He wore deep mourning. The son, whose appearance of ill health had of late given him so much concern, was dead: Bede. Alas3! it was not illness of body that had ailed4 Bede Greatorex, and turned his days to one ever-moving, never-ceasing tumultuous sea of misery5, but that far worse affliction, illness of mind. In bodily sickness there may arise intervals6 of light, when the suffering is not felt so keenly, or the heavenly help is nearer for support; in mental sickness, grave as Bede's was, such intervals never come.
After quitting home at the turn of Christmas, and travelling for a month or two hither and thither7, Bede settled down in a remote French town. There was a very small colony of English in it, and an English chaplain, who did the duty for nothing. Bede had not intended to make it a permanent halting place, but his weakness increased greatly, and he seemed never willing to attempt another move onwards. Mrs. Bede grumbled8 woefully: she called the town a desert and their lodgings9 a barn: truth to say, the rooms were spacious10 and had as good as nothing in them. She amused herself--such amusement as it was--by taking drives in the early spring freshness, and talking French, for improvement, with a fashionable Parisian femme de chambre, whom she had found herself lucky enough to engage. In June, Bede died: and the date of his death happened, by a rather singular coincidence, to be that of Roland Yorke's wedding day. But that can pass.
With Bede's death, a month ago now, things in the office had undergone some fresh arrangements. Frank Greatorex was his father's sole partner in the practice. Frank was soon to bring home his wife and it was to be hoped she would make a happier home of the dwelling11 than its late mistress had done. There could be little doubt of it: and Mr. Greatorex stood a fair chance of regaining12 some of his domestic comforts. The prospects14 of Bede's widow were not flourishing. Bede had not left a shilling behind him; a little debt, in fact, instead; that is, she was in debt: and the bills for his funeral and other incidental expenses, had come over to Mr. Greatorex. There had been no marriage settlement on Louisa Joliffe: she was now left to the mercy of her father-in-law: and though a generous man by nature and habit, Mr. Greatorex was not showing himself generous in this. In a cool, business-like letter, conveyed to her personally by a trustworthy clerk, Mr. Greatorex had informed her that henceforward she would be allowed two hundred pounds a year. One hundred pounds in addition he made her a present gift of. The clerk, despatched with the letter and money, was Mr. Brown, who had entirely15 resumed his name of Winter: the office, not getting into the new habit readily, usually called him Mr. Brown-Winter. Mr. Winter was commissioned to discharge the above-mentioned bills, and to see a stone placed over the grave, the inscription16 for which had been written down by Mr. Greatorex. It was short as might be: only the following words, with the date of death.
BEDE GREATOREX.
AGED17 THIRTY-NINE.
"Come unto me all ye that labour and are heavy laden18."
Mr. Winter had executed his charges, and was back again. The clerks heard with very little surprise that he was to be promoted amidst them: the confidential19 manager in future under Mr. Greatorex and his son; one whom the office would have to look up to as a master. Rumour20 went that Mr. Winter was about to become a qualified21 solicitor22: not from any view of setting up for himself, but that he might be more efficient for his duties in the house of Greatorex and Greatorex. His salary would be handsome: it had been already considerably23 augmented24 since the month of January last. Mr. Winter had taken a small, pretty house, and would, soon bring a wife home to it: Alletha Rye was to change her name to Alletha Winter. The clerks in general looked upon it that Mr. Winter's promotion25 took its rise in his undoubted business merit and capacity: but in point of fact it was owing to a few lines written by Bede to his father.
"The man is of sterling26 merit: he has forgotten self in striving patiently to benefit and shield me: reward him for my sake. I am sure he will repay in faithfulness all you can do for him."
Little more than this did Bede say; not a word as to the nature of what the benefit or the shielding had been. Mr. Greatorex knew now, for a revelation had been made to him through Judge Kene. Bede, only the day before his death, had posted a letter to Sir Thomas Kene, one that he had spent a week in writing, getting to it at intervals.
The anguish27 that communication, and other things, brought to Mr. Greatorex, was very sharp still. He was feeling it as he sat there in the evening twilight. Bede's death he had, in one sense, almost ceased to mourn: knowing now what a happy release from mental pain it must have been. But he could not think with the smallest patience of Bede's wife: never again, never again. She had been the primary author of all the misery: but for her, his son--ay, and someone else, dear to him as a son--had been, in all human probability, living now, happy, peaceful, and playing a good and busy part on the world's stage.
"Will you admit visitors sir?"
"Eh! what!"--and Mr. Greatorex started up half in alarm as the servant spoke28, so deeply had he been buried in far-away thoughts. "Visitors this evening!--no. Stay, Philip. Who are they?"
"Sir Roland and Lady Yorke, sir."
"Oh, I'll see them," said Mr. Greatorex. "Ask them to walk up."
Roland and his wife, passing through London from their wedding tour, part of which had been spent in Ireland, at Lord Carrick's, had halted for a night at one of the hotels.
"To see old friends," said Roland. Not that he had many to see: Mrs. J. and Mr. Greatorex nearly comprised them. Whinny Yorke and her children were in Wales with her mother. Gerald had sent them, "as a temporary thing," till he could get "a bit straight." When that desirable epoch29 might be expected to dawn, was hidden in the mystery of the future. Gerald had been a good month in Whitecross Street prison, done to death pretty nearly with his creditors30' reproaches, who used to go down in a body to abuse him when they found there was no chance of their getting a farthing. He and his chambers31 had been sold up; and altogether Gerald had come to considerable grief. Just now he was in Paris, enjoying himself on a sum of money that Lord Carrick had been induced to give him, and on the proceeds from an article that he supplied twice a week to a London newspaper. He thought himself terribly hard worked; and slightly relieved his bile by telling everybody that his brother Roland was the greatest villain32 under the sun. Roland meant to find him a post if he could, and meanwhile took care of Winny and the little ones: Gerald quietly ignored that.
"Sir Roland and Lady Yorke."
Mr. Greatorex met them with outstretched hands, giving Annabel a fatherly kiss on her blushing face. He quite forgot her new elevation33, remembering her only as the sweet and simple girl who had made sunshine in his house at odd moments. She looked sweet and simple still, quite unaltered. Roland, on his part, had not attained34 the smallest additional dignity: he clattered35 in just as of yore. They were going to Sunny Mead36 on the morrow, and he began telling of his future plans for the happy home life.
Mr. Greatorex smiled as he listened. "I don't fancy you will give us much work, Sir Roland, in the way of incurring37 debts and trouble, and coming to us to get you clear of them," he observed.
"No thank you, I leave that to Gerald. Mr. Greatorex," added Roland, his eyes shining with honest light, his face meeting that of his ex-master, "I promised Vincent when he was dying that I'd keep clear of trouble; I as good as promised Hamill: I'd not go from my word to them, you know. And, what's more, I shall never wish to."
"I see. You will be a dead loss to us. The Yorkes in general have been profitable clients."
Roland took the words seriously, and his mouth fell a little.
"I'm very sorry, sir. I--I'll give you a present every year to make up for the deficiency, if you'll accept it. A golden inkstand, or something of that sort."
Mr. Greatorex looked at him with a smile, never speaking. Roland resumed, thoroughly38 in earnest, his voice low.
"It's such an awful deal of money, you see; four thousand a year, besides a house and lots of other things. Two people could never spend it, and if we could, we don't think it would be doing right. Annabel and I see things alike. We mean to put aside half of our income; against a rainy day, say; or--there are so many people who want help. You see, Mr. Greatorex, we have both learnt to live on little. But I'm sure I shall be sorry, if you look upon me as a loss."
"You can repay me, Roland, better than by a golden inkstand," said Mr. Greatorex, laying his hand on the young man's shoulder. "Let me come to you for a week annually39 when the summer roses are in bloom; and do you tell me, year by year, that you have adhered to your proposed simple mode of life."
Roland was in the skies at once. "It is a bargain, mind that," he said. "You will come to us always with the summer roses. As to a week only, we'll talk about that."
"And Jane shall meet you, sir," interposed Annabel with shy joy. "She is very happy at her school; I often have letters from her. Roland and I were thinking of having her at Christmas, if you don't mind."
"And Nelly Channing too, if her mother will spare her," put in Roland. "And we have talked about those three little mites40 in Wales. It would be good to have the lot together, and give them a bit of pleasure. They should have a jolly Christmas tree; and we'd get over some boxes of lumps of delight from Turkey, by one of the P. and O. steamers; and I'd bring them up to the waxwork41. Annabel and I both love children."
"And I hope to my heart you may have some of your own to bless you!" rejoined Mr. Greatorex with unaccountable emotion. "To bless you when they are young; to bless you when they--when they--shall be grown. God grant you may never have cause to weep for them in tears of blood! Many of earth's sorrows are hard to bear, but that is the weightiest that Heaven can inflict42 upon us."
Roland stared a little. The thing seemed nearly as incomprehensible to his view of social life as that he should have to weep for some defect in the moon.
"We'd bring them up in the best way, Mr. Greatorex," was the simple answer. "Annabel would, you may be sure, and I'd try to. I don't think I got brought up in the best way myself: there was too much scuffling and scrambling43. Mrs. J. once said--I beg your pardon, Annabel."
For Annabel was trying to express to Mr. Greatorex their regret at his son's death. The strange emotion that had shaken him she knew must be felt for Bede.
"We are both of us very sorry, sir, for him and for you," she said.
"My dear, you need not be," spoke Mr. Greatorex, in a low sad tone. "His life had grown weary; and death, to him must have been like a welcome rest at the close of day. A little sooner, a little later--what does it matter?"
"And for the muffs of doctors not to be able to cure him! Mr. Greatorex, when I remember him, and Vincent Yorke, and Hamish Channing, my respect for the medical profession does not go up. Halloa! who's this?" broke off Roland.
Philip was coming in with a cloud of surprise on his face, while a rustle44 as of extensive petticoats might be heard in his rear. He addressed his master with deprecation, conscious of something to tell that might not be very agreeable.
"It is Mrs. Bede Greatorex, sir."
"Who?" hurriedly exclaimed Mr. Greatorex.
"Mr. Bede's widow, sir. She has arrived with a French maid and a cab full of boxes."
No need to reiterate45 the news, for Mrs. Bede stood in view. Mr. Greatorex seized his servant by the coat like one in alarm, and gave a private order.
"Keep the cab. Don't unload the boxes. Mrs. Bede Greatorex will not remain here."
Mrs. Bede Greatorex, a widow of a month, was not less fashionable in appearance than when she was a wife. Rather more so, of the two. Her dress of rich silk and crape was a model for the mode books, her hair was wonderful to behold46. A small bob of something white peeped out atop of the chignon; looking close, it might be discovered to be an inch of quilled net: and its wearer called it a widow's cap with all the brass47 in life.
She held out her hand to Mr. Greatorex, but he seemed not to see it. That his resentment48 against this woman was one of bitterness, could not be mistaken. Mrs. Bede did not appear to notice the coldness of the greeting. Brushing past Annabel, she cast a rather contemptuous look towards her, and said some slighting words.
"What! are you here again? I thought the house was rid of you."
"This is my wife; Lady Yorke," spoke Roland in as haughty49 a tone as it was possible for him to assume. "Don't forget it, if you please, Mrs. Bede Greatorex."
She looked from one to the other of them. That Roland had succeeded to the family honours, she knew, but she had not heard of his marriage. The poor young governess, whom she had put upon and made unhappy, Lady Yorke! A moment's pause: Mrs. Bede's manner changed as if by magic, and she kissed Annabel on both cheeks, French fashion. Nobody knew better than she on which side her bread was buttered.
"Ah, dear me, it's fine to be you, Annabel! What changes since we last met. You a wife, and I a widow."
Mr. Greatorex took an impatient step forward, as if to speed her departure. She turned to him, speaking of her husband.
"I think Bede might have got well if he would. I used to tell him so. The doctors made an examination afterwards, and found, as you have heard, that there was no specific disease whatever. He wasted away; wasted and wasted; it was like as though there were a consuming fire ever within him burning him away to death."
"My goodness!" cried Roland. "Poor Bede."
"It was most unsatisfactory: I never saw anything like it in my life before," tartly50 retorted Mrs. Bede, for her husband's death had not pleased her, and she resented it openly. Not for the loss or love of him, but for the loss of his means. "I think he might have got well had he struggled for it. If you'll believe me, only the day before he died, he went out in a carriage to the post office, that he might post a letter himself to Sir Thomas Kene."
No one answered her, or made any comment.
"Is my old room ready for me?"
Mr. Greatorex, to whom the question was more particularly put, motioned her towards the door, and moved thither himself. "I wish to speak with you in private for a minute," he said. "Pardon me Sir Roland, I will be back directly."
That Mrs. Bede Greatorex had come to take the house by storm, hoping thereby51 to resume her late footing in it, Mr. Greatorex knew just as well as she. His letter to her, delivered by George Winter, was unmistakably plain; and he did wonder at the hardihood which had brought her hither, after its receipt.
"You cannot have misunderstood my communication," he said to her as they turned into the room that had once been her boudoir. "I must beg to refer you to it. This house can never shelter you again."
"But it must," she answered.
"Never again; never again."
"At least, I must stay here for some days, until I can decide where my residence shall be," she persisted, her voice taking the unpleasant shriek52 that it always took in anger. "You can't deny me that."
Mr. Greatorex raised his hand as if to waive53 off the argument and the words. "Philip shall see you to an hotel, if you feel incompetent54 to drive to one with your maid," he said, slightly sarcastic55. "But, under my roof; it once sheltered in happiness my poor son; you may not remain."
"I was your son's wife," she passionately56 said.
"I will tell you what you were to him, if you wish. I don't press it."
"Well?"
"His curse."
"Thank you."
"His curse before marriage; his curse after it."
As he stood there, with his face of pain, speaking not in an angry tone, but one mournfully subdued57, certain items connected with the past rose up to fill the mind of Mrs. Bede Greatorex. She was aware then that he knew all; she had some little shame left in her, and her very brow grew crimson58.
"I cannot imagine what you may have heard, or be suspecting," she said, falteringly59. "The past is past. I did nothing very wrong. Nothing but what plenty of other girls do."
"May God forgive you, Louisa Greatorex; as I know He has forgiven him."
It was surging up in her mind like angry waves, that far gone-by time, one event replacing another. During her prolonged visit to this very house as Louisa Joliffe, she had suffered Bede to become passionately attached to her. Suffered?--it was she who drew him and drew him on. She engaged herself to him privately60; a solemn engagement; and Bede acceded61 to her request that it should be kept secret for a time. She did not like Bede; she was playing an utterly62 false part; she coveted63 the good income and position that would be hers as his wife, but she rather disliked him. Her motive64 in demanding that their engagement should be concealed65, was a hope that some offer more desirable might turn up. Oh that Bede had suspected it! He looked for her to be his wife as surely as he looked for Heaven. After her return home from her visit, and John Ollivera, was sojourning at Helstonleigh, she played exactly the same game over with him. Drawing him on to love her, and engaging herself to him in private. She liked him, but she did not like to have to wait an indefinite number of years, until the young barrister should find himself in a position to marry. Which of the two she would eventually have chosen, was a matter that must remain in uncertainty66 for ever; most likely (she acknowledged so to herself) Bede and his wealth. Things went on smoothly67 enough, she corresponding ardently68 with both of them in secret, until the time of the March assizes--so often told of--and the fatal night when Bede Greatorex came down to Helstonleigh on a mission to his cousin. The contretemps, the almost certainty of discovery, the very probable fear that she should lose both her lovers, nearly drove Louisa out of her senses. That something in connection with it had passed between Bede and his cousin, she knew from Bede's manner that evening at her mother's; how much, she did not dare to ask. The following morning, when the news was brought to her that Mr. Ollivera had destroyed himself, she felt like a guilty woman. Whatever might have been the mystery of the death: whether he had really committed suicide, or whether Bede had shot him in the passion of his hot Spanish blood--and it was impossible but that she should have her latent doubts--she was the primary cause; and she knew it, and felt it. Had she gone out and killed him herself, she could not have felt it more. She became aware of another thing--that Bede Greatorex, searching amidst the effects of the dead on the following day, must have found her love-letters: more impassioned letters than she was wont69 to write to him. Bede did not visit her again during his stay at Helstonleigh, and she would not have dared to seek him. Some months later they met by accident in London: were thrown together three or four times. Bede renewed his offer of marriage, and she accepted him at once; the doubt in her mind, as to the part he might have taken in John Ollivera's death, never having been solved. She conveniently ignored it, for the glowing prospect13 of an establishment was all in all. But what sort of a wife did she make him?--how much did Bede, in his chivalric70 devotion, have to bear? She alone knew; she knew it now as she stood there; and her attempt to carry it off with a high hand to Mr. Greatorex failed signally. If ever the true sense of her sin should be brought home by Heaven to Louisa Greatorex, its weight, as connected with the treatment of her husband, would be well-nigh greater than she could bear. A curse to him before marriage; a curse to him after: Mr. Greatorex had well said it.
"Am I to starve in future, that you won't give me a home?" she burst forth71, driving other thoughts away from her. "What's two hundred a year? How am I to live?"
"My recommendation to you was, that you should live in Boulogne; with or near your mother," Mr. Greatorex answered calmly. "The two hundred pounds will be amply sufficient for that."
"Two hundred pounds!" she retorted, rudely. "I shall spend that on my dress."
"As you please, of course. It is the sum that will be paid you in quarterly instalments of fifty pounds, as long as I live. At my death, the half of it only would be secured to you. Should you marry again, the payments would altogether cease. All this I stated to you in my letter: I repeat it now. Not another shilling will you receive from me--in life, or after death."
She saw her future; saw it all laid out before her as on a map; and her face took a blank look, betraying mortification72 and despair. No more ravishing toilettes or French waiting maids; no more costly73 dinner-givings, or magnificent kettle-drums. Mrs. Bede Greatorex and society must henceforth live tolerably far apart. The home she had so despised, this that she was now being turned from, would be a very palace compared with the lodgings in Boulogne.
"To prolong this interview will not be productive of further result," spoke Mr. Greatorex, taking a step towards the door. "I must beg to remind you that friends are waiting for me."
"And my clothes, that I left here? And the ornaments74 that were mine?"
"Everything belonging to you has been packed ready for removal. The cases shall be all sent to whatever place you may name."
She turned away without another word. Mr. Greatorex rang the bell. Outside, sitting underneath75 one of the white statues, near the small conservatory76, was the French maid, inwardly railing against the want of politeness of these misérable Anglishe. Trusty Philip had warned her that she need not go up higher.
The cab drove away with them, and Mr. Greatorex returned to the dining-room with a relieved heart.
"She is done with at last, thank Heaven! Let us have tea together, Roland," he added, with a hearty77 smile. "Lady Yorke will take off her bonnet78, and make it for us; as she did when she was my little friend Annabel Channing."
* * * * * *
Copy of the letter received by Judge Kene from Bede Greatorex.
"As you know so much, Sir Thomas, I owe it to you and to myself to afford some further explanation. You have shown yourself a true friend: add to the obligation, by imparting the details I now write to Henry William Ollivera.
"When I was despatched to Helstonleigh on that fatal mission, I was engaged to be married to Louisa Joliffe, and loved her passionately. The engagement had existed several months, but it was at her request kept a secret to ourselves. After delivering the message and business I was charged with to John, we sat on, in his room, talking of indifferent matters. I said that I should spend the evening with the Joliffes: John laughed a little, and said perhaps he should. One word led to another, and at last he told me, premising it must be in confidence, that he was engaged to Louisa. I thought he was joking; my answer annoyed him; and he went on to say things about Louisa's love for him and their future marriage that nearly drove me wild. What, I hardly know now. It seemed to me that he had treacherously79 stepped in to strive to take my bride from me, to win her for himself, my one little ewe lamb. We recriminated on each other: she had deceived us both, but neither of us suspected it then: and we felt something like rival tiger cats; at least I know I did. Whenever my Spanish blood got up I was a madman--as you may remember, Kene, for you saw me so once or twice in earlier days--I was nothing else that wicked evening. At some taunt80 of his, or it sounded like one to me, I took up the pistol, that lay on the table underneath my hand, and fired it at him. Before Heaven, where I shall so soon stand, I declare that I had no deliberate intention of killing81 him. I did not know whether the pistol was loaded or not. I do not even think I knew what I was doing, or that I had caught up the pistol: in my mad rage I was conscious of nothing. The shot killed him instantaneously, even in the midst of his cry. I cried out too--with horror at what I had done; my passion faded and I stood still as he was. Before I crossed the step or two to his succour, I saw that he was dead. How horribly I have repented82 since that I did not fling open the door and call out for assistance, none, save myself, can know. Self-preservation lies instinctively83 within us all, and I suppose that stopped me. Oh, the false coward that I have since ever called myself!--the years of concealment84 and misery it would have saved All I thought of then, was--to get away. A short while I listened, but no sound told that any one had been within earshot; I softly opened the door to escape, putting out my head first to reconnoitre; and--found myself nearly face to face with a man. He stood on the stairs in an attitude of listening, and our eyes met in the gas-light. I never forgot his; they seemed to shine out from a mass of black hair; those same eyes afterwards puzzled my memory for years. When the eyes of my subsequent clerk, Mr. Brown, had used to strike some unpleasant chord on my memory, but what I could not fathom85, I never connected them with those other eyes; for Brown had put off his disguise then, and looked entirely another person. Ah, Kene! don't you see the obligation I lie under to this man, George Winter? Not at that moment did he know I had committed murder, but in a short period of time, as soon as the newspapers supplied details of the night's doings, he could but become aware of it. Had a doubt remained on his mind, when he entered our office and knew me for Bede Greatorex, the thing must have been made clear to him as daylight. To shield me he has remained under a cloud himself: I hope my father will reward him. Even when he was giving his evidence before you and the rest, he told a lie to save me. For he said that when he saw the face at the door it was after the departure of Mr. Bede Greatorex. It was my face he saw, Kene; no other. All through these years he has watched my misery; and in his great compassion86 for what he knew my sufferings must be, has been silently lightening life to me where he could. But, to go back to the time.
"I should think we gazed at each other for the space of half a minute, the man on the stairs and I: the fright of seeing someone there nearly paralyzed me; and then I went in again and shut the door. It was perhaps the sight of him that caused me to attempt to throw the suspicion off myself: certainly I had not thought of it before. I put the pistol on the carpet by the chair, as if it had fallen from John's right hand; and next, looking about on the table, I found the unfinished letter, and added the lines you know of. I seemed to be doing it in a dream; that it was not myself but somebody else, and all in a desperate hurry, for I grew afraid of stopping. Then it occurred to me to put out the lamp; I don't know why; and, upon that, I went out resolutely87, for I did not like the dark. Luck seemed to be against me. As I opened the door this second time, some young man (not the first) was passing by. Instinct caused me to turn round and make believe to be speaking to John. What words I really said, I should never have remembered but for hearing the young man, Alfred Jones, repeat them at the coroner's inquest. They served me more than I thought: for Alfred Jones unconsciously took up the natural supposition that John was also speaking to me; this version went forth to the public, and it was assumed that what happened, happened after my departure. There's no doubt that it was the chief element in throwing suspicion off me. He showed me out of the house, and thenceforward I had to try and act the part of an innocent man. I went to the Star and Garter and drank some brandy-and-water: I went thence to Mrs. Joliffe's: how I did it all, with that horrible thing upon me, I have never known. I said a few cautious words to Louisa, and by her answers, I felt sure that John's boast had been (at least in part) a vain one. As I returned up High Street, some tradesman was standing88 just within his side-door. He did not know I saw him. Halting, I looked at John Ollivera's windows, just opposite, and said something to the effect that John must have gone to bed--all for the man to hear me. Just afterwards I met you, Kene,--do you remember it? You were going to call on John, but I said he had gone to bed and the people of the house, too, I supposed, as there was no light to be seen. I shrank from the discovery, and would fain have put it off for ever. What a night that was for me! As I had stirred the tea at Mrs. Joliffe's, as I stirred the brandy-and-water at the hotel, John's face seemed to be in the liquid, staring up at me. In the dark of the bedroom, after the candle had burnt out, I saw him in his chair, just as I had left him. I had not dared to ask for a night-light, lest it might excite suspicion; how could I answer for it that the hotel would not get to learn I was not in the habit of burning one?
"You know the rest: the discovery and the inquest that followed. Did I act my part well, Kene? I suppose so, by the result. That day--the first--you were with me when we examined John's desk: it was advised that I should look over his letters for any clue that perhaps they might show to the motive of his self-inflicted death. The large bundle of letters, Kene, came, I found, from Louisa Joliffe, and poor John's was no vain boast: she had been all to him that she had professed89 to be to me, and a traitor90 to both.
"Why did I marry her, you will naturally ask. Ah, why! why! Because my love for her fooled me into it: because, if you will, I was mad. When we met again, months afterwards, the passion that I thought I had killed within me, rose up with ten-fold force, and I yielded to it. To do so was not much less sinful (looking at it as I look now) than the other and greater crime. I saw it even as I stood with her before the altar, I saw it afterwards clearer and clearer. But I loved her even in spite of my better judgment91; I love her even yet: and I have striven to do my duty by her in all indulgence, to shield her from the cares of the world.
"And there's my life's history. Oh, Kene, if I have been more sinful than other men, my merciful God knows what my expiation92 has been. Can you even faintly picture it to yourself? From a few minutes after the breath went out of poor John's body, my punishment set in. It was only fear just at first; it was the bitterest remorse93 afterwards that ever made a wreck94 of mortal man. I am not a murderer by nature, and John and I were dear friends. My days have been one long, wearing penance95: regret for him and his shortened life, dread96 of my crime's discovery; one or the other filling every moment: remorse and repentance97, repentance and remorse: and that it has been so is owing to Heaven's mercy. Not an hour of the day or night, but I would gladly have given up my own life to restore his. After the first confused horror had passed, I should have declared the truth at the time but for my mother's sake: in her state of health it would have killed her. When she died, the time had gone by for it: I had my father and my wife to consider later, and remained perforce silent. My father has thought my bodily health failed: in one sense so it did, for I have been wasting away from the first, dying slowly inch by inch.
"And that's all, Kene. When you shall have heard news of my death--it will be with you very close upon this letter--disclose the whole to Henry William Ollivera. With regard to my father, I leave the matter to you. If he in the slightest degree suspects me--and I can but think he must, after Winter's confession98, and from the easy acquiescence99 he gave to my coming on the Continent for an indefinite period--then tell him the whole. Heaven bless you all, and grant you the peace that can spring alone of Jesus Christ's atonement! I have dared to think it mine for some little time now.
"Bede Greatorex."
When the tidings of Bede's death reached him, Sir Thomas Kene went out to seek an interview with Mr. Ollivera. The clergyman read the letter, and bent100 his head in prolonged silence.
"After all, I suppose John's grave will have to remain undisturbed," spoke the Judge. "Winter cleared his memory."
"Yes; better so, perhaps," was the slow, thoughtful reply. "If I had never before been thankful that I read the burial service over him, I should be so now. You see, I was right, Kene. God be merciful to us all, for we are all miserable101 sinners!"
THE END.
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1
wane
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| n.衰微，亏缺，变弱；v.变小，亏缺，呈下弦 | |
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2
twilight
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| n.暮光，黄昏；暮年，晚期，衰落时期 | |
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3
alas
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| int.唉(表示悲伤、忧愁、恐惧等) | |
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4
ailed
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| v.生病( ail的过去式和过去分词 )；感到不舒服；处境困难；境况不佳 | |
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5
misery
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| n.痛苦，苦恼，苦难；悲惨的境遇，贫苦 | |
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6
intervals
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| n.[军事]间隔( interval的名词复数 )；间隔时间；[数学]区间；（戏剧、电影或音乐会的）幕间休息 | |
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7
thither
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| adv.向那里；adj.在那边的，对岸的 | |
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8
grumbled
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| 抱怨( grumble的过去式和过去分词 )； 发牢骚； 咕哝； 发哼声 | |
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9
lodgings
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| n. 出租的房舍, 寄宿舍 | |
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10
spacious
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| adj.广阔的，宽敞的 | |
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11
dwelling
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| n.住宅，住所，寓所 | |
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12
regaining
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| 复得( regain的现在分词 )； 赢回； 重回； 复至某地 | |
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13
prospect
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| n.前景，前途；景色，视野 | |
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14
prospects
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| n.希望，前途(恒为复数) | |
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15
entirely
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| ad.全部地，完整地；完全地，彻底地 | |
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16
inscription
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| n.（尤指石块上的）刻印文字，铭文，碑文 | |
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17
aged
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| adj.年老的，陈年的 | |
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18
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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19
confidential
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| adj.秘（机）密的，表示信任的，担任机密工作的 | |
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20
rumour
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| n.谣言，谣传，传闻 | |
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21
qualified
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| adj.合格的，有资格的，胜任的，有限制的 | |
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22
solicitor
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| n.初级律师，事务律师 | |
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23
considerably
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| adv.极大地；相当大地；在很大程度上 | |
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24
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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25
promotion
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| n.提升，晋级；促销，宣传 | |
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26
sterling
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| adj.英币的(纯粹的，货真价实的)；n.英国货币(英镑) | |
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27
anguish
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| n.(尤指心灵上的)极度痛苦，烦恼 | |
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28
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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29
epoch
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| n.(新)时代；历元 | |
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30
creditors
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| n.债权人，债主( creditor的名词复数 ) | |
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31
chambers
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| n.房间( chamber的名词复数 )；（议会的）议院；卧室；会议厅 | |
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32
villain
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| n.反派演员，反面人物；恶棍；问题的起因 | |
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33
elevation
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| n.高度；海拔；高地；上升；提高 | |
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34
attained
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| （通常经过努力）实现( attain的过去式和过去分词 )； 达到； 获得； 达到（某年龄、水平、状况） | |
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35
clattered
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| 发出咔哒声（clatter的过去式与过去分词形式） | |
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36
mead
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| n.蜂蜜酒 | |
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37
incurring
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| 遭受，招致，引起( incur的现在分词 ) | |
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38
thoroughly
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| adv.完全地，彻底地，十足地 | |
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39
annually
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| adv.一年一次，每年 | |
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40
mites
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| n.（尤指令人怜悯的）小孩( mite的名词复数 )；一点点；一文钱；螨 | |
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41
waxwork
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| n.蜡像 | |
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42
inflict
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| vt.(on)把…强加给，使遭受，使承担 | |
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43
scrambling
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| v.快速爬行( scramble的现在分词 )；攀登；争夺；（军事飞机）紧急起飞 | |
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44
rustle
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| v.沙沙作响；偷盗(牛、马等)；n.沙沙声声 | |
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45
reiterate
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| v.重申，反复地说 | |
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46
behold
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| v.看，注视，看到 | |
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47
brass
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| n.黄铜；黄铜器，铜管乐器 | |
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48
resentment
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| n.怨愤，忿恨 | |
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49
haughty
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| adj.傲慢的，高傲的 | |
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50
tartly
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| adv.辛辣地，刻薄地 | |
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51
thereby
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| adv.因此，从而 | |
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52
shriek
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| v./n.尖叫，叫喊 | |
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53
waive
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| vt.放弃，不坚持(规定、要求、权力等) | |
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54
incompetent
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| adj.无能力的，不能胜任的 | |
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55
sarcastic
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| adj.讥讽的，讽刺的，嘲弄的 | |
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56
passionately
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| ad.热烈地，激烈地 | |
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57
subdued
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| adj. 屈服的，柔和的，减弱的 动词subdue的过去式和过去分词 | |
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58
crimson
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| n./adj.深(绯)红色(的)；vi.脸变绯红色 | |
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59
falteringly
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| 口吃地，支吾地 | |
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60
privately
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| adv.以私人的身份，悄悄地，私下地 | |
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61
acceded
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| v.（正式）加入( accede的过去式和过去分词 )；答应；（通过财产的添附而）增加；开始任职 | |
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62
utterly
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| adv.完全地，绝对地 | |
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63
coveted
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| adj.令人垂涎的；垂涎的，梦寐以求的v.贪求，觊觎(covet的过去分词)；垂涎；贪图 | |
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64
motive
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| n.动机，目的；adv.发动的，运动的 | |
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65
concealed
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| a.隐藏的，隐蔽的 | |
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66
uncertainty
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| n.易变，靠不住，不确知，不确定的事物 | |
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67
smoothly
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| adv.平滑地，顺利地，流利地，流畅地 | |
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68
ardently
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| adv.热心地，热烈地 | |
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69
wont
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| adj.习惯于；v.习惯；n.习惯 | |
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70
chivalric
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| 有武士气概的，有武士风范的 | |
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71
forth
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| adv.向前；向外，往外 | |
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72
mortification
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| n.耻辱，屈辱 | |
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73
costly
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| adj.昂贵的，价值高的，豪华的 | |
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74
ornaments
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| n.装饰( ornament的名词复数 )；点缀；装饰品；首饰v.装饰，点缀，美化( ornament的第三人称单数 ) | |
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75
underneath
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| adj.在...下面，在...底下；adv.在下面 | |
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76
conservatory
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| n.温室，音乐学院；adj.保存性的，有保存力的 | |
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77
hearty
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| adj.热情友好的；衷心的；尽情的，纵情的 | |
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78
bonnet
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| n.无边女帽；童帽 | |
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79
treacherously
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| 背信弃义地； 背叛地； 靠不住地； 危险地 | |
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80
taunt
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| n.辱骂，嘲弄；v.嘲弄 | |
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81
killing
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| n.巨额利润；突然赚大钱，发大财 | |
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82
repented
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| 对（自己的所为）感到懊悔或忏悔( repent的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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83
instinctively
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| adv.本能地 | |
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84
concealment
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| n.隐藏, 掩盖，隐瞒 | |
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85
fathom
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| v.领悟，彻底了解 | |
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86
compassion
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| n.同情，怜悯 | |
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87
resolutely
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| adj.坚决地，果断地 | |
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88
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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89
professed
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| 公开声称的，伪称的，已立誓信教的 | |
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90
traitor
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| n.叛徒，卖国贼 | |
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91
judgment
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| n.审判；判断力，识别力，看法，意见 | |
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92
expiation
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| n.赎罪，补偿 | |
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93
remorse
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| n.痛恨，悔恨，自责 | |
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94
wreck
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| n.失事，遇难；沉船；vt.(船等)失事，遇难 | |
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95
penance
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| n.（赎罪的）惩罪 | |
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96
dread
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| vt.担忧，忧虑；惧怕，不敢；n.担忧，畏惧 | |
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97
repentance
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| n.懊悔 | |
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98
confession
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| n.自白，供认，承认 | |
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99
acquiescence
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| n.默许；顺从 | |
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100
bent
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| n.爱好，癖好；adj.弯的；决心的，一心的 | |
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101
miserable
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| adj.悲惨的，痛苦的；可怜的，糟糕的 | |
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