“THE fortune which Mr. Vanstone possessed1 when you knew him” (the lawyer began) “was part, and part only, of the inheritance which fell to him on his father’s death. Mr. Vanstone the elder was a manufacturer in the North of England. He married early in life; and the children of the marriage were either six or seven in number—I am not certain which. First, Michael, the eldest2 son, still living, and now an old man turned seventy. Secondly3, Selina, the eldest daughter, who married in after-life, and who died ten or eleven years ago. After those two came other sons and daughters, whose early deaths make it unnecessary to mention them particularly. The last and by many years the youngest of the children was Andrew, whom I first knew, as I told you, at the age of nineteen. My father was then on the point of retiring from the active pursuit of his profession; and in succeeding to his business, I also succeeded to his connection with the Vanstones as the family solicitor4.
“At that time, Andrew had just started in life by entering the army. After little more than a year of home-service, he was ordered out with his regiment6 to Canada. When he quitted England, he left his father and his elder brother Michael seriously at variance7. I need not detain you by entering into the cause of the quarrel. I need only tell you that the elder Mr. Vanstone, with many excellent qualities, was a man of fierce and intractable temper. His eldest son had set him at defiance8, under circumstances which might have justly irritated a father of far milder character; and he declared, in the most positive terms, that he would never see Michael’s face again. In defiance of my entreaties9, and of the entreaties of his wife, he tore up, in our presence, the will which provided for Michael’s share in the paternal10 inheritance. Such was the family position, when the younger son left home for Canada.
“Some months after Andrew’s arrival with his regiment at Quebec, he became acquainted with a woman of great personal attractions, who came, or said she came, from one of the Southern States of America. She obtained an immediate11 influence over him; and she used it to the basest purpose. You knew the easy, affectionate, trusting nature of the man in later life—you can imagine how thoughtlessly he acted on the impulse of his youth. It is useless to dwell on this lamentable12 part of the story. He was just twenty-one: he was blindly devoted13 to a worthless woman; and she led him on, with merciless cunning, till it was too late to draw back. In one word, he committed the fatal error of his life: he married her.
“She had been wise enough in her own interests to dread14 the influence of his brother-officers, and to persuade him, up to the period of the marriage ceremony, to keep the proposed union between them a secret. She could do this; but she could not provide against the results of accident. Hardly three months had passed, when a chance disclosure exposed the life she had led before her marriage. But one alternative was left to her husband—the alternative of instantly separating from her.
“The effect of the discovery on the unhappy boy—for a boy in disposition15 he still was—may be judged by the event which followed the exposure. One of Andrew’s superior officers—a certain Major Kirke, if I remember right—found him in his quarters, writing to his father a confession16 of the disgraceful truth, with a loaded pistol by his side. That officer saved the lad’s life from his own hand, and hushed up the scandalous affair by a compromise. The marriage being a perfectly17 legal one, and the wife’s misconduct prior to the ceremony giving her husband no claim to his release from her by divorce, it was only possible to appeal to her sense of her own interests. A handsome annual allowance was secured to her, on condition that she returned to the place from which she had come; that she never appeared in England; and that she ceased to use her husband’s name. Other stipulations were added to these. She accepted them all; and measures were privately18 taken to have her well looked after in the place of her retreat. What life she led there, and whether she performed all the conditions imposed on her, I cannot say. I can only tell you that she never, to my knowledge, came to England; that she never annoyed Mr. Vanstone; and that the annual allowance was paid her, through a local agent in America, to the day of her death. All that she wanted in marrying him was money; and money she got.
“In the meantime, Andrew had left the regiment. Nothing would induce him to face his brother-officers after what had happened. He sold out and returned to England. The first intelligence which reached him on his return was the intelligence of his father’s death. He came to my office in London, before going home, and there learned from my lips how the family quarrel had ended.
“The will which Mr. Vanstone the elder had destroyed in my presence had not been, so far as I know, replaced by another. When I was sent for, in the usual course, on his death, I fully19 expected that the law would be left to make the customary division among his widow and his children. To my surprise, a will appeared among his papers, correctly drawn20 and executed, and dated about a week after the period when the first will had been destroyed. He had maintained his vindictive21 purpose against his eldest son, and had applied22 to a stranger for the professional assistance which I honestly believe he was ashamed to ask for at my hands.
“It is needless to trouble you with the provisions of the will in detail. There were the widow and three surviving children to be provided for. The widow received a life-interest only in a portion of the testator’s property. The remaining portion was divided between Andrew and Selina—two-thirds to the brother; one-third to the sister. On the mother’s death, the money from which her income had been derived23 was to go to Andrew and Selina, in the same relative proportions as before—five thousand pounds having been first deducted24 from the sum and paid to Michael, as the sole legacy25 left by the implacable father to his eldest son.
“Speaking in round numbers, the division of property, as settled by the will, stood thus. Before the mother’s death, Andrew had seventy thousand pounds; Selina had thirty-five thousand pounds; Michael—had nothing. After the mother’s death, Michael had five thousand pounds, to set against Andrew’s inheritance augmented27 to one hundred thousand, and Selina’s inheritance increased to fifty thousand.—Do not suppose that I am dwelling28 unnecessarily on this part of the subject. Every word I now speak bears on interests still in suspense29, which vitally concern Mr. Vanstone’s daughters. As we get on from past to present, keep in mind the terrible inequality of Michael’s inheritance and Andrew’s inheritance. The harm done by that vindictive will is, I greatly fear, not over yet.
“Andrew’s first impulse, when he heard the news which I had to tell him, was worthy30 of the open, generous nature of the man. He at once proposed to divide his inheritance with his elder brother. But there was one serious obstacle in the way. A letter from Michael was waiting for him at my office when he came there, and that letter charged him with being the original cause of estrangement31 between his father and his elder brother. The efforts which he had made—bluntly and incautiously, I own, but with the purest and kindest intentions, as I know—to compose the quarrel before leaving home, were perverted32, by the vilest33 misconstruction, to support an accusation34 of treachery and falsehood which would have stung any man to the quick. Andrew felt, what I felt, that if these imputations were not withdrawn35 before his generous intentions toward his brother took effect, the mere36 fact of their execution would amount to a practical acknowledgment of the justice of Michael’s charge against him. He wrote to his brother in the most forbearing terms. The answer received was as offensive as words could make it. Michael had inherited his father’s temper, unredeemed by his father’s better qualities: his second letter reiterated37 the charges contained in the first, and declared that he would only accept the offered division as an act of atonement and restitution38 on Andrew’s part. I next wrote to the mother to use her influence. She was herself aggrieved39 at being left with nothing more than a life interest in her husband’s property; she sided resolutely40 with Michael; and she stigmatized42 Andrew’s proposal as an attempt to bribe43 her eldest son into withdrawing a charge against his brother which that brother knew to be true. After this last repulse44, nothing more could be done. Michael withdrew to the Continent; and his mother followed him there. She lived long enough, and saved money enough out of her income, to add considerably45, at her death, to her elder son’s five thousand pounds. He had previously46 still further improved his pecuniary47 position by an advantageous48 marriage; and he is now passing the close of his days either in France or Switzerland—a widower49, with one son. We shall return to him shortly. In the meantime, I need only tell you that Andrew and Michael never again met—never again communicated, even by writing. To all intents and purposes they were dead to each other, from those early days to the present time.
“You can now estimate what Andrew’s position was when he left his profession and returned to England. Possessed of a fortune, he was alone in the world; his future destroyed at the fair outset of life; his mother and brother estranged50 from him; his sister lately married, with interests and hopes in which he had no share. Men of firmer mental caliber51 might have found refuge from such a situation as this in an absorbing intellectual pursuit. He was not capable of the effort; all the strength of his character lay in the affections he had wasted. His place in the world was that quiet place at home, with wife and children to make his life happy, which he had lost forever. To look back was more than he dare. To look forward was more than he could. In sheer despair, he let his own impetuous youth drive him on; and cast himself into the lowest dissipations of a London life.
“A woman’s falsehood had driven him to his ruin. A woman’s love saved him at the outset of his downward career. Let us not speak of her harshly—for we laid her with him yesterday in the grave.
“You, who only knew Mrs. Vanstone in later life, when illness and sorrow and secret care had altered and saddened her, can form no adequate idea of her attractions of person and character when she was a girl of seventeen. I was with Andrew when he first met her. I had tried to rescue him, for one night at least, from degrading associates and degrading pleasures, by persuading him to go with me to a ball given by one of the great City Companies. There they met. She produced a strong impression on him the moment he saw her. To me, as to him, she was a total stranger. An introduction to her, obtained in the customary manner, informed him that she was the daughter of one Mr. Blake. The rest he discovered from herself. They were partners in the dance (unobserved in that crowded ball-room) all through the evening.
“Circumstances were against her from the first. She was unhappy at home. Her family and friends occupied no recognized station in life: they were mean, underhand people, in every way unworthy of her. It was her first ball—it was the first time she had ever met with a man who had the breeding, the manners and the conversation of a gentleman. Are these excuses for her, which I have no right to make? If we have any human feeling for human weakness, surely not!
“The meeting of that night decided52 their future. When other meetings had followed, when the confession of her love had escaped her, he took the one course of all others (took it innocently and unconsciously), which was most dangerous to them both. His frankness and his sense of honor forbade him to deceive her: he opened his heart and told her the truth. She was a generous, impulsive53 girl; she had no home ties strong enough to plead with her; she was passionately54 fond of him—and he had made that appeal to her pity which, to the eternal honor of women, is the hardest of all appeals for them to resist. She saw, and saw truly, that she alone stood between him and his ruin. The last chance of his rescue hung on her decision. She decided; and saved him.
“Let me not be misunderstood; let me not be accused of trifling55 with the serious social question on which my narrative56 forces me to touch. I will defend her memory by no false reasoning—I will only speak the truth. It is the truth that she snatched him from mad excesses which must have ended in his early death. It is the truth that she restored him to that happy home existence which you remember so tenderly—which he remembered so gratefully that, on the day when he was free, he made her his wife. Let strict morality claim its right, and condemn57 her early fault. I have read my New Testament58 to little purpose, indeed, if Christian59 mercy may not soften60 the hard sentence against her—if Christian charity may not find a plea for her memory in the love and fidelity61, the suffering and the sacrifice, of her whole life.
“A few words more will bring us to a later time, and to events which have happened within your own experience.
“I need not remind you that the position in which Mr. Vanstone was now placed could lead in the end to but one result—to a disclosure, more or less inevitable62, of the truth. Attempts were made to keep the hopeless misfortune of his life a secret from Miss Blake’s family; and, as a matter of course, those attempts failed before the relentless63 scrutiny64 of her father and her friends. What might have happened if her relatives had been what is termed ‘respectable’ I cannot pretend to say. As it was, they were people who could (in the common phrase) be conveniently treated with. The only survivor65 of the family at the present time is a scoundrel calling himself Captain Wragge. When I tell you that he privately extorted66 the price of his silence from Mrs. Vanstone to the last; and when I add that his conduct presents no extraordinary exception to the conduct, in their lifetime, of the other relatives—you will understand what sort of people I had to deal with in my client’s interests, and how their assumed indignation was appeased67.
“Having, in the first instance, left England for Ireland, Mr. Vanstone and Miss Blake remained there afterward68 for some years. Girl as she was, she faced her position and its necessities without flinching69. Having once resolved to sacrifice her life to the man she loved; having quieted her conscience by persuading herself that his marriage was a legal mockery, and that she was ‘his wife in the sight of Heaven,’ she set herself from the first to accomplish the one foremost purpose of so living with him, in the world’s eye, as never to raise the suspicion that she was not his lawful70 wife. The women are few, indeed, who cannot resolve firmly, scheme patiently, and act promptly71 where the dearest interests of their lives are concerned. Mrs. Vanstone—she has a right now, remember, to that name—Mrs. Vanstone had more than the average share of a woman’s tenacity72 and a woman’s tact73; and she took all the needful precautions, in those early days, which her husband’s less ready capacity had not the art to devise—precautions to which they were largely indebted for the preservation74 of their secret in later times.
“Thanks to these safeguards, not a shadow of suspicion followed them when they returned to England. They first settled in Devonshire, merely because they were far removed there from that northern county in which Mr. Vanstone’s family and connections had been known. On the part of his surviving relatives, they had no curious investigations75 to dread. He was totally estranged from his mother and his elder brother. His married sister had been forbidden by her husband (who was a clergyman) to hold any communication with him, from the period when he had fallen into the deplorable way of life which I have described as following his return from Canada. Other relations he had none. When he and Miss Blake left Devonshire, their next change of residence was to this house. Neither courting nor avoiding notice; simply happy in themselves, in their children, and in their quiet rural life; unsuspected by the few neighbors who formed their modest circle of acquaintance to be other than what they seemed—the truth in their case, as in the cases of many others, remained undiscovered until accident forced it into the light of day.
“If, in your close intimacy76 with them, it seems strange that they should never have betrayed themselves, let me ask you to consider the circumstances and you will understand the apparent anomaly. Remember that they had been living as husband and wife, to all intents and purposes (except that the marriage-service had not been read over them), for fifteen years before you came into the house; and bear in mind, at the same time, that no event occurred to disturb Mr. Vanstone’s happiness in the present, to remind him of the past, or to warn him of the future, until the announcement of his wife’s death reached him, in that letter from America which you saw placed in his hand. From that day forth—when a past which he abhorred77 was forced back to his memory; when a future which she had never dared to anticipate was placed within her reach—you will soon perceive, if you have not perceived already, that they both betrayed themselves, time after time; and that your innocence78 of all suspicion, and their children’s innocence of all suspicion, alone prevented you from discovering the truth.
“The sad story of the past is now as well known to you as to me. I have had hard words to speak. God knows I have spoken them with true sympathy for the living, with true tenderness for the memory of the dead.”
He paused, turned his face a little away, and rested his head on his hand, in the quiet, undemonstrative manner which was natural to him. Thus far, Miss Garth had only interrupted his narrative by an occasional word or by a mute token of her attention. She made no effort to conceal80 her tears; they fell fast and silently over her wasted cheeks, as she looked up and spoke79 to him. “I have done you some injury, sir, in my thoughts,” she said, with a noble simplicity81. “I know you better now. Let me ask your forgiveness; let me take your hand.”
Those words, and the action which accompanied them, touched him deeply. He took her hand in silence. She was the first to speak, the first to set the example of self-control. It is one of the noble instincts of women that nothing more powerfully rouses them to struggle with their own sorrow than the sight of a man’s distress82. She quietly dried her tears; she quietly drew her chair round the table, so as to sit nearer to him when she spoke again.
“I have been sadly broken, Mr. Pendril, by what has happened in this house,” she said, “or I should have borne what you have told me better than I have borne it to-day. Will you let me ask one question before you go on? My heart aches for the children of my love—more than ever my children now. Is there no hope for their future? Are they left with no prospect83 but poverty before them?”
The lawyer hesitated before he answered the question.
“They are left dependent,” he said, at last, “on the justice and the mercy of a stranger.”
“Through the misfortune of their birth?”
“Through the misfortunes which have followed the marriage of their parents.”
With that startling answer he rose, took up the will from the floor, and restored it to its former position on the table between them.
“I can only place the truth before you,” he resumed, “in one plain form of words. The marriage has destroyed this will, and has left Mr. Vanstone’s daughters dependent on their uncle.”
As he spoke, the breeze stirred again among the shrubs84 under the window.
“On their uncle?” repeated Miss Garth. She considered for a moment, and laid her hand suddenly on Mr. Pendril’s arm. “Not on Michael Vanstone!”
“Yes: on Michael Vanstone.”
Miss Garth’s hand still mechanically grasped the lawyer’s arm. Her whole mind was absorbed in the effort to realize the discovery which had now burst on her.
“Dependent on Michael Vanstone!” she said to herself. “Dependent on their father’s bitterest enemy? How can it be?”
“Give me your attention for a few minutes more,” said Mr. Pendril, “and you shall hear. The sooner we can bring this painful interview to a close, the sooner I can open communications with Mr. Michael Vanstone, and the sooner you will know what he decides on doing for his brother’s orphan85 daughters. I repeat to you that they are absolutely dependent on him. You will most readily understand how and why, if we take up the chain of events where we last left it—at the period of Mr. and Mrs. Vanstone’s marriage.”
“One moment, sir,” said Miss Garth. “Were you in the secret of that marriage at the time when it took place?”
“Unhappily, I was not. I was away from London—away from England at the time. If Mr. Vanstone had been able to communicate with me when the letter from America announced the death of his wife, the fortunes of his daughters would not have been now at stake.”
He paused, and, before proceeding86 further, looked once more at the letters which he had consulted at an earlier period of the interview. He took one letter from the rest, and put it on the table by his side.
“At the beginning of the present year,” he resumed, “a very serious business necessity, in connection with some West Indian property possessed by an old client and friend of mine, required the presence either of myself, or of one of my two partners, in Jamaica. One of the two could not be spared; the other was not in health to undertake the voyage. There was no choice left but for me to go. I wrote to Mr. Vanstone, telling him that I should leave England at the end of February, and that the nature of the business which took me away afforded little hope of my getting back from the West Indies before June. My letter was not written with any special motive87. I merely thought it right—seeing that my partners were not admitted to my knowledge of Mr. Vanstone’s private affairs—to warn him of my absence, as a measure of formal precaution which it was right to take. At the end of February I left England, without having heard from him. I was on the sea when the news of his wife’s death reached him, on the fourth of March: and I did not return until the middle of last June.”
“You warned him of your departure,” interposed Miss Garth. “Did you not warn him of your return?”
“Not personally. My head-clerk sent him one of the circulars which were dispatched from my office, in various directions, to announce my return. It was the first substitute I thought of for the personal letter which the pressure of innumerable occupations, all crowding on me together after my long absence, did not allow me leisure to write. Barely a month later, the first information of his marriage reached me in a letter from himself, written on the day of the fatal accident. The circumstances which induced him to write arose out of an event in which you must have taken some interest—I mean the attachment88 between Mr. Clare’s son and Mr. Vanstone’s youngest daughter.”
“I cannot say that I was favorably disposed toward that attachment at the time,” replied Miss Garth. “I was ignorant then of the family secret: I know better now.”
“Exactly. The motive which you can now appreciate is the motive that leads us to the point. The young lady herself (as I have heard from the elder Mr. Clare, to whom I am indebted for my knowledge of the circumstances in detail) confessed her attachment to her father, and innocently touched him to the quick by a chance reference to his own early life. He had a long conversation with Mrs. Vanstone, at which they both agreed that Mr. Clare must be privately informed of the truth, before the attachment between the two young people was allowed to proceed further. It was painful in the last degree, both to husband and wife, to be reduced to this alternative. But they were resolute41, honorably resolute, in making the sacrifice of their own feelings; and Mr. Vanstone betook himself on the spot to Mr. Clare’s cottage.—You no doubt observed a remarkable89 change in Mr. Vanstone’s manner on that day; and you can now account for it?”
Miss Garth bowed her head, and Mr. Pendril went on.
“You are sufficiently90 acquainted with Mr. Clare’s contempt for all social prejudices,” he continued, “to anticipate his reception of the confession which his neighbor addressed to him. Five minutes after the interview had begun, the two old friends were as easy and unrestrained together as usual. In the course of conversation, Mr. Vanstone mentioned the pecuniary arrangement which he had made for the benefit of his daughter and of her future husband—and, in doing so, he naturally referred to his will here, on the table between us. Mr. Clare, remembering that his friend had been married in the March of that year, at once asked when the will had been executed: receiving the reply that it had been made five years since; and, thereupon, astounded91 Mr. Vanstone by telling him bluntly that the document was waste paper in the eye of the law. Up to that moment he, like many other persons, had been absolutely ignorant that a man’s marriage is, legally as well as socially, considered to be the most important event in his life; that it destroys the validity of any will which he may have made as a single man; and that it renders absolutely necessary the entire re-assertion of his testamentary intentions in the character of a husband. The statement of this plain fact appeared to overwhelm Mr. Vanstone. Declaring that his friend had laid him under an obligation which he should remember to his dying day, he at once left the cottage, at once returned home, and wrote me this letter.”
He handed the letter open to Miss Garth. In tearless, speechless grief, she read these words:
“MY DEAR PENDRIL—Since we last wrote to each other an extraordinary change has taken place in my life. About a week after you went away, I received news from America which told me that I was free. Need I say what use I made of that freedom? Need I say that the mother of my children is now my Wife?
“If you are surprised at not having heard from me the moment you got back, attribute my silence, in great part—if not altogether—to my own total ignorance of the legal necessity for making another will. Not half an hour since, I was enlightened for the first time (under circumstances which I will mention when me meet) by my old friend, Mr. Clare. Family anxieties have had something to do with my silence as well. My wife’s confinement92 is close at hand; and, besides this serious anxiety, my second daughter is just engaged to be married. Until I saw Mr. Clare to-day, these matters so filled my mind that I never thought of writing to you during the one short month which is all that has passed since I got news of your return. Now I know that my will must be made again, I write instantly. For God’s sake, come on the day when you receive this—come and relieve me from the dreadful thought that my two darling girls are at this moment unprovided for. If anything happened to me, and if my desire to do their mother justice, ended (through my miserable93 ignorance of the law) in leaving Norah and Magdalen disinherited, I should not rest in my grave! Come at any cost, to yours ever,
“A. V.”
“On the Saturday morning,” Mr. Pendril resumed, “those lines reached me. I instantly set aside all other business, and drove to the railway. At the London terminus, I heard the first news of the Friday’s accident; heard it, with conflicting accounts of the numbers and names of the passengers killed. At Bristol, they were better informed; and the dreadful truth about Mr. Vanstone was confirmed. I had time to recover myself before I reached your station here, and found Mr. Clare’s son waiting for me. He took me to his father’s cottage; and there, without losing a moment, I drew out Mrs. Vanstone’s will. My object was to secure the only provision for her daughters which it was now possible to make. Mr. Vanstone having died intestate, a third of his fortune would go to his widow; and the rest would be divided among his next of kin26. As children born out of wedlock94, Mr. Vanstone’s daughters, under the circumstances of their father’s death, had no more claim to a share in his property than the daughters of one of his laborers95 in the village. The one chance left was that their mother might sufficiently recover to leave her third share to them, by will, in the event of her decease. Now you know why I wrote to you to ask for that interview—why I waited day and night, in the hope of receiving a summons to the house. I was sincerely sorry to send back such an answer to your note of inquiry96 as I was compelled to write. But while there was a chance of the preservation of Mrs. Vanstone’s life, the secret of the marriage was hers, not mine; and every consideration of delicacy97 forbade me to disclose it.”
“You did right, sir,” said Miss Garth; “I understand your motives98, and respect them.”
“My last attempt to provide for the daughters,” continued Mr. Pendril, “was, as you know, rendered unavailing by the dangerous nature of Mrs. Vanstone’s illness. Her death left the infant who survived her by a few hours (the infant born, you will remember, in lawful wedlock) possessed, in due legal course, of the whole of Mr. Vanstone’s fortune. On the child’s death—if it had only outlived the mother by a few seconds, instead of a few hours, the result would have been the same—the next of kin to the legitimate99 offspring took the money; and that next of kin is the infant’s paternal uncle, Michael Vanstone. The whole fortune of eighty thousand pounds has virtually passed into his possession already.”
“Are there no other relations?” asked Miss Garth. “Is there no hope from any one else?”
“There are no other relations with Michael Vanstone’s claim,” said the lawyer. “There are no grandfathers or grandmothers of the dead child (on the side of either of the parents) now alive. It was not likely there should be, considering the ages of Mr. and Mrs. Vanstone when they died. But it is a misfortune to be reasonably lamented100 that no other uncles or aunts survive. There are cousins alive; a son and two daughters of that elder sister of Mr. Vanstone’s, who married Archdeacon Bartram, and who died, as I told you, some years since. But their interest is superseded101 by the interest of the nearer blood. No, Miss Garth, we must look facts as they are resolutely in the face. Mr. Vanstone’s daughters are Nobody’s Children; and the law leaves them helpless at their uncle’s mercy.”
“A cruel law, Mr. Pendril—a cruel law in a Christian country.”
“Cruel as it is, Miss Garth, it stands excused by a shocking peculiarity102 in this case. I am far from defending the law of England as it affects illegitimate offspring. On the contrary, I think it a disgrace to the nation. It visits the sins of the parents on the children; it encourages vice5 by depriving fathers and mothers of the strongest of all motives for making the atonement of marriage; and it claims to produce these two abominable103 results in the names of morality and religion. But it has no extraordinary oppression to answer for in the case of these unhappy girls. The more merciful and Christian law of other countries, which allows the marriage of the parents to make the children legitimate, has no mercy on these children. The accident of their father having been married, when he first met with their mother, has made them the outcasts of the whole social community; it has placed them out of the pale of the Civil Law of Europe. I tell you the hard truth—it is useless to disguise it. There is no hope, if we look back at the past: there may be hope, if we look on to the future. The best service which I can now render you is to shorten the period of your suspense. In less than an hour I shall be on my way back to London. Immediately on my arrival, I will ascertain104 the speediest means of communicating with Mr. Michael Vanstone; and will let you know the result. Sad as the position of the two sisters now is, we must look at it on its best side; we must not lose hope.”
“Hope?” repeated Miss Garth. “Hope from Michael Vanstone!”
“Yes; hope from the influence on him of time, if not from the influence of mercy. As I have already told you, he is now an old man; he cannot, in the course of nature, expect to live much longer. If he looks back to the period when he and his brother were first at variance, he must look back through thirty years. Surely, these are softening105 influences which must affect any man? Surely, his own knowledge of the shocking circumstances under which he has become possessed of this money will plead with him, if nothing else does?”
“I will try to think as you do, Mr. Pendril—I will try to hope for the best. Shall we be left long in suspense before the decision reaches us?”
“I trust not. The only delay on my side will be caused by the necessity of discovering the place of Michael Vanstone’s residence on the Continent. I think I have the means of meeting this difficulty successfully; and the moment I reach London, those means shall be tried.”
He took up his hat; and then returned to the table on which the father’s last letter, and the father’s useless will, were lying side by side. After a moment’s consideration, he placed them both in Miss Garth’s hands.
“It may help you in breaking the hard truth to the orphan sisters,” he said, in his quiet, self-repressed way, “if they can see how their father refers to them in his will—if they can read his letter to me, the last he ever wrote. Let these tokens tell them that the one idea of their father’s life was the idea of making atonement to his children. ‘They may think bitterly of their birth,’ he said to me, at the time when I drew this useless will; ‘but they shall never think bitterly of me. I will cross them in nothing: they shall never know a sorrow that I can spare them, or a want which I will not satisfy.’ He made me put those words in his will, to plead for him when the truth which he had concealed106 from his children in his lifetime was revealed to them after his death. No law can deprive his daughters of the legacy of his repentance107 and his love. I leave the will and the letter to help you: I give them both into your care.”
He saw how his parting kindness touched her and thoughtfully hastened the farewell. She took his hand in both her own and murmured a few broken words of gratitude108. “Trust me to do my best,” he said—and, turning away with a merciful abruptness109, left her. In the broad, cheerful sunshine he had come in to reveal the fatal truth. In the broad, cheerful sunshine—that truth disclosed—he went out.
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eldest
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secondly
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solicitor
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| n.初级律师，事务律师 | |
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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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regiment
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| n.团，多数，管理；v.组织，编成团，统制 | |
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variance
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| n.矛盾，不同 | |
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defiance
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| n.挑战，挑衅，蔑视，违抗 | |
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entreaties
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| n.恳求，乞求( entreaty的名词复数 ) | |
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paternal
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| adj.父亲的，像父亲的，父系的，父方的 | |
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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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lamentable
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| adj.令人惋惜的，悔恨的 | |
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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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dread
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| vt.担忧，忧虑；惧怕，不敢；n.担忧，畏惧 | |
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disposition
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| n.性情，性格；意向，倾向；排列，部署 | |
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confession
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| n.自白，供认，承认 | |
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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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18
privately
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| adv.以私人的身份，悄悄地，私下地 | |
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fully
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| adv.完全地，全部地，彻底地；充分地 | |
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20
drawn
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| v.拖，拉，拔出；adj.憔悴的，紧张的 | |
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vindictive
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| adj.有报仇心的，怀恨的，惩罚的 | |
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applied
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| adj.应用的；v.应用，适用 | |
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derived
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| vi.起源；由来；衍生；导出v.得到( derive的过去式和过去分词 )；（从…中）得到获得；源于；（从…中）提取 | |
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deducted
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| v.扣除，减去( deduct的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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legacy
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| n.遗产，遗赠；先人(或过去)留下的东西 | |
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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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Augmented
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| adj.增音的 动词augment的过去式和过去分词形式 | |
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dwelling
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| n.住宅，住所，寓所 | |
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suspense
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| n.（对可能发生的事）紧张感，担心，挂虑 | |
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worthy
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| adj.(of)值得的，配得上的；有价值的 | |
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estrangement
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| n.疏远，失和，不和 | |
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perverted
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| adj.不正当的v.滥用( pervert的过去式和过去分词 )；腐蚀；败坏；使堕落 | |
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vilest
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| adj.卑鄙的( vile的最高级 )；可耻的；极坏的；非常讨厌的 | |
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accusation
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| n.控告，指责，谴责 | |
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withdrawn
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| vt.收回；使退出；vi.撤退，退出 | |
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mere
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| adj.纯粹的；仅仅，只不过 | |
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reiterated
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| 反复地说，重申( reiterate的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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restitution
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| n.赔偿；恢复原状 | |
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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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resolutely
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| adj.坚决地，果断地 | |
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resolute
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| adj.坚决的，果敢的 | |
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42
stigmatized
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| v.使受耻辱，指责，污辱( stigmatize的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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43
bribe
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| n.贿赂；v.向…行贿，买通 | |
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44
repulse
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| n.击退，拒绝；vt.逐退，击退，拒绝 | |
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considerably
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| adv.极大地；相当大地；在很大程度上 | |
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previously
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| adv.以前，先前（地） | |
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47
pecuniary
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| adj.金钱的；金钱上的 | |
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48
advantageous
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| adj.有利的；有帮助的 | |
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49
widower
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| n.鳏夫 | |
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50
estranged
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| adj.疏远的，分离的 | |
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51
caliber
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| n.能力；水准 | |
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52
decided
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| adj.决定了的，坚决的；明显的，明确的 | |
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53
impulsive
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| adj.冲动的，刺激的；有推动力的 | |
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54
passionately
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| ad.热烈地，激烈地 | |
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55
trifling
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| adj.微不足道的；没什么价值的 | |
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56
narrative
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| n.叙述，故事；adj.叙事的，故事体的 | |
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57
condemn
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| vt.谴责，指责；宣判(罪犯)，判刑 | |
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58
testament
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| n.遗嘱；证明 | |
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59
Christian
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| adj.基督教徒的；n.基督教徒 | |
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60
soften
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| v.(使)变柔软；(使)变柔和 | |
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61
fidelity
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| n.忠诚，忠实；精确 | |
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62
inevitable
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| adj.不可避免的，必然发生的 | |
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63
relentless
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| adj.残酷的，不留情的，无怜悯心的 | |
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scrutiny
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| n.详细检查，仔细观察 | |
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65
survivor
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| n.生存者，残存者，幸存者 | |
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66
extorted
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| v.敲诈( extort的过去式和过去分词 )；曲解 | |
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67
appeased
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| 安抚，抚慰( appease的过去式和过去分词 )； 绥靖（满足另一国的要求以避免战争） | |
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68
afterward
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| adv.后来；以后 | |
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69
flinching
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| v.（因危险和痛苦）退缩，畏惧( flinch的现在分词 ) | |
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70
lawful
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| adj.法律许可的，守法的，合法的 | |
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71
promptly
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| adv.及时地，敏捷地 | |
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72
tenacity
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| n.坚韧 | |
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73
tact
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| n.机敏，圆滑，得体 | |
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74
preservation
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| n.保护，维护，保存，保留，保持 | |
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75
investigations
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| （正式的）调查( investigation的名词复数 )； 侦查； 科学研究； 学术研究 | |
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76
intimacy
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| n.熟悉，亲密，密切关系，亲昵的言行 | |
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77
abhorred
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| v.憎恶( abhor的过去式和过去分词 )；（厌恶地）回避；拒绝；淘汰 | |
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78
innocence
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| n.无罪；天真；无害 | |
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79
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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80
conceal
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| v.隐藏，隐瞒，隐蔽 | |
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81
simplicity
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| n.简单，简易；朴素；直率，单纯 | |
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82
distress
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| n.苦恼，痛苦，不舒适；不幸；vt.使悲痛 | |
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83
prospect
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| n.前景，前途；景色，视野 | |
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84
shrubs
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| 灌木( shrub的名词复数 ) | |
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85
orphan
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| n.孤儿；adj.无父母的 | |
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86
proceeding
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| n.行动，进行，(pl.)会议录，学报 | |
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87
motive
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| n.动机，目的；adv.发动的，运动的 | |
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88
attachment
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| n.附属物，附件；依恋；依附 | |
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89
remarkable
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| adj.显著的，异常的，非凡的，值得注意的 | |
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90
sufficiently
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| adv.足够地，充分地 | |
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91
astounded
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| v.使震惊(astound的过去式和过去分词)；愕然；愕；惊讶 | |
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92
confinement
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| n.幽禁，拘留，监禁；分娩；限制，局限 | |
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93
miserable
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| adj.悲惨的，痛苦的；可怜的，糟糕的 | |
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94
wedlock
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| n.婚姻，已婚状态 | |
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95
laborers
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| n.体力劳动者，工人( laborer的名词复数 )；（熟练工人的）辅助工 | |
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96
inquiry
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| n.打听，询问，调查，查问 | |
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97
delicacy
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| n.精致，细微，微妙，精良；美味，佳肴 | |
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98
motives
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| n.动机，目的( motive的名词复数 ) | |
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99
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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100
lamented
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| adj.被哀悼的，令人遗憾的v.（为…）哀悼，痛哭，悲伤( lament的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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101
superseded
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| [医]被代替的，废弃的 | |
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102
peculiarity
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| n.独特性，特色；特殊的东西；怪癖 | |
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103
abominable
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| adj.可厌的，令人憎恶的 | |
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104
ascertain
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| vt.发现，确定，查明，弄清 | |
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105
softening
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| 变软，软化 | |
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106
concealed
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| a.隐藏的，隐蔽的 | |
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107
repentance
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| n.懊悔 | |
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108
gratitude
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| adj.感激，感谢 | |
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109
abruptness
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| n. 突然，唐突 | |
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