Mr. Harcourt-Talboys was fairly nonplused. Junius Brutus had never been placed in such a position as this, and seeing no way of getting out of this dilemma1 by acting2 after his favorite model, Mr. Talboys was fain to be natural for once in his life, and to confess that he had suffered much uneasiness and pain of mind about his only son since his conversation with Robert Audley, and that he would be heartily3 glad to take his poor boy to his arms, whenever he should return to England. But when was he likely to return? and how was he to be communicated with? That was the question. Robert Audley remembered the advertisements which he had caused to be inserted in the Melbourne and Sydney papers. If George had re-entered either city alive, how was it that no notice had ever been taken of that advertisement? Was it likely that his friend would be indifferent to his uneasiness? But then, again, it was just possible that George Talboys had not happened to see this advertisement; and, as he had traveled under a feigned5 name, neither his fellow passengers nor the captain of the vessel6 would have been able to identify him with the person advertised for. What was to be done? Must they wait patiently till George grew weary of his exile, and returned to his friends who loved him? or were there any means to be taken by which his return might be hastened? Robert Audley was at fault! Perhaps, in the unspeakable relief of mind which he had experienced upon the discovery of his friend's escape, he was unable to look beyond the one fact of that providential preservation7.
In this state of mind he went down to Dorsetshire to pay a visit to Mr. Talboys, who had given way to a perfect torrent8 of generous impulses, and had gone so far as to invite his son's friend to share the prim9 hospitality of the square, red brick mansion10.
Mr. Talboys had only two sentiments upon the subject of George's story; one was a natural relief and happiness in the thought that his son had been saved, the other was an earnest wish that my lady had been his wife, and that he might thus have had the pleasure of making a signal example of her.
"It is not for me to blame you, Mr. Audley," he said, "for having smuggled11 this guilty woman out of the reach of justice, and thus, as I may say, paltered with the laws of your country. I can only remark that, had the lady fallen into my hands, she would have been very differently treated."
It was in the middle of April when Robert Audley found himself once more under those black fir-trees beneath which his wandering thoughts had so often stayed since his first meeting with Clara Talboys. There were primroses12 and early violets in the hedges now, and the streams, which, upon his first visit, had been hard and frost-bound as the heart of Harcourt Talboys, had thawed13, like that gentleman, and ran merrily under the blackthorn bushes in the capricious April sunshine.
Robert had a prim bedroom, and an uncompromising dressing-room allotted14 him in the square house, and he woke every morning upon a metallic15 spring mattress16, which always gave him the idea of sleeping upon some musical instrument, to see the sun glaring in upon him through the square, white blinds and lighting17 up the two lackered urns18 which adorned19 the foot of the blue iron bedstead, until they blazed like two tiny brazen20 lamps of the Roman period. He emulated21 Mr. Harcourt Talboys in the matter of shower-baths and cold water, and emerged prim and blue as that gentleman himself, as the clock in the hall struck seven, to join the master of the house in his ante-breakfast constitutional under the fir-trees in the stiff plantation22.
But there was generally a third person who assisted in the constitutional promenades23, and that third person was Clara Talboys, who used to walk by her father's side, more beautiful than the morning—for that was sometimes dull and cloudy, while she was always fresh and bright—in a broad-leaved straw-hat and flapping blue ribbons, one quarter of an inch of which Mr. Audley would have esteemed24 a prouder decoration than ever adorned a favored creature's button-hole.
At first they were very ceremonious toward each other, and were only familiar and friendly upon the one subject of George's adventures; but little by little a pleasant intimacy25 arose between them, and before the first three weeks of Robert's visit had elapsed, Miss Talboys made him happy, by taking him seriously in hand and lecturing him on the purposeless life he had led so long, and the little use he had made of the talents and opportunities that had been given to him.
How pleasant it was to be lectured by the woman he loved! How pleasant it was to humiliate26 himself and depreciate27 himself before her! How delightful28 it was to get such splendid opportunities of hinting that if his life had been sanctified by an object he might indeed have striven to be something better than an idle flaneur upon the smooth pathways that have no particular goal; that, blessed by the ties which would have given a solemn purpose to every hour of his existence, he might indeed have fought the battle earnestly and unflinchingly. He generally wound up with a gloomy insinuation to the effect that it was only likely he would drop quietly over the edge of the Temple Gardens some afternoon when the river was bright and placid29 in the low sunlight, and the little children had gone home to their tea.
"Do you think I can read French novels and smoke mild Turkish until I am three-score-and-ten, Miss Talboys?" he asked. "Do you think there will not come a day in which my meerschaums will be foul30, and the French novels more than usually stupid, and life altogether such a dismal31 monotony that I shall want to get rid of it somehow or other?"
I am sorry to say that while this hypocritical young barrister was holding forth32 in this despondent33 way, he had mentally sold up his bachelor possessions, including all Michel Levy's publications, and half a dozen solid silver-mounted meerschaums; pensioned off Mrs. Maloney, and laid out two or three thousand pounds in the purchase of a few acres of verdant34 shrubbery and sloping lawn, embosomed amid which there should be a fairy cottage ornée, whose rustic36 casements37 should glimmer38 out of bowers39 of myrtle and clematis to see themselves reflected in the purple bosom35 of the lake.
Of course, Clara Talboys was far from discovering the drift of these melancholy40 lamentations. She recommended Mr. Audley to read hard and think seriously of his profession, and begin life in real earnest. It was a hard, dry sort of existence, perhaps, which she recommended; a life of serious work and application, in which he should strive to be useful to his fellow-creatures, and win a reputation for himself.
"I'd do all that," he thought, "and do it earnestly, if I could be sure of a reward for my labor41. If she would accept my reputation when it was won, and support me in the struggle by her beloved companionship. But what if she sends me away to fight the battle, and marries some hulking country squire42 while my back is turned?"
Being naturally of a vacillating and dilatory43 disposition44, there is no saying how long Mr. Audley might have kept his secret, fearful to speak and break the charm of that uncertainty45 which, though not always hopeful, was very seldom quite despairing, had not he been hurried by the impulse of an unguarded moment into a full confession46 of the truth.
He had stayed five weeks at Grange Heath, and felt that he could not, in common decency47, stay any longer; so he had packed his portmanteau one pleasant May morning, and had announced his departure.
Mr. Talboys was not the sort of man to utter any passionate48 lamentations at the prospect49 of losing his guest, but he expressed himself with a cool cordiality which served with him as the strongest demonstration50 of friendship.
"We have got on very well together, Mr. Audley," he said, "and you have been pleased to appear sufficiently51 happy in the quiet routine of our orderly household; nay52, more, you have conformed to our little domestic regulations in a manner which I cannot refrain from saying I take as an especial compliment to myself."
Robert bowed. How thankful he was to the good fortune which had never suffered him to oversleep the signal of the clanging bell, or led him away beyond the ken4 of clocks at Mr. Talboys' luncheon53 hour.
"I trust as we have got on so remarkably54 well together," Mr. Talboys resumed, "you will do me the honor of repeating your visit to Dorsetshire whenever you feel inclined. You will find plenty of sport among my farms, and you will meet with every politeness and attention from my tenants56, if you like to bring your gun with you."
Robert responded most heartily to these friendly overtures57. He declared that there was no earthly occupation that was more agreeable to him than partridge-shooting, and that he should be only too delighted to avail himself of the privilege so kindly58 offered to him. He could not help glancing toward Clara as he said this. The perfect lids drooped59 a little over the brown eyes, and the faintest shadow of a blush illuminated60 the beautiful face.
But this was the young barrister's last day in Elysium, and there must be a dreary61 interval62 of days and nights and weeks and months before the first of September would give him an excuse for returning to Dorsetshire; a dreary interval which fresh colored young squires63 or fat widowers64 of eight-and-forty, might use to his disadvantage. It was no wonder, therefore, that he contemplated65 this dismal prospect with moody66 despair, and was bad company for Miss Talboys that morning.
But in the evening after dinner, when the sun was low in the west, and Harcourt Talboys closeted in his library upon some judicial67 business with his lawyer and a tenant55 farmer, Mr. Audley grew a little more agreeable. He stood by Clara's side in one of the long windows of the drawing-room, watching the shadows deepening in the sky and the rosy68 light growing every moment rosier69 as the sun died out. He could not help enjoying that quiet tête-a-tête, though the shadow of the next morning's express which was to carry him away to London loomed70 darkly across the pathway of his joy. He could not help being happy in her presence; forgetful of the past, reckless of the future.
They talked of the one subject which was always a bond of union between them. They talked of her lost brother George. She spoke71 of him in a very melancholy tone this evening. How could she be otherwise than sad, remembering that if he lived—and she was not even sure of that—he was a lonely wanderer far away from all who loved him, and carrying the memory of a blighted72 life wherever he went.
"I cannot think how papa can be so resigned to my poor brother's absence," she said, "for he does love him, Mr. Audley; even you must have seen lately that he does love him. But I cannot think how he can so quietly submit to his absence. If I were a man, I would go to Australia, and find him, and bring him back; if he was still to be found among the living," she added, in a lower voice.
She turned her face away from Robert, and looked out at the darkening sky. He laid his hand upon her arm. It trembled in spite of him, and his voice trembled, too, as he spoke to her.
"Shall I go to look for your brother?" he said.
"You!" She turned her head, and looked at him earnestly through her tears. "You, Mr. Audley! Do you think that I could ask you to make such a sacrifice for me, or for those I love?"
"And do you think, Clara, that I should think any sacrifice too great a one if it were made for you? Do you think there is any voyage I would refuse to take, if I knew that you would welcome me when I came home, and thank me for having served you faithfully? I will go from one end of the continent of Australia to the other to look for your brother, if you please, Clara; and will never return alive unless I bring him with me, and will take my chance of what reward you shall give me for my labor."
"You are very good and generous, Mr. Audley," she said, at last, "and I feel this offer too much to be able to thank you for it. But what you speak of could never be. By what right could I accept such a sacrifice?"
"By the right which makes me your bounden slave forever and ever, whether you will or no. By right of the love I bear you, Clara," cried Mr. Audley, dropping on his knees—rather awkwardly, it must be confessed—and covering a soft little hand, that he had found half hidden among the folds of a silken dress, with passionate kisses.
"I love you, Clara," he said, "I love you. You may call for your father, and have me turned out of the house this moment, if you like; but I shall go on loving you all the same; and I shall love you forever and ever, whether you will or no."
The little hand was drawn75 away from his, but not with a sudden or angry gesture, and it rested for one moment lightly and tremulously upon his dark hair.
"Clara, Clara!" he murmured, in a low, pleading voice, "shall I go to Australia to look for your brother?"
There was no answer. I don't know how it is, but there is scarcely anything more delicious than silence in such cases. Every moment of hesitation76 is a tacit avowal77; every pause is a tender confession.
"Shall we both go, dearest? Shall we go as man and wife? Shall we go together, my dear love, and bring our brother back between us?"
Mr. Harcourt Talboys, coming into the lamplit room a quarter of an hour afterward78, found Robert Audley alone, and had to listen to a revelation which very much surprised him. Like all self-sufficient people, he was tolerably blind to everything that happened under his nose, and he had fully73 believed that his own society, and the Spartan79 regularity80 of his household, had been the attractions which had made Dorsetshire delightful to his guest.
He was rather disappointed, therefore; but he bore his disappointment pretty well, and expressed a placid and rather stoical satisfaction at the turn which affairs had taken.
So Robert Audley went back to London, to surrender his chambers81 in Figtree Court, and to make all due inquiries82 about such ships as sailed from Liverpool for Sydney in the month of June.
He had lingered until after luncheon at Grange Heath, and it was in the dusky twilight83 that he entered the shady Temple courts and found his way to his chambers. He found Mrs. Maloney scrubbing the stairs, as was her wont84 upon a Saturday evening, and he had to make his way upward amidst an atmosphere of soapy steam, that made the balusters greasy85 under his touch.
"There's lots of letters, yer honor," the laundress said, as she rose from her knees and flattened86 herself against the wall to enable Robert to pass her, "and there's some parcels, and there's a gentleman which has called ever so many times, and is waitin' to-night, for I towld him you'd written to me to say your rooms were to be aired."
He opened the door of his sitting-room87, and walked in. The canaries were singing their farewell to the setting sun, and the faint, yellow light was flickering88 upon the geranium leaves. The visitor, whoever he was, sat with his back to the window and his head bent upon his breast. But he started up as Robert Audley entered the room, and the young man uttered a great cry of delight and surprise, and opened his arms to his lost friend, George Talboys.
We know how much Robert had to tell. He touched lightly and tenderly upon that subject which he knew was cruelly painful to his friends; he said very little of the wretched woman who was wearing out the remnant of her wicked life in the quiet suburb of the forgotten Belgian city.
George Talboys spoke very briefly89 of that sunny seventh of September, upon which he had left his friend sleeping by the trout90 stream while he went to accuse his false wife of that conspiracy91 which had well nigh broken his heart.
"God knows that from the moment in which I sunk into the black pit, knowing the treacherous92 hand that had sent me to what might have been my death, my chief thought was of the safety of the woman who had betrayed me. I fell upon my feet upon a mass of slush and mire93, but my shoulder was bruised94, and my arm broken against the side of the well. I was stunned95 and dazed for a few minutes, but I roused myself by an effort, for I felt that the atmosphere I breathed was deadly. I had my Australian experiences to help me in my peril96; I could climb like a cat. The stones of which the well was built were rugged97 and irregular, and I was able to work my way upward by planting my feet in the interstices of the stones, and resting my back at times against the opposite side of the well, helping98 myself as well as I could with my hands, though one arm was crippled. It was hard work, Bob, and it seems strange that a man who had long professed99 himself weary of his life, should take so much trouble to preserve it. I think I must have been working upward of half an hour before I got to the top; I know the time seemed an eternity100 of pain and peril. It was impossible for me to leave the place until after dark without being observed, so I hid myself behind a clump101 of laurel-bushes, and lay down on the grass faint and exhausted102 to wait for nightfall. The man who found me there told you the rest. Robert."
"Yes, my poor old friend.—yes, he told me all."
George had never returned to Australia after all. He had gone on board the Victoria Regia, but had afterward changed his berth103 for one in another vessel belonging to the same owners, and had gone to New York, where he had stayed as long as he could endure the loneliness of an existence which separated him from every friend he had ever known.
"Jonathan was very kind to me, Bob," he said; "I had enough money to enable me to get on pretty well in my own quiet way and I meant to have started for the California gold fields to get more when that was gone. I might have made plenty of friends had I pleased, but I carried the old bullet in my breast; and what sympathy could I have with men who knew nothing of my grief? I yearned104 for the strong grasp of your hand, Bob; the friendly touch of the hand which had guided me through the darkest passage of my life."
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1
dilemma
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| n.困境，进退两难的局面 | |
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acting
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| n.演戏，行为，假装；adj.代理的，临时的，演出用的 | |
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heartily
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| adv.衷心地，诚恳地，十分，很 | |
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ken
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| n.视野，知识领域 | |
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feigned
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| a.假装的，不真诚的 | |
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vessel
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| n.船舶；容器，器皿；管，导管，血管 | |
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preservation
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| n.保护，维护，保存，保留，保持 | |
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torrent
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| n.激流，洪流；爆发，(话语等的)连发 | |
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prim
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| adj.拘泥形式的，一本正经的；n.循规蹈矩，整洁；adv.循规蹈矩地，整洁地 | |
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mansion
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| n.大厦，大楼；宅第 | |
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smuggled
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| 水货 | |
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primroses
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| n.报春花( primrose的名词复数 )；淡黄色；追求享乐（招至恶果） | |
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thawed
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| 解冻 | |
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allotted
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| 分配，拨给，摊派( allot的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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metallic
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| adj.金属的；金属制的；含金属的；产金属的；像金属的 | |
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mattress
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| n.床垫，床褥 | |
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lighting
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| n.照明，光线的明暗，舞台灯光 | |
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urns
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| n.壶( urn的名词复数 )；瓮；缸；骨灰瓮 | |
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adorned
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| [计]被修饰的 | |
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brazen
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| adj.厚脸皮的，无耻的，坚硬的 | |
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emulated
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| v.与…竞争( emulate的过去式和过去分词 )；努力赶上；计算机程序等仿真；模仿 | |
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plantation
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| n.种植园，大农场 | |
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promenades
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| n.人行道( promenade的名词复数 )；散步场所；闲逛v.兜风( promenade的第三人称单数 ) | |
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esteemed
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| adj.受人尊敬的v.尊敬( esteem的过去式和过去分词 )；敬重；认为；以为 | |
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intimacy
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| n.熟悉，亲密，密切关系，亲昵的言行 | |
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humiliate
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| v.使羞辱，使丢脸[同]disgrace | |
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depreciate
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| v.降价，贬值，折旧 | |
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delightful
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| adj.令人高兴的，使人快乐的 | |
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placid
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| adj.安静的，平和的 | |
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foul
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| adj.污秽的；邪恶的；v.弄脏；妨害；犯规；n.犯规 | |
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dismal
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| adj.阴沉的，凄凉的，令人忧郁的，差劲的 | |
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forth
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| adv.向前；向外，往外 | |
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despondent
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| adj.失望的，沮丧的，泄气的 | |
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verdant
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| adj.翠绿的，青翠的，生疏的，不老练的 | |
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bosom
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| n.胸，胸部；胸怀；内心；adj.亲密的 | |
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rustic
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| adj.乡村的，有乡村特色的；n.乡下人，乡巴佬 | |
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casements
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| n.窗扉( casement的名词复数 ) | |
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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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bowers
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| n.（女子的）卧室( bower的名词复数 )；船首锚；阴凉处；鞠躬的人 | |
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melancholy
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| n.忧郁，愁思；adj.令人感伤（沮丧）的，忧郁的 | |
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labor
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| n.劳动，努力，工作，劳工；分娩；vi.劳动，努力，苦干；vt.详细分析；麻烦 | |
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squire
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| n.护卫, 侍从, 乡绅 | |
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dilatory
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| adj.迟缓的，不慌不忙的 | |
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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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uncertainty
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| n.易变，靠不住，不确知，不确定的事物 | |
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confession
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| n.自白，供认，承认 | |
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decency
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| n.体面，得体，合宜，正派，庄重 | |
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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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prospect
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| n.前景，前途；景色，视野 | |
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demonstration
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| n.表明，示范，论证，示威 | |
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sufficiently
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| adv.足够地，充分地 | |
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nay
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| adv.不；n.反对票，投反对票者 | |
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luncheon
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| n.午宴，午餐，便宴 | |
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remarkably
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| ad.不同寻常地，相当地 | |
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tenant
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| n.承租人；房客；佃户；v.租借，租用 | |
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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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overtures
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| n.主动的表示，提议；（向某人做出的）友好表示、姿态或提议( overture的名词复数 )；（歌剧、芭蕾舞、音乐剧等的）序曲，前奏曲 | |
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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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drooped
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| 弯曲或下垂，发蔫( droop的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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illuminated
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| adj.被照明的；受启迪的 | |
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dreary
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| adj.令人沮丧的，沉闷的，单调乏味的 | |
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interval
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| n.间隔，间距；幕间休息，中场休息 | |
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squires
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| n.地主，乡绅( squire的名词复数 ) | |
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widowers
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| n.鳏夫( widower的名词复数 ) | |
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contemplated
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| adj. 预期的 动词contemplate的过去分词形式 | |
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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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judicial
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| adj.司法的，法庭的，审判的，明断的，公正的 | |
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rosy
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| adj.美好的，乐观的，玫瑰色的 | |
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rosier
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| Rosieresite | |
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loomed
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| v.隐约出现，阴森地逼近( loom的过去式和过去分词 )；隐约出现，阴森地逼近 | |
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71
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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blighted
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| adj.枯萎的，摧毁的 | |
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fully
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| adv.完全地，全部地，彻底地；充分地 | |
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bent
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| n.爱好，癖好；adj.弯的；决心的，一心的 | |
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drawn
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| v.拖，拉，拔出；adj.憔悴的，紧张的 | |
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hesitation
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| n.犹豫，踌躇 | |
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avowal
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| n.公开宣称，坦白承认 | |
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afterward
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| adv.后来；以后 | |
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spartan
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| adj.简朴的，刻苦的；n.斯巴达；斯巴达式的人 | |
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regularity
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| n.规律性，规则性；匀称，整齐 | |
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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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inquiries
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| n.调查( inquiry的名词复数 )；疑问；探究；打听 | |
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twilight
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| n.暮光，黄昏；暮年，晚期，衰落时期 | |
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wont
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| adj.习惯于；v.习惯；n.习惯 | |
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greasy
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| adj. 多脂的，油脂的 | |
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flattened
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| [医]（水）平扁的，弄平的 | |
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sitting-room
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| n.（BrE）客厅，起居室 | |
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flickering
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| adj.闪烁的，摇曳的，一闪一闪的 | |
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briefly
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| adv.简单地，简短地 | |
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trout
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| n.鳟鱼；鲑鱼(属) | |
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conspiracy
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| n.阴谋，密谋，共谋 | |
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treacherous
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| adj.不可靠的，有暗藏的危险的；adj.背叛的，背信弃义的 | |
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mire
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| n.泥沼，泥泞；v.使...陷于泥泞，使...陷入困境 | |
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bruised
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| [医]青肿的，瘀紫的 | |
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stunned
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| adj. 震惊的，惊讶的 动词stun的过去式和过去分词 | |
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peril
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| n.(严重的)危险；危险的事物 | |
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rugged
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| adj.高低不平的，粗糙的，粗壮的，强健的 | |
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helping
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| n.食物的一份&adj.帮助人的，辅助的 | |
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professed
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| 公开声称的，伪称的，已立誓信教的 | |
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eternity
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| n.不朽，来世；永恒，无穷 | |
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101
clump
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| n.树丛，草丛；vi.用沉重的脚步行走 | |
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exhausted
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| adj.极其疲惫的，精疲力尽的 | |
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103
berth
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| n.卧铺，停泊地，锚位；v.使停泊 | |
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yearned
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| 渴望，切盼，向往( yearn的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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