"I didn't come after no jobs this mornin'," said Jim; "I come to see the missis."
"Ah, but you can't see her, she ain't up, and the job is particular wanted to be done."
Jim looked moody3 and discontent, but cheered up when Harris represented that he might see Mrs. Routh on his return. The "job" was the delivery of Routh's clothes and letters, as directed, at his chambers4 in Tokenhouse-yard. The boy was troubled in his mind, irresolute5. George Dallas's sudden illness, the photograph he had seen, these things added to the perplexity he was in already. Perhaps he had better speak to Mrs. Routh first; he did not know; at all events, he might tell her what had occurred yesterday, without mentioning the portrait, and see what effect it had upon her. He had thought about it all, until, between his imperfect knowledge of facts, his untaught intelligence, and his genuine but puzzled good-will, he was quite bewildered. He had brought with him that morning, with a vague notion that it might perhaps be advisable to show it to Mrs. Routh, but a settled resolution to show it to Mr. Dallas, the object which he kept carefully secreted6 in the hole in the wall at home, and as he trudged7 away Citywards, carrying a small leather bag containing the required clothes and letters, he turned it over and over in his grimy pocket and grew more and more thoughtful and depressed8.
Arrived at Tokenhouse-yard, the clerk took the bag from him, and suggested that he had better wait, in case Mr. Routh should require his further services. So Jim waited, and presently Routh came out into the passage. Jim's private opinion of Stewart Routh's character and disposition9 has been already stated; of his personal appearance he entertained an equally low one, and much opposed to the general sentiment. "An ill-looking, down-looking dog I call him," Jim had said to himself more than once; "more like the Pirate of the Persian Gulf10, or the Bandit of Bokarer, I think, than anybody as I knows out of the pictures."
More ill-looking, more down-looking than ever Jim Swain thought Stewart Routh when he spoke11 to him that morning. His face was colourless, his eyes bloodshot, the glance troubled and wandering, his voice harsh and uneven12. He gave Jim a brief order to meet him at the London-bridge railway-station the same evening at a quarter to six. "I shall have a message for you," said Routh. "Be punctual, remember." And then he turned away abruptly13 and went into his room, shutting the door roughly.
"He ain't in the best of humours, even of his own, and they're none on 'em good," thought Jim, as he turned out of Tokenhouse-yard and took his way westward14 again, keeping his hand permanently15 in his pocket this time. A fresh disappointment awaited him at Routh's house. Mrs. Routh had gone out immediately after she had breakfasted. Did she know he wanted to see her? Jim asked. Harris was rather tickled16 by the question.
"I say," he remarked, "you're getting on, Jim; you'll be as impident as a cock sparrow presently. I didn't happen to tell her; but if I 'ad, do you think she'd a stayed in to give you the chance?"
"Yes, I do; wot's more, I'm sure she would," said Jim, and walked moodily17 away, leaving Mr. Harris in a fine attitude of surprise upon the threshold. When that functionary18 finally left off looking after the boy, and shut the door, he did so to the accompaniment of a prolonged whistle.
It was only ten o'clock, and Jim had been told to go to Mr. Dallas's at eleven. The interval19 troubled him; he could not settle his mind to the pursuit of odd jobs. He did not mind "hanging about;" he would hang about Piccadilly till the time came. But when Jim reached the house in which Mr. Felton and Mr. Dallas lodged20, he was surprised to find it an object of lively curiosity to a number of persons who were crowding the pavement, notwithstanding the active interference of a policeman, endeavouring to clear a passage for two ladies whose carriage was before the door, and one of whom was evidently in the deepest distress22. Jim plunged23 at once into the heart of the concourse, and asked a number of eager questions, to which he received simultaneous but contradictory24 replies.
"He's dead!" "No, he isn't." "He's his brother, I tell you; I heard the cook a-tellin' the milk-boy." "He ain't his brother; the old 'un's his uncle; and he's been and murdered his cousin." Such were a few of the sentences Jim caught as his curiosity and anxiety rose to frenzy25.
"Wot is it? wot is it? Do tell me. Is anything wrong with Mr. Dallas?" he asked imploringly26 of the servant who had opened the door to the two ladies (who had at last succeeded in entering the house), and was just about to shut it in the faces of a few scores of anxious inquirers endeavouring to pierce the depths of the hall, and to see through the dining-room doors. "Don't you know me? I was here yesterday. I have been here before. I was to see Mr. Dallas at eleven. Can't I see him? Is he worse?"
The woman did know the boy, and she at once admitted him.
"Come in," she said; "I'll tell you inside. It's a deal worse than his death that's the matter." So Jim vanished into the house, a distinction which, being unattainable by themselves, was regarded with much indignation by the crowd. Temporarily dispersed27 by the active policeman, they gathered again, hoping the boy would come out, when they might pounce28 upon and extract information from him. But they waited in vain; the boy did not come out. The carriage still remained at the door, and in about an hour a gentleman of grave and busy aspect issued from the maddeningly mysterious mansion29, stepped into the vehicle, and was driven rapidly away. The crowd was not in luck; no one heard the order given to the coachman. Then such silence and desolation as can ever fall on Piccadilly fell upon the scene, and the gay-looking, brightly-decorated house obstinately30 hid its secret.
The woman who recognized Jim told him the story of the events which had occurred in the hall, speaking in a hurried whisper and with much genuine womanly compassion31. Jim heard her with a beating heart and shaking limbs. As the boy leaned against the wall, regardless of the damaging properties of his tousled head resting on the spotless paint, he wondered if this was like fainting, and whether he should be able to keep from "going off" like Mr. Dallas.
"We're strangers to Mr. Felton, of course," said the woman; "and it's natural everybody as can should like to keep their troubles to themselves, for it don't do no good tellin' of 'em, and people don't think no more of you; but there's things as can and things as can't be hid, and them as can't has been a takin' place here."
"Yes," said Jim, faintly; for the words he had heard in the crowd were ringing in his ears; "yes, yes; but tell me--"
"I'll tell you, as plain as I can make it out. Mr. Felton had some letters yesterday--letters as come from America--and there were a carte of his son in 'em; he hasn't seen nor yet heard of him for ever so long; and when Mr. Dallas see the carte he knew as the man was the same as was murdered, and never found out, in the spring."
"It were an awful shock for Mr. Dallas to find out as his cousin had been murdered, and to have to break it to the father; and no wonder he fainted over it. Nobody knows how he did it, but there must have been a dreadful scene; for I shouldn't ha' known Mr. Felton from the dead when I went to ask, through their not answering James's knock, whether they was a goin' to have any dinner. He was sittin' in his chair, white and quiet; and Mr. Dallas--he as had been took so bad himself in the beginnin'--he was kneeling on the ground beside him, and I think his arm was round his neck; but I couldn't see his face, for he only put out his hand, and says he, 'No, thank you, Mary; go away for a little, please.' I waited in the passage, but I never heard a word pass between them; and we didn't know whatever could be the matter, for we only knew about the letters after Mr. Dallas had been took up."
"Mr. Dallas took up? They said that outside, but I thought it must be their larks33. Wotever do you mean? Go on--go on; tell me, quick!"
"It's quite true; no larks at all. It might be about eight or nine, and we was all sittin' downstairs, a talkin' about the parlours, and a very quick ring comes to the 'all-door. James opens it, and in comes two men, very short and business-like, which they must see Mr. Dallas, and can't take no denial. So James goes to the door to ask if Mr. Dallas will see them, but they're too quick for James, and walk in; and in two minutes there's a great to do and explanation, and Mr. Dallas is took up."
"But wot for?--what had he done?" asked Jim.
"Murdered his cousin, don't I tell you!" said the woman a little snappishly. "Ain't I a-tellin' of you as plain as I can speak. He'd been and murdered this other gentleman wot nobody knew, in the spring, and then he sets the police a lookin' after his cousin, and just tells them enough to make them know as the other gentleman was him, which they'd never had a notion of before, so they come and took him on suspicion of the murder, and Mr. Felton went away with him. We was all there, when they put the handcuffs on him, and his uncle he stopped him in the 'all, as they was goin' to the cab, and says he, 'George, my boy, I do this, that no one may think I'm deceived;' and he put his hands on his shoulders and kisses him, as if he was a woman, before us all."
Jim listened, pale and breathless, but quite silent.
"Mr. Felton were out pretty near all night; and when he come 'ome, the gentleman as is here now were with him. He hasn't been to bed at all, and I haven't seen him, but just when I let the lady in, which she's a sweet-lookin' creature, and has been cryin' dreadful."
"Let me see Mr. Felton," said Jim, catching34 the woman by her dress, and speaking with the utmost eagerness and passion, "let me see him. I came to see Mr. Dallas about this business, let me see Mr. Felton."
"You came! why what have you got to do with it?" said the woman; her curiosity vehemently35 aroused.
"I will tell you all about it," said Jim, adroitly36; "you shall hear it all afterwards--a cur'ous story as any one ever had to tell. Mr. Dallas never did it--not he, I know better than that. I can tell Mr. Felton a great deal."
"I must ask if he will see you," said the woman; "if he won't, perhaps the lawyer--"
"No, no, it must be Mr. Felton himself. Let me into the room."
She offered no resistance, and in another minute Jim was in the presence of a group composed of Mr. Felton, a grave gentleman, who looked like a lawyer, a beautiful girl, who was Clare Carruthers, and a plain, clever-looking young woman, who was Clare's cousin, Mrs. Stanhope. The lawyer and Mrs. Stanhope were seated by a table in close conversation, which they carried on in lower tones. Clare Carruthers and Mr. Felton stood upon the hearth-rug, the girl's golden head was resting on her companion's shoulder, and she was crying silently but unrestrained.
"Is he very, very ill?" she had said, a little before Jim entered the room.
"Not seriously so, my dear, and indeed nothing could be more fortunate than that his strength failed him so completely. It gives us time, and I need it, I am so bewildered even yet."
"Did Mr. Lowther say--say that he was not--not brought before the magistrates37, not brought into that dreadful place, to-day?" said Clare, her voice hardly audible for her sobs38.
"Yes, my dear. Think a little, I could not be here if he had not so much respite40. Clare, I am a chief witness; I must be there, you know, to tell them about--about my son--" He paused, and closed his eyes for a few minutes.
"The case was called pro2 forma this morning, but Mr. Lowther's partner, his brother, easily procured41 a delay. George was too ill to appear, but he sent me word that there was nothing seriously wrong."
"Can no one see him?" asked Clare imploringly. "Oh, Mr. Felton, can no one go to him? Can no one give him any comfort--help him to bear it? Are they so cruel as that, are they so cruel?"
"Hush42, dear, it is not cruel; it is right. No one can see him for the present but Mr. Lowther--Mr. James Lowther, who is with him now, I dare say, who will be here this afternoon."
"How can you bear it? how are you ever to bear it?" she said.
"My dear, I must bear it; and I have time before me in which to suffer: this is the time for action. You must help me, Clare, my dear, brave girl. I sent for you for this; I sent for you, at his desire, my child. His last words were, 'My mother, my mother, she is coming home to-morrow.' I told him to be satisfied she should be kept from the knowledge of all this." He shuddered43 from head to foot. "Clare, are you strong enough to redeem45 my promise? Can you hide all that has happened from her? Can you be with her, watching her, keeping a calm face before her? My dear, have you strength for this?"
She lifted her golden head, and looked at him with her innocent fearless eyes.
"I have strength to do anything that he--that George desires, and you think is right."
"Then that is your share of our dreadful task, my dear. God knows it is no light or easy share."
"Is there no--no hope?"
"None," he replied. "If it had been possible for George to be mistaken, I have had the sight of my own eyes. Clare, they brought me my son's coat! Ay, like Jacob, they brought my son's coat. My own last gift to him, Clare." His eyes were dry and bright, but their sockets47 had deepened since the day before, and his voice had the febrile accent of intense grief and passion restrained by a powerful will.
"What George must have suffered!" she said, still in a broken whisper, her tear-stained face upon his breast.
"Ah, yes, it is all dim to me still. Mr. Lowther and I have been searching out the truth all night, but we are still in confusion. Tatlow is coming presently, and you must go away, my dear, you must go home. You have your share to do, and need strength to do it. You shall know all I learn from hour to hour. Mrs. Stanhope, will you--who is this? What brings you here, boy?"
"Sir," stammered48 Jim, who, though he had the wizened49 mannish look peculiar50 to his tribe, was only a boy, and was desperately51 frightened--"sir, I came to tell you that I know the man as didn't do it, and I know the man as did."
Mr. Felton loosed his hold of Clare and came forward. Mr. Lowther rose hurriedly from his seat; he did not share the blank, incredulous surprise of Mr. Felton. The two ladies drew near each other.
"Who are you?" asked Mr. Lowther.
Jim told him.
"What are you come for? What--" began Mr. Felton; but Mr. Lowther made a sign to him to be silent, and addressing Jim in a quiet, friendly voice, took him by the arm and led him to a chair.
"Sit down there, my boy," he said, "and don't be afraid. You must have come here of your own free will, and we do not doubt you have come for a good purpose. You have something important to tell Mr. Felton. You know Mr. Dallas, I think, and I gather from what you said just now that you know what he is accused of." Jim assented52 by a downcast nod. "There, tell us all about it. Take your time, and don't get frightened." So saying, and giving the boy a reassuring53 pat upon the shoulder, the lawyer sat down upon a chair opposite to Jim, and spread his hands upon his knees in an attitude of serious, but not stern, attention. The two women looked on in silent suspense54, and Mr. Felton, guided by a glance from Mr. Lowther, moved a little to the back of the chair on which Jim was seated.
"Come," said Mr. Lowther, giving him another pat, "we are all anxious to hear what you have got to say. Speak up, my boy."
"Sir," began Jim, "I should like to ask you something first. Is it true, as the gentleman 'at was murdered was Mr. Dallas's own cousin?"
"Only too true. He was Mr. Felton's son," and the lawyer eyed the unhappy father, as if measuring the strength he could command to bear this new trial. Mr. Felton came to Jim's side, and touched him kindly55 on the arm.
"Don't be afraid to speak before me," he said. "You may; and don't keep us waiting any longer, my good boy."
Then Jim made a desperate effort, and told his story; told it in his ignorant blundering fashion; told it with circumlocution56 and hesitation57, but never interrupted. Mr. Lowther heard him without a word, and held Mr. Felton and the two women silent by the unspoken counsel of his glance.
"I had done many an odd job at the house in South Molton-street," said the boy, when he had told them a good deal about himself, in a rambling58 way, "and I knowed Mr. Routh well, but I don't suppose he knowed me; and when I saw him a-lingerin' about the tavern59, and a-lookin' in at the winder, he wosn't no stranger to me. Well, he giv' me the letter, and I giv' it to the gentleman. He had a beard as came down in a point, and was sharp with me, but not so sharp as the waiter, as I giv' him his own sauce, and the gentleman laughed, and seemed as if he didn't object to me holdin' of my own; but Mr. Dallas, which I didn't know his name then, he didn't laugh, and he asks the gentleman if there weren't no answer, and the gentleman says no, there weren't none, and somehow I seemed to know as he wanted to spite Mr. Routh. So I felt cur'ous about it, partickler when I see as Mr. Routh looked savage60 when I came out of the coffee-room and told him there weren't no answer. You must understand," said Jim, who had regained61 his composure now, and was in the full tide of his discourse62, which he addressed exclusively to Mr. Lowther, with the instinctive63 delicacy64 which Harriet Routh had once observed in the neglected boy, "as I was not to say he was there, I were merely to give the note. He giv' me sixpence, and he went away down the Strand65. I got a horse-holdin' job just then, and it were a long 'un; and there I was when the two gents came to the door, a-smokin' their cigars, and then the gent as I held his horse took him from me, and I hadn't nothing better to do than follow them, which I did; for who should I see but Mr. Routh a-skulkin' along the other side of the Strand, as if he wanted to keep 'em in sight without their seein' of him. I follered them, sir, and follered them feelin' as if I was one of them 'ere wild Ingins in the 'Alfpenny 'Alf-hours on a trail, until I follered them to Boyle's billiard-rooms, as I knows it well, and had swep' it often on a Sunday mornin'. They went in, and I was tired of hanging about, and was goin' away, when I see Mr. Routh again; there weren't nobody in the street but him and me. I skulked66 into a lane, and watched him. I don't know why I watched him, and I don't know how long we was there--I a little way down the lane, and he a-saunterin' up and down, and lookin' at the doors and the windows, but never goin' nigh the house. It must ha' been very late when the two gents came out, and I was very tired; but the old woman--that's my aunt, sir--and me had had a row in the mornin', and I thought I'd like to giv' her a fright, and stay out all night, which I haven't often slep' in the streets, considerin'."
Jim had ceased to wriggle67 about on his chair, to twist his cap between his hands, and to shuffle68 his feet upon the floor. He was nearly as motionless as the listeners, who heard him in breathless silence. By degrees Clare had drawn69 nearer to Mr. Felton, and she was now standing21, her hand in his, her head in its former place upon his shoulder, behind Jim's chair. But the character of the group formed by the two was no longer what it had been; the girl was supporting the man now; the girl was silently nerving him to courage and resolution.
"They came out, sir," the boy continued, "very friendly-like and good-humoured, and Mr. Dallas he were a-laughin', and he shook hands with the other gent, which he called hisself Mr. Deane--it were on the note; and he went away whistlin' down the very lane as I was in, passed me close, and never saw me. I saw him, though, quite plain, and I thought, 'You've been winnin', and you likes it;' but still I had my eye on Mr. Routh, and presently I sees him speakin' to the other gent, as was puttin' on his big fur coat, which it had a 'ood to it as I never see one like it afore. I thought they wouldn't be pleasant together, and they wasn't, not to judge by their voices, and I heerd the other gent give a sneerin' kind of a laugh, which were aggravatin'; and soon they walked away together, through the Bar and up Fleet-street, and I follered 'em, for I thought I'd sleep under the dry arch of the bridge, and get a chance of odd jobs at the early trains in the mornin', which they're profitable if you ain't too tired. They was talkin' and talkin', and the oddest thing was that I knew they was quarrellin', though I couldn't hear a word they said, and I knew the other gent was a-sneerin' and a-aggeravatin' of Mr. Routh, and yet they was arm-in-arm all the time like brothers. They went on, and there wasn't a livin' bein' in the street but them and me and an odd p'liceman or so, wot took no notice, only beat their 'ands together and passed by. All on a sudden, when they was near the bridge, and close to all the little narrow streets down there, I gets tired, and don't seem to care about follerin' of 'em; and then, while I'm thinkin' of makin' for the dry arch, I misses of 'em, and they're gone."
The boy stood up now, and his cap fell unheeded on the floor. The embarrassment70, the confusion, the vulgarity of his manner were gone; he met the lawyer's piercing gaze unabashed; he lifted his hand and moved it with an expressive71 gesture.
"It was gettin' light overhead, and I was tired, and my head begin to turn. I sat down in a doorway72; there wasn't no one to move me on, and I must ha' fell asleep, for I don't remember any more until I heard something pass by me very quick,--quite near me, as near as Mr. Dallas passed me in the lane. I looked up pretty smart, and, sir, it were a man."
"Mr. Routh?" asked the lawyer.
"Yes, sir, it were Mr. Routh. His head were down, and he was goin' as quick as any man could walk, short of running, but he did not run. I roused up, and wondered where the other gent was, and then I see a narrow passage a little way off the doorway where I was a settin', leadin' straight to the river. I thought they must ha' turned down there to have their talk out, when I missed them so sudden. I went down the passage, and at the end of it was stones and mud and the river; and there was no one there. But O, sir,"--and here Jim began to tremble and to look nervously73 round towards Mr. Felton,--"there were blood on the edge of the stones, and footsteps in the mud where the water was a-creepin' up, and there was no one there."
A convulsive sob39 burst from Clare's lips; but Mr. "Felton clasped her closer to him, and kept her quiet.
"A dreadful sight--a dreadful discovery," said Mr. Lowther; "but, my boy," and again he touched Jim gently on the arm, "why did you conceal74 it? Did you not understand the crime that had been committed? Did you not know all that happened afterwards?"
"Sir," said Jim, boldly, but not without an effort, "I was not sure; I thought it might have been a fight, and that ain't murder anyways. I didn't know as how it had been stabbin' until I see it in Lloyd's Weekly, for I kep' away on purpose."
Here Jim put his hand into his pocket, and drew it out again closed round some object which he had still a lingering reluctance75 to show.
"I'll tell you all the truth, sir, though I daresay I must get into trouble. If it hadn't been as I was afraid of getting into it, I should ha' spoke before when I see Mrs. Routh, as is a good lady, a-frettin' herself to death, and him a-deceivin' of her. When I was a-looking close at the stones and the mud, and the blood upon 'em, which the tide was very nigh upon it afore I came away, I see something nearly stamped into the mud as looked like gold, and I fished it out, and I knew it were something as I had seen hangin' on the other gent's chain, which he was a-twiddlin' on it with his fingers when I giv' him the note in the coffee-room. I fished it out, sir, and I kep' it, and I was afraid to take it to the pawnshop when I heerd as the body was found; and as it were a murder, I was afraid to sell it neither, and I hid it in the wall, and--and," said Jim, speaking with great rapidity and earnestness, "I am glad I've told the truth, for Mr. Dallas's sake, and I'm ready to suffer for it, if I must. Here it is, sir." Then the boy unclosed his hand, and placed in that of Mr. Lowther a locket in the form of a golden egg.
"It opens in the middle," said Jim, "and there's pictures in it: one is Mr. Deane's, and the other is a lady's. I know where she lives, and I saw Mr. Routh with her on Monday night. Mr. Routh has another, just the same as this,--on the outside anyways."
"Do you recognize this trinket?" asked Mr. Lowther of Mr. Felton, who replied:
"I do. It was my son's."
A few minutes of close and anxious consultation76 between the gentlemen followed, and then Mr. Lowther, telling Jim that he must remain with Mr. Felton until his return, went out, and was driven away in Mrs. Stanhope's carriage. Mr. Felton and the two women treated the boy with kind consideration. In the frightful77 position in which they were all placed, there was now a prospect78 of relief, not, indeed, from the tremendous calamity79, but from the dreadful danger, and Jim, as the medium through which the hope shone, was very valuable to them. Food was given him, of a quality rare to the street-boy, and he ate it with sufficient appetite. Thus the time passed, until Mr. Lowther returned, accompanied by a small smart man in a gray suit, who was no other than Mr. Tatlow, and whose first words to Mr. Felton were:
"It's all right, sir. We've got the other warrant."
Then Mr. Felton sent Clare and her cousin away, and Jim, having been cheered and consoled by many a reassuring word and promise from Mr. Felton, whose strength and self-control proved themselves to the utmost on this occasion, underwent a long and searching examination from Mr. Lowther and the self-congratulatory Tatlow.
The afternoon was already advanced, and Mr. Tatlow had gone away and returned again, when the boy's explanation was concluded, and the plans formed upon it were finally arranged. Then the lawyer's quick eye noticed symptoms of giving way in Mr. Felton. There were many hours of excitement and strain upon the nerves still to be endured, and not yet might he be free to face the grief which was his---pre-eminently his; not yet must he seek solitude80, to mourn for his only son. Anguish81, fear, and fatigue82 were setting their mark upon him, but he must not yet have even bodily rest.
"You will not come with us?" said Mr. Lowther.
"No," replied Mr. Felton, with an irrepressible shudder44. "I could not see that mail before I must."
"You will lie down and rest?"
"Not yet. I will rest to-night. I must see my brother-in-law, who will reach London this evening, and tell him all that has happened."
"Your brother-in-law?"
"Mr. Carruthers, my sister's husband. Much depends on George's mother being kept in ignorance, and Mr. Carruthers must be prepared."
During this short dialogue, Jim had been speaking eagerly to Mr. Tatlow, apparently83 urging very strongly an earnest appeal. On its cessation, Mr. Tatlow addressed Mr. Lowther.
"He agrees to everything, if one of you gentlemen will write to Mrs. Routh for him. That's it, ain't it?" said he, turning again to Jim.
"Yes, sir," said the boy, with an earnestness of entreaty84 in his voice and his look which touched the listeners. "If one of you will write to her. I don't mean a letter of your own--grand like--for then she mightn't believe it, and she might think as I was paid. I did it for Mr. Dallas; but I don't think as I should have done it if he hadn't been bad to her, and if I hadn't seen her a-dyin' day after day, as courageous85 as can be, but still a-dyin', and he a-neglectin' of her first and deceivin' of her after."
"She is this man's accomplice," said Mr. Lowther, moodily.
"Perhaps so, to a certain extent," said Mr. Felton; "but she is to be pitied, too. I saw that. I saw a little way into her life at Homburg, and, from all George has told me, I would be as little hard with her as possible. He cannot escape us, she cannot shield him; let us hear what the boy wishes to say to her, and then decide. Tell me," he said, kindly, to Jim, "what do you wish to say to this lady?"
"You must understand," said Mr. Tatlow, "that you can't send your letter till we've got him."
"I don't want to, sir," said Jim. "I think as he's runnin' away from her to-night, partik'lar as the lady is gone."
(Mr. Tatlow had ascertained86 the fact of Mrs. Ireton P. Bembridge's departure during his brief absence.)
"He didn't go home last night, and I think as he's afraid to face her, and is runnin' away to-night."
"Very well, then," said Mr. Lowther, "I will write the letter. You shall tell me what to say, and it shall be sent to her this evening."
"Dear Ma'am,--This comes from Jim Swain, as wouldn't like to hurt you, but has to tell at last, because of Mr. Dallas being took for what he didn't do. I wanted to see you to-day, but you was out, and I couldn't, and I come down here and heard of Mr. Dallas being took. You, weren't in it, dear ma'am, I'm sure, and so I have told the gentlemen and Mr. Tatlow, which has me in charge at present; but you know it, and that Mr. Dallas did not do it, and Mr. Routh did. I followed them all the night it was done, and I saw Mr. Dean and Mr. Routh going down to the river, and I went down to the river, when one was gone away alive and the other couldn't be found, only his blood on the stones, and I found the gold thing he had on his chain, which the gentleman has it now, and Mr. Routh have the same in a little drawer in the big desk in the parlour. I haven't hid anything, dear ma'am, and Mr. Routh will be took, at six o'clock, at the railway, where he told me to meet him, which so I am to do. I know about a lady, too, which her picture is in the gold thing, and I would have told you about her if I could have seen you to-day. I hope you won't be hurt. I didn't mean to do it to hurt you. I wish I hadn't been so secret so long."
When Jim had formally made his mark, the letter was sealed and directed, and Mr. Lowther took charge of it.
Considerably88 before the platform of the London-bridge railway-station, from which the tidal train for Folkstone was about to start, had received the usual crowd of passengers and their friends, a lady, plainly dressed and closely veiled, made her unobtrusive appearance upon it. "I am waiting to see a friend off," she had said, as the official at the barrier questioned her, and she attracted no further notice. Slowly and with downcast eyes, and hands which clasped each other closely under her shawl, she walked up and down, keeping close to the wall, and allowing the groups, as they began to form, to form between her and the edge of the platform. Once or twice she unclasped her hands, and lifted her veil, and breathed deeply, then after one piercing glance, which comprehended every face under the roof within its vision, dropped it again. Once, as she did this, a nursemaid with a child in her arms at the back of the platform noticed her, and said to a fellow-servant:
"That woman's face is enough to frighten one; she looks like death!"
But life was strong in Harriet Routh, and hope was strong in her also, a terrible hope, indeed, which to any suffering less than hers would have worn the semblance89 of despair. A little while now and he would be safe, safe for the present, for the next few hours which were so all-important. The letter she had written, telling him all she had done, and why, would await him at Amiens, and show him that all his plans were vain, would convince him at last. The arrangement of his money matters, which he must have made for the flight he contemplated90, would avail in the case of this flight which she had imposed upon him. A little more torture, a little more suspense, and something like rest would come. Perhaps she should be able to sleep a little to-night, while he would be speeding through the darkness to safety. Something like a forlorn sense of peace came to her with the anticipation91. So she walked up and down, thinking these thoughts, and sometimes lapsing92 into a mental blank, out of which condition she would come with a start, to go into a kind of vision of the last two days--of the woman she had so completely mastered--of the last time she had seen her husband's face--of the blow he had struck her; but she felt no anger in the remembrance; what did it matter now, in the face of this great crisis? It was strange that she had heard nothing of George, and the fact rendered her only the more eager and apprehensive93. He was busy with the investigation94, which must end in--what? In that which she had now effectually prevented. So she walked up and down, thinking, and the platform became peopled, and all the fuss and hurry of the departure of the tidal train was around her. Presently, as she reached the end of the platform, and turned, to resume her walk, she saw her husband, coming quickly towards the line of carriages, carrying the small bag which had been sent to him at Tokenhouse-yard in the morning, and which she had packed with reference to this occasion. Routh, indeed, had been not a little surprised by its contents. He came along the platform, the bag in one hand, a letter in the other, looking frowningly round, as though in search of somebody. She shrank back, as much out of sight as possible. Presently, just as he was stepping into a carriage, Jim Swain appeared, and went up to him. A few words passed between them, and then Harriet saw two persons, one of whom was a smart, slightly built man in a gray suit, address him. Straining her eyes with a fixed95 intensity96 of gaze which made her brain ache, she looked. He tore the letter in his hand to pieces, with inconceivable quickness, the fragments fluttering to the ground, turned, and with one of his unknown interlocutors on either side, and Jim following--how strange the boy looked, Harriet thought--walked along the platform, passed through the barrier, and was lost to her gaze at the distant entrance.
Harriet stood rooted to the spot. It was not until all the passengers had taken their places, and the train had gone off with a shriek97 and a pant, that she had the power to move. Then a moan of utter despair burst from her white lips, and a cold thrill shook her limbs, as she murmured:
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1
irreproachable
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| adj.不可指责的，无过失的 | |
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pro
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| n.赞成，赞成的意见，赞成者 | |
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moody
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| adj.心情不稳的，易怒的，喜怒无常的 | |
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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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irresolute
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| adj.无决断的，优柔寡断的，踌躇不定的 | |
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secreted
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| v.（尤指动物或植物器官）分泌( secrete的过去式和过去分词 )；隐匿，隐藏 | |
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trudged
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| vt.& vi.跋涉，吃力地走（trudge的过去式与过去分词形式） | |
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depressed
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| adj.沮丧的，抑郁的，不景气的，萧条的 | |
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disposition
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| n.性情，性格；意向，倾向；排列，部署 | |
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gulf
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| n.海湾；深渊，鸿沟；分歧，隔阂 | |
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11
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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12
uneven
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| adj.不平坦的，不规则的，不均匀的 | |
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abruptly
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| adv.突然地，出其不意地 | |
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14
westward
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| n.西方，西部；adj.西方的，向西的；adv.向西 | |
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permanently
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| adv.永恒地，永久地，固定不变地 | |
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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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moodily
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| adv.喜怒无常地；情绪多变地；心情不稳地；易生气地 | |
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18
functionary
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| n.官员；公职人员 | |
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interval
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| n.间隔，间距；幕间休息，中场休息 | |
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20
lodged
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| v.存放( lodge的过去式和过去分词 )；暂住；埋入；（权利、权威等）归属 | |
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21
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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distress
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| n.苦恼，痛苦，不舒适；不幸；vt.使悲痛 | |
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23
plunged
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| v.颠簸( plunge的过去式和过去分词 )；暴跌；骤降；突降 | |
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24
contradictory
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| adj.反驳的，反对的，抗辩的；n.正反对，矛盾对立 | |
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25
frenzy
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| n.疯狂，狂热，极度的激动 | |
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imploringly
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| adv. 恳求地, 哀求地 | |
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dispersed
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| adj. 被驱散的, 被分散的, 散布的 | |
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pounce
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| n.猛扑；v.猛扑，突然袭击，欣然同意 | |
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mansion
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| n.大厦，大楼；宅第 | |
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obstinately
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| ad.固执地，顽固地 | |
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compassion
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| n.同情，怜悯 | |
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32
subsiding
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| v.（土地）下陷（因在地下采矿）( subside的现在分词 )；减弱；下降至较低或正常水平；一下子坐在椅子等上 | |
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33
larks
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| n.百灵科鸟（尤指云雀）( lark的名词复数 )；一大早就起床；鸡鸣即起；（因太费力而不想干时说）算了v.百灵科鸟（尤指云雀）( lark的第三人称单数 )；一大早就起床；鸡鸣即起；（因太费力而不想干时说）算了 | |
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34
catching
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| adj.易传染的，有魅力的，迷人的，接住 | |
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vehemently
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| adv. 热烈地 | |
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adroitly
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| adv.熟练地，敏捷地 | |
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magistrates
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| 地方法官，治安官( magistrate的名词复数 ) | |
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38
sobs
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| 啜泣（声），呜咽（声）( sob的名词复数 ) | |
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sob
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| n.空间轨道的轰炸机；呜咽，哭泣 | |
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40
respite
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| n.休息，中止，暂缓 | |
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41
procured
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| v.（努力）取得， （设法）获得( procure的过去式和过去分词 )；拉皮条 | |
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42
hush
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| int.嘘，别出声；n.沉默，静寂；v.使安静 | |
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43
shuddered
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| v.战栗( shudder的过去式和过去分词 )；发抖；（机器、车辆等）突然震动；颤动 | |
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44
shudder
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| v.战粟，震动，剧烈地摇晃；n.战粟，抖动 | |
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45
redeem
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| v.买回，赎回，挽回，恢复，履行（诺言等） | |
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46
forth
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| adv.向前；向外，往外 | |
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47
sockets
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| n.套接字，使应用程序能够读写与收发通讯协定(protocol)与资料的程序( Socket的名词复数 )；孔( socket的名词复数 )；（电器上的）插口；托座；凹穴 | |
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48
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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49
wizened
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| adj.凋谢的；枯槁的 | |
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50
peculiar
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| adj.古怪的，异常的；特殊的，特有的 | |
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51
desperately
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| adv.极度渴望地，绝望地，孤注一掷地 | |
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52
assented
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| 同意，赞成( assent的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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53
reassuring
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| a.使人消除恐惧和疑虑的，使人放心的 | |
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54
suspense
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| n.（对可能发生的事）紧张感，担心，挂虑 | |
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55
kindly
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| adj.和蔼的，温和的，爽快的；adv.温和地，亲切地 | |
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56
circumlocution
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| n. 绕圈子的话，迂回累赘的陈述 | |
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57
hesitation
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| n.犹豫，踌躇 | |
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58
rambling
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| adj.[建]凌乱的，杂乱的 | |
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59
tavern
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| n.小旅馆，客栈；小酒店 | |
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60
savage
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| adj.野蛮的；凶恶的，残暴的；n.未开化的人 | |
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61
regained
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| 复得( regain的过去式和过去分词 )； 赢回； 重回； 复至某地 | |
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62
discourse
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| n.论文，演说；谈话；话语；vi.讲述，著述 | |
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63
instinctive
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| adj.(出于)本能的；直觉的；(出于)天性的 | |
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64
delicacy
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| n.精致，细微，微妙，精良；美味，佳肴 | |
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65
strand
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| vt.使（船）搁浅，使（某人）困于（某地） | |
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66
skulked
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| v.潜伏，偷偷摸摸地走动，鬼鬼祟祟地活动( skulk的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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67
wriggle
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| v./n.蠕动，扭动；蜿蜒 | |
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68
shuffle
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| n.拖著脚走，洗纸牌；v.拖曳，慢吞吞地走 | |
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69
drawn
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| v.拖，拉，拔出；adj.憔悴的，紧张的 | |
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embarrassment
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| n.尴尬；使人为难的人(事物)；障碍；窘迫 | |
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71
expressive
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| adj.表现的，表达…的，富于表情的 | |
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72
doorway
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| n.门口，(喻)入门；门路，途径 | |
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73
nervously
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| adv.神情激动地，不安地 | |
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74
conceal
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| v.隐藏，隐瞒，隐蔽 | |
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75
reluctance
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| n.厌恶，讨厌，勉强，不情愿 | |
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76
consultation
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| n.咨询；商量；商议；会议 | |
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77
frightful
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| adj.可怕的；讨厌的 | |
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78
prospect
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| n.前景，前途；景色，视野 | |
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79
calamity
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| n.灾害，祸患，不幸事件 | |
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80
solitude
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| n. 孤独; 独居,荒僻之地,幽静的地方 | |
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81
anguish
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| n.(尤指心灵上的)极度痛苦，烦恼 | |
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82
fatigue
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| n.疲劳，劳累 | |
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83
apparently
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| adv.显然地；表面上，似乎 | |
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84
entreaty
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| n.恳求，哀求 | |
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85
courageous
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| adj.勇敢的，有胆量的 | |
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86
ascertained
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| v.弄清，确定，查明( ascertain的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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87
dictated
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| v.大声讲或读( dictate的过去式和过去分词 )；口授；支配；摆布 | |
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88
considerably
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| adv.极大地；相当大地；在很大程度上 | |
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89
semblance
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| n.外貌，外表 | |
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90
contemplated
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| adj. 预期的 动词contemplate的过去分词形式 | |
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91
anticipation
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| n.预期，预料，期望 | |
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92
lapsing
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| v.退步( lapse的现在分词 )；陷入；倒退；丧失 | |
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93
apprehensive
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| adj.担心的，恐惧的，善于领会的 | |
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investigation
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| n.调查，调查研究 | |
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95
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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96
intensity
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| n.强烈，剧烈；强度；烈度 | |
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shriek
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| v./n.尖叫，叫喊 | |
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utterly
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| adv.完全地，绝对地 | |
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