate25 as the sand of the desert. The town itself consisted of some sixty melancholy26 and distressful27 houses, bare, square, and flat-roofed, standing28 unenclosed along a dismal29 high-road, and with that congenitally shabby look, in spite of their newness, which seems to belong by nature to all southern buildings. Some stagnant30 pools alone remained to attest31 the presence after rain of a roaring brook32, the pits in whose dried-up channel they now occupied; over their tops hung the faded foliage33 of a few dust-laden34 trees, struggling hard for life with the energy of despair against depressing circumstances. It was a picture that gave Guy a sudden attack of pessimism35; if THIS was the El Dorado towards which he was going, he earnestly wished himself back again once more, forgery or no forgery, among the breezy green fields of dear old England.
On to Fauresmith he travelled with less comfort than before in a rickety buggy of most primitive36 construction, designed to meet the needs of rough mountain roads, and as innocent of springs as Guy himself of the murder of Montague Nevitt. It was a wretched drive. The drought had now broken; the wet season had begun; rain fell heavily. A piercing cold wind blew down from the nearer mountains; and Guy began to feel still more acutely than ever that South Africa was by no means an earthly paradise. As he drove on and on this feeling deepened upon him. Huge blocks of stone obstructed37 the rough road, intersected as it was by deep cart-wheel ruts, down which the rain-water now flowed in impromptu38 torrents39. The Dutch driver, too, anxious to show the mettle40 of his coarse-limbed steeds, persisted in dashing over the hummocky41 ground at a break-neck pace, while Guy balanced himself with difficulty on the narrow seat, hanging on to his portmanteau for dear life among the jerks and jolts42, till his ringers were numbed44 with cold and exposure.
They held out against it all, before the pelting45 rain, till man and beast were well-nigh exhausted46. At last, about three-quarters of the way to Fauresmith, on the bleak47 bare hill-tops, sleety48 snow began to fall in big flakes49, and the barking of a dog to be heard in the distance. The Boer driver pricked50 up his ears at the sound.
“That must a house be,” he remarked in his Dutch pigeon-English to Guy; and Guy felt in his soul that the most miserable51 and filthy52 of Kaffir huts would just then be a welcome sight to his weary eyes. He would have given a sovereign, indeed, from the scanty53 store he possessed54, for a night’s lodging55 in a convenient dog-kennel. He was agreeably surprised, therefore, to find it was a comfortable farmhouse56, where the lights in the casement57 beamed forth58 a cheery welcome on the wet and draggled wayfarers59 from real glass windows. The farmer within received them hospitably60. Business was brisk to-day. Another traveller, he said, had just gone on towards Fauresmith.
“A young man like yourself, fresh from England,” the farmer observed, scanning Guy closely. “He’s off for the diamond diggings. I think to Dutoitspan.”
Guy rested the right there, thinking nothing of the stranger, and went on next day more quietly to Fauresmith. Thence to the diamond fields, the country became at each step more sombre and more monotonous than ever. In the afternoon they rested at Jacobsdal, another dusty, dreary, comfortless place, consisting of about five and twenty bankrupt houses scattered61 in bare clumps62 over a scorched-up desert. Then on again next day, over a drearier63 and ever drearier expanse of landscape. It was ghastly. It was horrible. At last, on the top of a dismal hill range, looking down on a deep dale, the driver halted. In the vast flat below, a dull dense64 fog seemed to envelop65 the world with inscrutable mists. The driver pointed66 to it with his demonstrative whip.
“Down yonder,” he said encouragingly, as he put the skid67 on his wheel, “down yonder’s the diamond fields—that’s Dutoitspan before you.”
“What makes it so grey?” Guy asked, looking in front of him with a sinking heart. This first view of his future home was by no means encouraging.
“Oh, the sand make it be like that,” the driver answered unconcernedly. “Diamond fields all make up of fine red sand; and diggers pile it about around their own claims. Then the wind comes and blow, and make sandstorm always around Dutoitspan.”
Guy groaned68 inwardly. This was certainly NOT the El Dorado of his fancy. They descended69 the hill, at the same break-neck pace as before, and entered the miserable mushroom town of diamond-grubbers. Amidst the huts in the diggings great heaps of red earth lay piled up everywhere. Dust and sand rose high on the hot breeze into the stifling70 air. As they reached the encampment—for Dutoitspan then was little more than a camp—the blinding mists of solid red particles drove so thick in their eyes that Guy could hardly see a few yards before him. Their clothes and faces were literally71 encrusted in thick coats of dust. The fine red mist seemed to pervade72 everything. It filled their eyes, their nostrils73, their ears, their mouths. They breathed solid dust. The air was laden deep with it.
And THIS was the diamond fields! This was the Golconda where Guy was to find six thousand pounds ready made to recover his losses and to repay Cyril. Oh, horrible, horrible. His heart sank low at it.
And still they went on, and on, and on, and on, through the mist of dust to the place for out-spanning. Guy only shared the common fate of all new-comers to “the fields” in feeling much distressed74 and really ill. The very horses in the cart snorted and sneezed and showed their high displeasure by trying every now and then to jib and turn back again. Here and there, on either side, to right and left, where the gloom permitted it, Guy made out dimly a few round or oblong tents, with occasional rude huts of corrugated75 iron. A few uncertain figures lounged vaguely76 in the background. On closer inspection77 they proved to be much-grimed and half-naked natives, resting their weary limbs on piles of dry dust after their toil78 in the diggings.
It was an unearthly scene. Guy’s heart sank lower and lower still at every step the horses took into that howling wilderness79.
At last the driver drew up with a jolt43 in front of a long low hut of corrugated iron, somewhat larger than the rest, but no less dull and dreary. “The hotel,” he said briefly80; and Guy jumped out to secure himself a night’s lodging or so at this place of entertainment, till he could negotiate for a hut and a decent claim, and commence his digging.
At the bar of the primitive saloon where he found himself landed, a man in a grey tweed suit was already seated. He was drinking something fizzy from a tall soda-water glass. With a sudden start of horror Guy recognised him at once. Oh, great heavens, what was this? It was Granville Kelmscott!
Then Granville, too, was bound for the diamond fields like himself. What an incredible coincidence! How strange! How inexplicable81! That rich man’s son, the pampered82 heir to Tilgate! what could HE be doing here, in this out-of-the-way spot, this last resort of poor broken-down men, this miserable haunt of wretched gambling83 money-grubbers?
Here curiosity, surely, must have drawn him to the spot. He couldn’t have come to DIG! Guy gazed in amazement84 at that grey tweed suit. He must be staying for a day or two in search of adventure. No more than just that! He couldn’t mean to STOP here.
As he gazed and stood open-mouthed in the shadow of the door, Granville Kelmscott, who hadn’t seen him enter, laid down his glass, wiped his lips with gusto, and continued his conversation with the complacent85 barman.
“Yes, I want a hut here,” he said, “and to buy a good claim. I’ve been looking over the kopje down by Watson’s spare land, and I think I’ve seen a lot that’s likely to suit me.”
Guy could hardly restrain his astonishment86 and surprise. He had come, then, to dig! Oh, incredible! impossible!
But at any rate this settled his own immediate87 movements. Guy’s mind was made up at once. If Granville Kelmscott was going to dig at Dutoitspan—why, clearly Dutoitspan was no place for HIM. He could never stand the continual presence of the one man in South Africa who knew his deadly secret. Come what might he must leave the neighbourhood without a moment’s delay. He must strike out at once for the far interior. As he paused, Granville Kelmscott turned round and saw him. Their eyes met with a start. Each was equally astonished. Then Granville rose slowly from his seat, and murmured in a low voice, as he regarded him fixedly—
“You here again, Mr. Billington! This is once too often. I hardly expected THIS. There’s no room here for both of us.”
And he strode from the saloon, with a very black brow, leaving Guy for the moment alone with the barman.
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1
cape
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| n.海角，岬；披肩，短披风 | |
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guilt
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| n.犯罪；内疚；过失，罪责 | |
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3
shunned
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| v.避开，回避，避免( shun的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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shunning
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| v.避开，回避，避免( shun的现在分词 ) | |
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effrontery
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| n.厚颜无耻 | |
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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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horrified
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| a.(表现出)恐惧的 | |
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gallows
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| n.绞刑架，绞台 | |
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determined
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| adj.坚定的；有决心的 | |
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accomplished
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| adj.有才艺的；有造诣的；达到了的 | |
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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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rattled
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| 慌乱的，恼火的 | |
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precarious
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| adj.不安定的，靠不住的；根据不足的 | |
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monotonous
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| adj.单调的，一成不变的，使人厌倦的 | |
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15
forgery
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| n.伪造的文件等，赝品，伪造（行为） | |
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boundless
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| adj.无限的；无边无际的；巨大的 | |
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thorny
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| adj.多刺的，棘手的 | |
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scurried
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| v.急匆匆地走( scurry的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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wary
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| adj.谨慎的，机警的，小心的 | |
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revel
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| vi.狂欢作乐，陶醉；n.作乐，狂欢 | |
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antelopes
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| 羚羊( antelope的名词复数 )； 羚羊皮革 | |
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quaint
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| adj.古雅的，离奇有趣的，奇怪的 | |
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dreary
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| adj.令人沮丧的，沉闷的，单调乏味的 | |
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parched
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| adj.焦干的；极渴的；v.（使）焦干 | |
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desolate
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| adj.荒凉的，荒芜的；孤独的，凄凉的；v.使荒芜，使孤寂 | |
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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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distressful
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| adj.苦难重重的，不幸的，使苦恼的 | |
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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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dismal
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| adj.阴沉的，凄凉的，令人忧郁的，差劲的 | |
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stagnant
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| adj.不流动的，停滞的，不景气的 | |
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attest
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| vt.证明，证实；表明 | |
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brook
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| n.小河，溪；v.忍受，容让 | |
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foliage
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| n.叶子，树叶，簇叶 | |
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laden
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| adj.装满了的；充满了的；负了重担的；苦恼的 | |
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pessimism
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| n.悲观者，悲观主义者，厌世者 | |
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primitive
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| adj.原始的；简单的；n.原(始)人，原始事物 | |
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obstructed
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| 阻塞( obstruct的过去式和过去分词 )； 堵塞； 阻碍； 阻止 | |
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impromptu
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| adj.即席的，即兴的；adv.即兴的(地)，无准备的(地) | |
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torrents
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| n.倾注；奔流( torrent的名词复数 )；急流；爆发；连续不断 | |
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mettle
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| n.勇气，精神 | |
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hummocky
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| adj.圆丘般的，多圆丘的；波丘地 | |
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jolts
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| （使）摇动， （使）震惊( jolt的名词复数 ) | |
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jolt
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| v.（使）摇动，（使）震动，（使）颠簸 | |
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numbed
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| v.使麻木，使麻痹( numb的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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45
pelting
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| 微不足道的，无价值的，盛怒的 | |
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exhausted
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| adj.极其疲惫的，精疲力尽的 | |
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bleak
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| adj.(天气)阴冷的；凄凉的；暗淡的 | |
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sleety
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| 雨夹雪的，下雨雪的 | |
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49
flakes
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| 小薄片( flake的名词复数 )； （尤指）碎片； 雪花； 古怪的人 | |
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pricked
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| 刺，扎，戳( prick的过去式和过去分词 )； 刺伤； 刺痛； 使剧痛 | |
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51
miserable
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| adj.悲惨的，痛苦的；可怜的，糟糕的 | |
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filthy
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| adj.卑劣的；恶劣的，肮脏的 | |
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53
scanty
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| adj.缺乏的，仅有的，节省的，狭小的，不够的 | |
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possessed
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| adj.疯狂的；拥有的，占有的 | |
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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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farmhouse
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| n.农场住宅（尤指主要住房） | |
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casement
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| n.竖铰链窗；窗扉 | |
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forth
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| adv.向前；向外，往外 | |
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wayfarers
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| n.旅人，（尤指）徒步旅行者( wayfarer的名词复数 ) | |
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hospitably
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| 亲切地，招待周到地，善于款待地 | |
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scattered
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| adj.分散的，稀疏的；散步的；疏疏落落的 | |
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clumps
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| n.（树、灌木、植物等的）丛、簇( clump的名词复数 )；（土、泥等）团；块；笨重的脚步声v.（树、灌木、植物等的）丛、簇( clump的第三人称单数 )；（土、泥等）团；块；笨重的脚步声 | |
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drearier
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| 使人闷闷不乐或沮丧的( dreary的比较级 )； 阴沉的； 令人厌烦的； 单调的 | |
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dense
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| a.密集的，稠密的，浓密的；密度大的 | |
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envelop
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| vt.包，封，遮盖；包围 | |
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pointed
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| adj.尖的，直截了当的 | |
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skid
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| v.打滑 n.滑向一侧；滑道 ，滑轨 | |
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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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descended
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| a.为...后裔的，出身于...的 | |
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stifling
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| a.令人窒息的 | |
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literally
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| adv.照字面意义，逐字地；确实 | |
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pervade
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| v.弥漫，遍及，充满，渗透，漫延 | |
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nostrils
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| 鼻孔( nostril的名词复数 ) | |
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74
distressed
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| 痛苦的 | |
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corrugated
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| adj.波纹的；缩成皱纹的；波纹面的；波纹状的v.（使某物）起皱褶(corrugate的过去式和过去分词) | |
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76
vaguely
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| adv.含糊地，暖昧地 | |
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inspection
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| n.检查，审查，检阅 | |
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toil
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| vi.辛劳工作，艰难地行动；n.苦工，难事 | |
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wilderness
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| n.杳无人烟的一片陆地、水等，荒漠 | |
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80
briefly
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| adv.简单地，简短地 | |
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81
inexplicable
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| adj.无法解释的，难理解的 | |
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82
pampered
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| adj.饮食过量的，饮食奢侈的v.纵容，宠，娇养( pamper的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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83
gambling
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| n.赌博；投机 | |
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84
amazement
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| n.惊奇，惊讶 | |
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85
complacent
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| adj.自满的；自鸣得意的 | |
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86
astonishment
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| n.惊奇，惊异 | |
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87
immediate
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| adj.立即的；直接的，最接近的；紧靠的 | |
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