Enough of the old habit of trick and expedient6 still adhered to George, in his improved moral condition, to induce him to entertain a passing thought that perhaps the necessity for Mr. Carruthers knowing he had had any previous acquaintance with Clare, might never arise; if she did not see that he must be told, George need not feel himself bound to tell him. But he rejected the impulse after a very little while, and was ashamed of it. When, therefore, Mr. Felton had left George alone at Sir Thomas Boldero's house, he had done so with intention, and without any purpose of returning.
"Meet me at my rooms afterwards," he had said to George. "And tell Miss Carruthers I will take leave to call on her at Mrs. Stanhope's this afternoon." George agreed, premising that he must look in at the Mercury office first, but would then be at his uncle's service. Left alone, he had applied7 himself, in a condition of extreme mental discomposure, to thinking of what he should say to Clare, and how he should say it. He had almost arranged a satisfactory programme before she came; after--well, after, he did not speak or look in the least like what he had intended, and if any one had asked him for an account of their interview (which no one did, it was destined8 to be utterly9 forgotten and overwhelmed in the tide of events), he would have been quite incapable10 of satisfying the demand.
The interview lasted long, and when, at its close, George Dallas put Clare Carruthers into her cousin's carriage, her face was closely veiled, and the little hand which lingered in his had not yet done trembling. As he stood on the door-step and watched the carriage out of sight, the young man's face was pale and agitated11, but full of deep and sacred happiness too. An expression of resolve and hope, of courage and power, was upon his features, such as they had never before worn. Had he recalled the resolution he had taken for the time when Clare Carruthers should know Paul Ward5 as George Dallas, and had he renewed it, with fresh heart and energy, not unaided now by circumstances, not frowned upon by fate, no longer friendless? However that may have been, he carried a humbled12 and grateful heart with him, and felt himself a widely different man as he entered the dingy14 precincts of the Mercury office, from what he had been the last time he had crossed that threshold.
Mr. Cunningham was "in," and not only could see George, but was particularly anxious to see him.
"I was just writing to you, old fellow," he said, leaving off shaking hands with George, and beginning to tear up a brief and scrawly15 manuscript on flimsy which lay before him. "You have come in time to save me trouble and fourpence sterling16."
"Anything about the business I wrote to you about?" asked George.
"Just that, sir. Of course I attended to it at once, and put Tatlow on to it on your account. They're said to be cautious chaps, the detectives, and of course it wouldn't pay for them to be said to be anything else; but I'm hanged if I ever believed it before. You may talk of depth, but Tatlow's unfathomable. Has the job from yon, sir, per medium of your humble13 servant, and flatly declines to report progress to me; goes in for doing business only with the principal, and when he comes to me not a word can I get out of him, except that he must know the address of a certain individual named Paul Ward."
"Paul Ward?" exclaimed George.
"Yes, Paul Ward! Great, fun, isn't it, George? And I really could not resist the joke of quizzing the detective a little bit. I was immensely tickled17 at the idea of your employing the man, and his looking after you. So I told him I knew Mr. Dallas was acquainted with a gentleman of that name, and could give him all the information he required."
George could not laugh, but he tried to smile. Nothing could lend the subject of his uncle's suspense18 and anxiety even a collaterally19 amusing effect for him, and this statement puzzled him.
"What on earth can I have to do with the matter?" he said. "The man must be travelling very far indeed out of the right tracks. No one in the world, as it is pretty plain, can be more ignorant of Felton's affairs than I am. He must be on a totally wrong scent20; and if he has blundered in this way, it is only waste of time and money to employ him."
"Well," said Cunningham, a little disappointed that George did not enjoy the keenness of the capital joke as much as he did, "you must settle all that with him yourself, and find out from him, if you can--and, by Jove, I doubt it--how Paul Ward has got mixed up in your cousin's affairs (if he has got mixed up in them--and, mind, I don't feel sure even of that--he certainly did not say so) without your being a party to the transaction. I just gave Tatlow your address in Piccadilly, and told him you'd be there in a day or two."
"What did he say?" asked George, whose sense of mystification was increasing.
"Said he should call every day until you arrived,--no doubt he has been there to-day, or you'll find him there when you get home,--and disappeared, having got all the information I chose to give him, but not what he wanted; which is, I take it, the correct thing to do to a detective who observes the laws of discretion21 too absolutely."
Cunningham was laughing his jolly laugh, and George was wondering what Tatlow meant, when the entrance of a third individual on office business interrupted the friends' talk. George took leave, and went down-stairs. Arrived at the door, he stopped, ran up the first flight of dirty stairs again, and turned into a small room, dimly lighted by a dirty skylight, to the right of the first landing. In this sanctuary22, strong smelling of dust, size, and printer's ink, lay files, bound and unbound, of the Mercury. A heavy volume was open on the clumsy thick-legged table which filled up the centre of the room. It contained the files of the newspaper for the first half of the current year.
"Let me see," said George, "she was not quite sure about the 22nd; but it must have been about that date."
Then he turned the leaves, and scanned the columns of advertisements, until he found in one the warning which Clare Carruthers had sent to Paul Ward. His eyes filled with tears as he read it. He called up one of the office people, and had a copy of the paper of that date looked for, out of which he carefully cut the advertisement, and consigned23 it to the keeping of the pocketbook which he always carried about him. He placed the little slip of printed paper in the same compartment24 in which Clare Carruthers's unconscious gift had so long lain hidden. As George threw open the doors of the hansom in which he had been driven from the Mercury office to Piccadilly, Jim Swain came to the wheel, and, touching25 his tousled head, asked if he might speak to him.
"Certainly," said George, getting out; "any message from Mr. Routh?"
"No, sir," said Jim, "it's not; it's somethin' very partic'lar, as I as 'ad to say to you this long time. It ain't rightly about myself--and--"
"Never mind, Jim; you can tell me all about it in the house," said George cheerily. "Come along." He opened the door with his key, and let himself and Jim into the hall. But there Mr. Felton met him, his face grave and care-worn, and, as George saw in a minute, with some additional lines of trouble in it.
"I'm so glad you have come, George. I found letters here when I got back."
"Letters from New York?"
"Yes."
Mr. James Swain, who was accustomed to pass a good deal of his life in waiting about on steps, in passages, at horses' heads, and occasionally in kitchens, and to whom the comfortable hall of the house in Piccadilly presented itself as an agreeable temporary abode26, considered it advisable to sit down and attend the leisure of Mr. Dallas. He had been for some minutes engaged partly in thinking what he should say to Mr. Dallas, partly in counting the squares in the tiles which floored the hall, hearing all the while a subdued27 sound of voices from the adjoining room, when a strange sort of cry reached his ears. He started up, and listened intently. The cry was not repeated; but in a few moments Mr. Felton came into the hall, looking frightened, and called loudly down the lower staircase for assistance. Two servants, a man and a woman, came quickly, and in the mean time Jim looked in at the open door. In another minute they were all in the dining-room in a confused group, gathered round an arm-chair, in which was lying the insensible death-like figure of George Dallas, his collar and necktie torn off, his waistcoat open, several letters on the table before him, and a card on the floor at his feet.
It was a very complete and dead swoon, and there was no explanation of it; none to be given to the servants, at least. Jim Swain did not touch George--he only looked on; and as, at the suggestion of the woman, they opened the window, and pushed the chair on which George was lying within the current of air, he picked up the card, over which one of the castors had passed. It was a small photographic portrait. The boy looked at it, and recognized, with surprise, that it was the likeness28 of Mr. Deane--that it was a fac-simile of a portrait he had looked at and handled a very little while ago. He put it down upon the table, and made to Mr. Felton the business-like suggestion that a doctor had better be sent for, and he had better be sent to fetch him, which was immediately acceded29 to.
When Jim returned, bringing with him a general practitioner30, he was told that Mr. Dallas had "come to," but was "uncommon31 weak and confused, and crying like a child when he wasn't shivering," so that Jim felt his chances of an interview were small indeed.
"I can't see him, of course, and I wanted to, most partic'lar. He brought me in, hisself."
"Yes, yes, I know," said the male domestic, with importance; "but you can't see him, and there's no good in your waiting about here. Look round at eleven to-morrow, and I'll see what can be done for you."
Jim had nothing for it but to go disconsolately32 away. So he went.
While George Dallas and Clare Carruthers were talking together at Sir Thomas Boldero's house in Chesham-place, while the hours--never to be forgotten by either--were passing over them, the same hours were witnessing an interview not less-momentous for Harriet Routh and her beautiful foe33.
Mrs. Ireton P. Bembridge was ready to receive her visitor; and as her coquetry and vanity were omnivorous34, much as she despised women, and sincerely as she enjoyed the knowledge of her power to make most of them envious35 and miserable36, she had dressed herself very carefully. She was just a little bored by her present mode of existence. Routh could not be much with her; and though she had brought herself to believe that she really did feel an absorbing passion for him, somehow or other it left a good deal of her thoughts and her time unabsorbed, and she did not exactly know how to dispose of either. The romance of this kind of incognito37 life was all very well in its way, which was a pleasant way, and as far as it went, which certainly was very far, but not quite far enough. And she did get horribly bored, there was no denying it. When Routh's daily letter had been read--for she exacted that of him, of him who hated letter-writing, and whose hard actuality of nature needed all the incitement38 of her beauty, her coquetry, and her artfulness to rouse him to sentiment and give his language the eloquence39 of love--she had nothing but novels to fall back upon, and the vague prospect40 of a supplementary41 note or two, or trying on a new dress, or thinking what theatre she would go to, or what direction her afternoon drive should take. She was glad of the chance of seeing a new face, though it was only a woman's; and then the reason for receiving her was so sound, it was impossible Routh could object. Indeed, she could not see the force of his objections to her going out more, and seeing people in general; it could not matter now, and would sound better hereafter than this hidden residence in London; however, it could not last long, and it was very romantic, very. She had not had much chance in all her previous prosperous life of playing at romance, and she liked it; she would not like it, if it continued to mean boredom42, much longer, but there was no danger of that.
No. 4 Hollington-square was one of those London houses which every one knows, furnished for people who take houses for the season, prettily43, flimsily, sparingly; a house which tenants44 with money and taste could make very striking and attractive, which tenants without money and without taste would find very tolerable in its original condition. Mrs. Ireton P. Bembridge possessed45 both; and as she made it a rule to have every advantage procurable46 by the use of either, the drawing-room in which she awaited the coming of her visitor was as pretty and coquettish a room as could easily have been seen. She had chosen a becoming costume, and an equally becoming attitude; and she looked beautiful indeed, in her rich morning dress of black silk, faced with rose-coloured satin and costly47 lace. The masses of her dark hair were coiled smoothly48 round her head, her white arms were without a jewel to turn the eye from their shapely beauty. She glanced at one of the many mirrors in the room as the page announced "a lady," and felt perfectly49 satisfied.
The room was long and narrow, though not large; and as Harriet walked from the door to the hearth-rug on which Mrs. Ireton P. Bembridge stood, having gracefully50 risen in an attitude especially intended for her visitor's admiration51, that lady had time to observe her appearance, and to experience a certain vague sense of discomfort52 not altogether unlike alarm. She saw a face which she remembered, but with which she could not connect any distinct recollection; a pale, fair, determined53 face with smooth light-brown hair framing a broad low brow, with keen piercing blue eyes, which looked steadily54 at her, and never dropped their fine-fringed lids, blue eyes in which power, will, and knowledge dwelt, as the shallow-souled woman they looked at, and through, felt, but did not understand. A face, so fixed55 in its expression of irremediable woe56, a face so lost with all its self-possession, so full of despair with all its might of will, that a duller intellect than that of a meagre-brained woman must have recognized a story in it such as happily few human beings have to tell or to conceal3. Harriet did not speak, or make any sign of salutation; but when she had quite reached her, Mrs. Ireton P. Bembridge recovered herself, and said, with all her accustomed grace:
"I am so much obliged to you for calling. Pray take a seat. I think I know to what I am indebted for the pleasure of your visit;" and then she sank gracefully back into her low chair, and smiled her very best smile. The very best of those suited to the feminine capacity, of course. Mrs. Ireton P. Bembridge had quite a different set of smiles for men.
"I am quite sure you do not," said Harriet, in a low firm voice, and without availing herself of the invitation to be seated. "I am quite sure you have no notion of my business here. You shall know it; it is important, but brief."
"Madam," said the other, sitting upright, and turning slightly pale.
"Stay. You must hear me for your own sake. You will do well to hear me quietly, and to give me your very best attention. If I do not make the impression on you which I desire and intend to make, there is one other person beside myself who will suffer by my failure, and that person is you."
She dropped her hand and drew her breath. Mrs. Ireton P. Bembridge looked at her with frightened distended58 eyes, speechless.
"You think I have come on a false pretext59, and I have done so, to a certain extent. You lost an article of ornament60 or dress at Homburg?"
"I did--a locket," said Mrs. Ireton P. Bembridge, a little relieved, and glancing unconsciously towards her silver purse, which was at hand, and through whose meshes61 gold shone.
"I know, but I have not brought you your locket. You lost something else at Homburg, and I have brought it, to prove that you had better hear me, and that you must." And then Harriet laid upon the table, near by the side of the silver purse, a crushed and faded flower, whose rich luscious62 blossom had been of the deepest crimson63 in the time of its bloom, when it had nestled against a woman's silken hair.
"What is it? What do you mean? Good God, who are you?" said Mrs. Ireton P. Bembridge, shrinking back as Harriet made the one step necessary to enable her to reach the table.
"I am Stewart Routh's wife," she replied, slowly, and without changing her tone, or releasing the other woman from her steady gaze.
This time Mrs. Ireton P. Bembridge sprang to her feet, with a face as white as death.
"Don't be frightened," said Harriet, with the faintest glimmer64 of a contemptuous smile, which was the last expression having relation to Mrs. Ireton P. Bembridge personally, that showed itself in her face, until the end. "I did not come here to inspire you with any fear of me; I did not come here on your account at all, or on mine; but for another motive65."
"My husband's safety," said Harriet; and as she spoke67 the words, Mrs. Ireton P. Bembridge felt that an illusion was rolled away from her for ever. He belonged to this pale stern woman, whose unsparing eyes were fixed upon her, whose unfaltering voice had not a tone of doubt or weakness in it. In every line of her countenance68 was the assertion of her right, against which the other felt powerless, and in whose presence her self-confidence was utterly subdued.
Calm and still, Harriet Routh stood before her, her head bent69 forward, her hands clasped and pressed steadily against her waist.
"I have no time to lose," she said, "and the briefest explanation will, in this case, be the best. When that flower fell from your hair over the balcony at the Kursaal at Homburg, it fell at my feet. I was on the terrace beneath. If once, during the time you and he stood there, my husband had looked away from you and over the rail, he would have seen me. But he did not. I had come to that particular spot accidentally, though I was there that night because I suspected, because I knew, that he was there with you, and I would not condemn70 him unseen, unconvicted."
"I heard all he said to you. Don't start; it was very pretty. I know it all, by heart; every intonation72, every hesitation--all the lying gamut73 from end to end. I heard all the story he told you of his marriage: every incident, every declaration, every sentiment, was a lie! He told you he had married a poor, passionate74, silly girl, who had compromised herself through her undisciplined and unreturned love for him, for pity--for a man's pity for a woman! A lie. He told you his wife was an oddity, a nervous recluse75, oblivious76 of all but her health and her valetudinarian77 fancies; that she had no love for him, or any one; no mind, no tastes, no individuality; that his life was a dreary78 one, and the oscillation of a heart which had never been hers towards so irresistible79 a woman as you (and he was right, so far; you are very, very beautiful--I saw that, and granted it to myself, at once) was no sin, no dishonesty, against her. All a lie. Look at me, if you have the little courage needed for looking at me, and tell me if it could be true!"
Mrs. Ireton P. Bembridge looked at her, but only to drop her head into her hands, and moan in the presence of the white face and the steady sparkling blue eyes.
"This was the lie he told you concerning me. The lie he told you about himself was more important in its results; and as it flattered you, of course you gave it ready credence80. No doubt you believe it still, though you must know him better now. He told you a story of his misunderstood, undervalued life; of family pride, and grandeur81, and wealth--of family ties severed82 in consequence of the charitable, chivalrous83, self-sacrificing marriage he had made; of obscurity nobly borne and toil84 willingly encountered, of talents unremittingly exercised without fame or reward, of high aspirations85 and future possibilities, if only the agency of wealth and the incentive86 of love might be his. And this flimsy tale caught your fancy and your faith. It was so charming to fill the vacant place in the misunderstood man's life, so delightful87 to be at once queen and 'consoler, to supply all the deficiencies of this deplorable wife. It was just the programme to catch the fancy of a woman like you, beautiful, vain, and empty."
There was neither scorn nor anger in Harriet's voice; there was merely a dash of reflection, as if she had strayed for a moment from the track of her discourse88.
"But it was all a lie," she went on. "His story of me, and his story of himself, were both equally false. Into the truth, as regards myself, I do not choose to enter. It is needless, and you are as incapable of understanding as you are indifferent to it. The truth about him I mean to tell you for his sake."
"Because he is in danger, and I want to save him, because I love him---him, mind you, not the man you have fancied him, not the persuasive90 bland91 lover you have found him, no doubt; for I conclude he has not changed the character he assumed that night upon the balcony; but the hard, the cruel, the desperate man he is. I tell you"--she drew a little nearer, and again Mrs. Ireton P. Bembridge shrank from her--"he is a swindler, a liar92, and a thief; he has lived by such means for years, was living by them when he married me. They are failing him now, and he feels the game is up here. What his exact plan is, of course I do not know; but that it includes getting you and your fortune into his power I have no doubt."
Mrs. Ireton P. Bembridge shivered now under the unsparing gaze. If only this woman would turn her eyes away from her, she thought, in the midst of her fear and amazement--the eyes that pierced her, that suffocated93 her, like the gripe of a fierce hand upon her throat. She did not know his plan. No; but who could look at her and doubt that, if she chose to know it, she could force the information from her hearer? Who could listen to her cold even tones, and dream of resisting their implacable power?
"Whatever his plan may be," Harriet continued, "he is entirely94 absorbed in it, and he is indifferent to all beside. Mind, I don't say you count for nothing in this: you are too vain to believe, I am too wise to say, anything of the kind. But your beauty, which he likes, would never have tempted95 him to an insane disregard of his safety, would never have kept him here when the merest prudence96 should have driven him far away. He wants you, but he wants your money more urgently and desperately97. He needs time to win you and it, no matter how he means to do it, and time is what he has not to give, time is the one stake it is ruin to him to risk in this game. Do you hear me? Do you understand me?"
The blank white face feebly looked a negative.
"No. Then I will put it more plainly. My husband, your lover, the man who is trying to ruin you in reputation, that he may have the power to ruin you in fortune, is in imminent danger. Flight, and flight alone, could save him; but he refuses to fly, because he will not leave you."
"What--what has he done?"
"He has been concerned in a robbery," said Harriet with perfect composure, "and I know the police are on the right track, and will soon come up with him. But he is desperate, and refuses to go. I did not know why until yesterday, when I found you had followed him from Homburg--by arrangement, of course. Tush, woman! don't try to deny it. What does it matter to me? A lie more or less, a villany more or less, makes no difference in him for me; but I knew then why he was obstinately98 bent on waiting for his fate."
"I--I don't believe you," said Mrs. Ireton P. Bembridge; and she half rose from her chair, and stretched her hand towards the bell. But Harriet stopped her by the lifting of a finger.
"O yes, you do," she said; "you believe me implicitly99. You have been afraid of this man--even when he has flattered you, and won upon you most; you have never felt sure of him, and you know I am telling you the truth. But you are weak, and you would like to think you had not been quite so egregiously100 deceived. I cannot, for his sake, leave you this comfort. You lost a locket at Homburg--a golden egg-shaped toy--with two portraits in it, one of yourself, the other of a young man, a countryman of yours, an admirer. You prized the thing, you showed it to my husband, you talked of its value--is this true?"
"Yes, yes, it is true--what then?"
"This then: he stole that locket from you, as he sat by you, in your carriage, and talked sentiment and compliment to you. He stole the locket--it does not sound nice or heroic; he stole it, I tell you."
"Impossible--impossible."
"Am I in the confidence of your mind? Do I know the contents of your jewel-case? But this is folly101, this is pretence102; you know in your soul that I am telling you the truth. And now for the reason of my telling it. If you think I am a jealous woman, come here to expose my husband to my rival, and take him from her by even such desperate means, you make my task harder, by giving me blind folly to deal with. I came with no thought of myself or you: though I do, indeed, save you by coming, I have no care, no wish to do so; you are nothing to me, but a danger in his path. That his safety will be yours too, is your fortune, not my doing. I care not; it might be your destruction, and it would be all one to me. I am not jealous of you; you are nothing to me, and he has long been lost to me. But he must not be lost to himself too, and for that I am here. I can do nothing with or for him more, but you can: he loves you, after his fashion, and you can save him."
"I--I save him--from what? how? what do you mean? If you have told me the truth, why should I, if I could?"
Calmly and contemplatively Harriet looked at her; calmly she said, as if to herself:
"And I am sure he thinks you love him! Wonderful, very wonderful; but," she went on with quicker utterance103, "that does not matter. You can save him. I will answer your last question first: to convince you that this must be done, for your own sake, will save time. You did not know his character until now, but I think you know something of his temper; I think you understand that he is a desperate man. Suppose you break with him now--and your mind has been made up to do that for several minutes--suppose you determine to save yourself from this swindler, this liar, this thief, to keep your character, and your money, and your beauty for a different fate, do you think he will let you go? How do you propose to escape him? You don't know. You are terribly frightened at the idea. I have come to tell you."
"You are a dreadful woman--you are a wicked, dreadful woman," said Mrs. Ireton P. Bembridge with a moan.
"Yes," said Harriet, "I am a wicked, dreadful woman, but you need not fear me, though you have done me some wrong too, even according to your code, I think. Rouse yourself, and listen to me while I tell you what you must do."
Mrs. Ireton P. Bembridge tried to obey her; she shook back the hair which had fallen over her face, and looked up with eyes less scared, and more intelligent.
"If my husband has not left England by to-morrow," said Harriet with clear, distinct emphasis, "it will be too late to save him from the clutches of the law. Nothing will induce him to leave England while you remain here. What!" she said, with a sudden rush of burning red into her face and an indescribable fierce change of tone and manner. "What! You were going, were you--and together? Tell me instantly--instantly, I say--what is this I see in your face?"
Mrs. Ireton P. Bembridge caught at Harriet's gown, and stammered:
"Don't, don't; I'll tell you!"
"Do you think I am going to strike you or kill you; do you think I would touch you with one finger?" said Harriet, in her former tone, and drawing her dress from the woman's grasp with a quiet determined movement. "Tell me instantly, and don't fear. You were going away--and together? Where were you going, and when?"
"To New York--on Saturday."
Harriet Routh turned abruptly104 from her, and for one minute's duration of awful silence her face was hidden. Then, with a sound like a sigh and a sob105, but such a sound as the listener had never heard before, she resumed her former position. The other dared not look at her for many minutes. When she did, Harriet's face fixed itself for ever on her memory as the ideal of the face of one who had died of sheer pain.
"Thank you. The acknowledgment at least is brave and true, and makes the rest easy. Am I to conclude you do not wish now to carry out this arrangement?"
"Oh no, no. For God's sake, save me!"
"In saving him. Yes. You must leave England to-night, and he must follow you to-morrow. Don't be frightened; I said follow, not meet you. You must really go. No pretence will avail. He could not be deceived in this. You must cross the Channel to-night, and telegraph to him to-morrow from some French town, which you can leave upon the instant, if you choose. That is your own affair. You may return to England to-morrow night, if you please, and reach Liverpool in time to sail for New York on Saturday. Thus you will escape him, and be free. He will not follow you against your will to New York, where you are protected by your friends and your position. You have but to write and forbid his doing so."
"I think--I think I understand," said Mrs. Ireton P. Bembridge, in a voice full of submission106 and entreaty107; "but how am I to account for going away?"
"At what hour do you expect him here to-day?" asked Harriet, in a business-like tone, without noticing the question.
"At nine in the evening."
"It is now nearly three. The tidal train for Folkestone starts at six. Your arrangements for next Saturday are all made, of course?"
"They are." Wonder and fear and a strange sense of dependence108 on this dreadful woman were growing on Mrs. Ireton P. Bembridge with every moment.
"Then all is easy--if you can trust your maid."
"I can, implicitly; but what must she do?"
"Settle everything here, and take your luggage to Liverpool. You will not be able to make an hour's delay on your return; you must go straight through. You must travel without a servant for once--no--take your page; he is better out of the way--"
"I will do as you tell me; but you have not said how I am to account for going."
"No," said Harriet, absently; "but that will be easy. He will think you a fool, and easily frightened, but your vanity must bear that--it's not a heavy price to pay for safety."
There was a pretty writing-table in the room, covered with elegant trifles. Harriet approached it, and opened a blotting-book. Some sheets of thick perfumed paper, with dainty monogram109 and motto, lay within it. On one of them she wrote as follows:
"All is discovered. Your wife has been here, and has terrified me by her threats. Our scheme must be abandoned. I cannot stay an hour here, not even to consult you; I am in fear of my life. Come to me at once, to Amiens. I leave to-night, and will telegraph from thence. If you do not join me on Saturday morning, I shall conclude you have given me up."
She rose, and desired Mrs. Ireton P. Bembridge to take her place.
"Copy that," she said, briefly110; but before the other took up the pen, she read the lines and exclaimed:
"I dare not--I dare not; he will kill you."
"That is my business," said Harriet fiercely. "Write!"
She copied the letter slowly, and trembling as she wrote, folded, sealed, and directed it.
"When is it to be sent?"
"When I have seen you off. I will take care he receives it," said Harriet, as she put it in her pocket. "Now go and give your directions, and make your preparations."
They looked at each other for a moment, and Mrs. Ireton P. Bembridge left the room without another word. When she was alone, Harriet sat down by the table wearily, and covered her face with her hands. Time went on, but she did not move. Servants came in and went out of the room, but she took no notice. At length Mrs. Ireton P. Bembridge entered in travelling dress, and with a paler face than any mirror she had ever looked into had ever reflected. At the same moment a carriage came to the door.
"You are quite ready?"
"I am."
"It is time to go."
"Let us go. One minute. Mrs. Routh, I--I don't think I quite knew what I was doing. Can you forgive me?" She half extended her hand, then drew it back, as she looked into Harriet's marble face.
"Forgive you! What do you mean? You are nothing to me, woman; or, if anything, only the executioner of a sentence independent of you."
Mrs. Ireton P. Bembridge did not attempt to speak again. As they went out of the door, a telegram was handed to her. It was from Routh. "Impossible to see you to-night. Letter by post."
She handed the paper silently to Harriet, who read it, and said nothing until they were seated in the carriage.
"Does that make any difference?" then asked Mrs. Ireton P. Bembridge timidly.
"To you, none. Possibly it may to me; he need not know so soon."
Not another word was spoken between them. Harriet stood on the platform at the railway station until the train moved off, and as Mrs. Ireton P. Bembridge caught the last glimpse of her stern white face, she threw herself back in the carriage, in which she was fortunately alone, in an hysterical111 agony of tears.
Routh did not come home that night; he sent a message that business detained him in the City, and that he wished his letters and some clothes sent to him in the morning.
"This is well," said Harriet; "he is making his preparations, and he does not wish to see me before he must. The night can hardly pass without my hearing or seeing George."
Late that evening Harriet posted the letter which Mrs. Ireton P. Bembridge had written. But the evening and the night passed, and George Dallas did not come or send. The hours were full of the agony of suspense for Harriet. They brought another kind of suffering to Mr. Felton and his nephew.
At eight o'clock that evening George Dallas, alias112 Paul Ward, as the police phrase had it, was arrested at Mr. Felton's lodgings113, charged with the murder of Mr. Felton's son. George's agent had done his work well, and the notes changed at Amsterdam, which the old bookseller's death had released from their hiding-place and put in circulation, had furnished the clue to Mr. Tatlow's dexterous114 fingers. The notes bore Arthur Felton's initials; they had been paid to him by the Liverpool Bank; they were indorsed in full, with date too, by Paul Ward.
"And a case," said Mr. Tatlow, who had a turn for quotation115, "neater, completer, in every feater, I don't think I ever was in."
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1
imminent
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| adj.即将发生的，临近的，逼近的 | |
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concealed
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| a.隐藏的，隐蔽的 | |
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conceal
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| v.隐藏，隐瞒，隐蔽 | |
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standing
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| n.持续，地位；adj.永久的，不动的，直立的，不流动的 | |
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ward
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| n.守卫，监护，病房，行政区，由监护人或法院保护的人（尤指儿童）；vt.守护，躲开 | |
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expedient
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| adj.有用的，有利的；n.紧急的办法，权宜之计 | |
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applied
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| adj.应用的；v.应用，适用 | |
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destined
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| adj.命中注定的；(for)以…为目的地的 | |
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utterly
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| adv.完全地，绝对地 | |
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10
incapable
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| adj.无能力的，不能做某事的 | |
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agitated
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| adj.被鼓动的，不安的 | |
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humbled
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| adj. 卑下的，谦逊的，粗陋的 vt. 使 ... 卑下，贬低 | |
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humble
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| adj.谦卑的，恭顺的；地位低下的；v.降低，贬低 | |
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14
dingy
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| adj.昏暗的，肮脏的 | |
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scrawly
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| 潦草地写 | |
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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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17
tickled
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| （使）发痒( tickle的过去式和过去分词 )； （使）愉快，逗乐 | |
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18
suspense
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| n.（对可能发生的事）紧张感，担心，挂虑 | |
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19
collaterally
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| 担保物； 旁系亲属 | |
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scent
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| n.气味，香味，香水，线索，嗅觉；v.嗅，发觉 | |
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discretion
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| n.谨慎；随意处理 | |
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sanctuary
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| n.圣所，圣堂，寺庙；禁猎区，保护区 | |
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23
consigned
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| v.把…置于（令人不快的境地）( consign的过去式和过去分词 )；把…托付给；把…托人代售；丟弃 | |
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24
compartment
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| n.卧车包房，隔间；分隔的空间 | |
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25
touching
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| adj.动人的，使人感伤的 | |
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abode
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| n.住处，住所 | |
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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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28
likeness
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| n.相像，相似（之处） | |
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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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30
practitioner
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| n.实践者，从事者；(医生或律师等)开业者 | |
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uncommon
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| adj.罕见的，非凡的，不平常的 | |
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disconsolately
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| adv.悲伤地，愁闷地；哭丧着脸 | |
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foe
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| n.敌人，仇敌 | |
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omnivorous
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| adj.杂食的 | |
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envious
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| adj.嫉妒的，羡慕的 | |
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miserable
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| adj.悲惨的，痛苦的；可怜的，糟糕的 | |
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incognito
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| adv.匿名地；n.隐姓埋名；adj.化装的，用假名的，隐匿姓名身份的 | |
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38
incitement
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| 激励； 刺激； 煽动； 激励物 | |
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eloquence
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| n.雄辩；口才，修辞 | |
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40
prospect
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| n.前景，前途；景色，视野 | |
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41
supplementary
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| adj.补充的，附加的 | |
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42
boredom
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| n.厌烦，厌倦，乏味，无聊 | |
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43
prettily
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| adv.优美地；可爱地 | |
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44
tenants
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| n.房客( tenant的名词复数 )；佃户；占用者；占有者 | |
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45
possessed
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| adj.疯狂的；拥有的，占有的 | |
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46
procurable
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| adj.可得到的，得手的 | |
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47
costly
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| adj.昂贵的，价值高的，豪华的 | |
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48
smoothly
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| adv.平滑地，顺利地，流利地，流畅地 | |
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49
perfectly
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| adv.完美地，无可非议地，彻底地 | |
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50
gracefully
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| ad.大大方方地；优美地 | |
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51
admiration
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| n.钦佩，赞美，羡慕 | |
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52
discomfort
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| n.不舒服，不安，难过，困难，不方便 | |
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53
determined
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| adj.坚定的；有决心的 | |
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54
steadily
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| adv.稳定地；不变地；持续地 | |
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fixed
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| adj.固定的，不变的，准备好的；(计算机)固定的 | |
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woe
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| n.悲哀，苦痛，不幸，困难；int.用来表达悲伤或惊慌 | |
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57
habitual
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| adj.习惯性的；通常的，惯常的 | |
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58
distended
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| v.（使）膨胀，肿胀( distend的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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59
pretext
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| n.借口，托词 | |
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60
ornament
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| v.装饰，美化；n.装饰，装饰物 | |
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61
meshes
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| 网孔( mesh的名词复数 )； 网状物； 陷阱； 困境 | |
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62
luscious
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| adj.美味的；芬芳的；肉感的，引与性欲的 | |
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63
crimson
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| n./adj.深(绯)红色(的)；vi.脸变绯红色 | |
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64
glimmer
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| v.发出闪烁的微光；n.微光，微弱的闪光 | |
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65
motive
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| n.动机，目的；adv.发动的，运动的 | |
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66
nervously
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| adv.神情激动地，不安地 | |
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67
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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countenance
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| n.脸色，面容；面部表情；vt.支持，赞同 | |
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69
bent
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| n.爱好，癖好；adj.弯的；决心的，一心的 | |
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70
condemn
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| vt.谴责，指责；宣判(罪犯)，判刑 | |
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71
cowering
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| v.畏缩，抖缩( cower的现在分词 ) | |
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intonation
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| n.语调，声调；发声 | |
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73
gamut
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| n.全音阶，(一领域的)全部知识 | |
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passionate
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| adj.热情的，热烈的，激昂的，易动情的，易怒的，性情暴躁的 | |
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recluse
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| n.隐居者 | |
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oblivious
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| adj.易忘的，遗忘的，忘却的，健忘的 | |
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valetudinarian
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| n.病人；健康不佳者 | |
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dreary
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| adj.令人沮丧的，沉闷的，单调乏味的 | |
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irresistible
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| adj.非常诱人的，无法拒绝的，无法抗拒的 | |
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80
credence
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| n.信用，祭器台，供桌，凭证 | |
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81
grandeur
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| n.伟大，崇高，宏伟，庄严，豪华 | |
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82
severed
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| v.切断，断绝( sever的过去式和过去分词 )；断，裂 | |
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83
chivalrous
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| adj.武士精神的；对女人彬彬有礼的 | |
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84
toil
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| vi.辛劳工作，艰难地行动；n.苦工，难事 | |
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85
aspirations
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| 强烈的愿望( aspiration的名词复数 )； 志向； 发送气音； 发 h 音 | |
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86
incentive
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| n.刺激；动力；鼓励；诱因；动机 | |
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delightful
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| adj.令人高兴的，使人快乐的 | |
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discourse
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| n.论文，演说；谈话；话语；vi.讲述，著述 | |
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89
stammered
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| v.结巴地说出( stammer的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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90
persuasive
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| adj.有说服力的，能说得使人相信的 | |
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91
bland
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| adj.淡而无味的，温和的，无刺激性的 | |
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92
liar
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| n.说谎的人 | |
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93
suffocated
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| （使某人）窒息而死( suffocate的过去式和过去分词 )； （将某人）闷死； 让人感觉闷热； 憋气 | |
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94
entirely
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| ad.全部地，完整地；完全地，彻底地 | |
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95
tempted
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| v.怂恿（某人）干不正当的事；冒…的险（tempt的过去分词） | |
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96
prudence
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| n.谨慎，精明，节俭 | |
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97
desperately
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| adv.极度渴望地，绝望地，孤注一掷地 | |
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98
obstinately
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| ad.固执地，顽固地 | |
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implicitly
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| adv. 含蓄地, 暗中地, 毫不保留地 | |
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100
egregiously
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| adv.过份地，卓越地 | |
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101
folly
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| n.愚笨，愚蠢，蠢事，蠢行，傻话 | |
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102
pretence
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| n.假装，作假；借口，口实；虚伪；虚饰 | |
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103
utterance
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| n.用言语表达，话语，言语 | |
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104
abruptly
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| adv.突然地，出其不意地 | |
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105
sob
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| n.空间轨道的轰炸机；呜咽，哭泣 | |
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106
submission
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| n.服从，投降；温顺，谦虚；提出 | |
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107
entreaty
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| n.恳求，哀求 | |
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108
dependence
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| n.依靠，依赖；信任，信赖；隶属 | |
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109
monogram
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| n.字母组合 | |
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110
briefly
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| adv.简单地，简短地 | |
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111
hysterical
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| adj.情绪异常激动的，歇斯底里般的 | |
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112
alias
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| n.化名；别名；adv.又名 | |
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113
lodgings
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| n. 出租的房舍, 寄宿舍 | |
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114
dexterous
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| adj.灵敏的；灵巧的 | |
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115
quotation
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| n.引文，引语，语录；报价，牌价，行情 | |
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