'There is the finger-post, that Statham spoke3 of, and the little pond close by,' he said to himself. 'It is no use taking the cab any farther; I suppose I had better make the best of my way to Rose Cottage on foot.' So saying, he raised his stick, and, obedient to the signal, the cabman drew up at the side of the road. You had better go and put up your horse at the inn,' said Martin to him; it has been a long pull for him, poor animal, and. I shall be some little time before I want to return.'
The driver carefully inspected his fare. He had come a long way, and was now setting down, not at any house, not at any lodge5, but in an open country road. Was it a case of--no!' The gravity of Martin Gurwood's face, the length of his coat, the spotless stiffness of his white cravat6, had their effect even on this ribald of the cab-rank.
'You will come for me, sir, then, to the public when you want me?' he said, touching7 his hat with his forefinger8, and drove away contented9.
Then Martin Gurwood, following Statham's directions, walked slowly up the little street, took the turning leading to the church, and looked out for Rose Cottage. There it was, standing10 some distance back from the road, with the ruddy glow of the Virginia creeper not yet wholly gone from it. Martin Gurwood stopped at the garden-gate and looked at the little paradise, so trim and orderly, so neatly11 kept, so thoroughly12 comfortable, and yet so fully4 unpretentious, with the greatest admiration13. Then he lifted the latch14 and walked towards the house.
The gate swung to behind him, and Alice, who was in her bedroom hearing little Bell her lessons, heard the clanking of the latch. She laid down her book, and stopping the child's babbling15 by her uplifted finger, leant her head to listen.
'What is it, mamma?' asked little Bell, in wonderment.
'Hush16, dear,' said Alice, 'I heard the garden gate. No sound of wheels! Then he cannot have brought his luggage; still it must be John.'
She rose from her seat, and hurried down the stairs into the little hall. Just as she reached the half-glass door, and had her hand upon the lock, a man stepped into the portico17; the figure was strange to her--it was not John.
She felt as though she must faint; her grasp on the door relaxed, and she staggered against the wall. Seeing her condition the gentleman entered the hall, took her with a kind firm hold by the arm, and led her into the dining-room, the door of which stood open. She went passively, making no resistance, taking no notice, but throwing herself into a chair, and staring blankly at him, stricken dumb with sickening apprehension18.
'I am speaking to Mrs.--Mrs. Claxton?' he said, after a moment's pause, in a soft, kind voice.
He was a young man, she began to notice, fair and good-looking, and dressed in clerical garb19. That last fact had a peculiar20 significance for her. In the far north-east of England, on the sea-coast, where some of Alice's early days had been passed, it was the practice of the fishermen, when one of their number had been lost, to get the parson to go to the newly-made widow and break the news to her. In a stormy season Alice had often seen the sable-garbed messenger proceeding21 on his doleful mission, and the remembrance of him and of the 'parson's work,' as it was called, when he was so engaged, rose vividly22 before her, and inspired her with sudden terror.
'You are a clergyman?' she said, looking hard at him.
'I am,' he replied, still in the same soft tone. 'My name is
Gurwood--Martin Gurwood; and I have come here to--'
'You have come here to tell me something dreadful--I know it, I feel it--something dreadful about my husband!'
She pushed her hair back from off her face, and leaned forward on the table, looking at him, her eyes staring, her lips apart. Martin thought he had scarcely ever seen anything so beautiful.
'My visit to you certainly relates to Mr. Claxton,' he began, and then he hesitated and looked down.
'Ah!' she cried, immediately noticing his confusion, 'it is about John, then. There is something wrong, I know. Tell me all about it at once. I can bear it. I am strong--much stronger than I look. I entreat24 you not to keep me in suspense25.'
'I am deeply grieved for you, madam,' said Martin, 'for you are right in anticipating that I bring bad news about Mr. Claxton. During his absence from home, he was attacked by a very sharp illness.'
'He was ill when he left here,' cried Alice. 'I knew it; and Mr. Broadbent, the doctor, knew it too, though I could not get him to say so. He ought not to have gone away. I ought not to have let him go. Now tell me, sir, pray; he has been very ill, you say; is he better?'
'I trust he is better,' said Martin solemnly.
Something in his tone struck Alice at once.
'Ah,' she cried, with a short sharp scream, 'I know now--he is dead!' And covering her face with her hands, she sobbed26 violently.
Martin Gurwood sat by, gazing at her with tear-dimmed eyes. He was not a man given to the reading of character; he had not been in the room with this girl for more than five minutes, he had not exchanged ten sentences with her, and yet he was certain that Humphrey Statham was perfectly27 right in the estimate which he had formed of her, and that, however cruelly she might have been treated, she herself was wholly innocent.
After some moments, Alice raised her head from out her hands.
'I can listen to you now,' she said very quietly. 'Will you tell me all about it? I suppose it was because I recognised you as a clergyman that gave me the intuitive knowledge that something dreadful had happened, and that you had come to tell me all. I am ready to hear it now.'
Martin Gurwood was horribly discomposed at this. He felt he could give her no information; for it would be impossible to tell her that the man whom she supposed to be her husband had died on the day that he left Hendon, as she would naturally inquire why the news of his death had so long been kept from her, and Martin owned to himself that he was not good at invention. He did not know what to say, and he therefore remained silent, his hand fluttering nervously28 round his mouth.
'My dear madam,' commenced Martin, with much hesitation29, 'beyond the awful fact, there is indeed nothing to tell.'
She looked disappointed for an instant; then, striving to control the working of her lips, she said:
'Did he ask for me? Did he speak of me before--before-- Ah, my darling John! My dear, good old John, kindest, best, and dearest. I cannot bear it. What shall I do!'
She broke down utterly30, and again buried her face, down which the tears were streaming, in her hands.
Knowing the impossibility of affording her any relief, Martin Gurwood sat helplessly by. He could only wait until the outburst of grief should moderate; he knew that it was of no use attempting to check it; so he waited.
Presently she raised her head.
'I thought I had more command over myself,' she said. 'I did not know I was so weak. But when there is any occasion for me to act, I shall be found strong enough. Tell me, sir, if you please, where is he? When will they bring him home?'
Martin Gurwood was not prepared for this question; it was not one of those which he had talked over with Statham. Its being put so straightforward31 and direct, was a contingency32 which he never contemplated33, and he knew not how to meet it.
'Where is he?' repeated Alice, observing his hesitation. 'There is perhaps some difficulty about his being brought here.'
'Then I will go to him. I will be taken to him at once.'
'There will be some difficulty about that, my dear madam,' said Martin. 'I am afraid it cannot be managed so easily as you seem to anticipate.'
'Difficulty! Cannot be managed! I do not understand what you mean, sir.'
'Why,' said Martin, hesitating worse than ever, 'you see that--in these matters--'
'In these matters, who should be with them, who should be by them,' cried Alice, 'but their nearest and dearest? Who shall tell me not to go to my husband? Who shall gainsay35 my right to be by him at such a time? He had no relatives; he was mine--mine alone, and I was all the world to him! O, my dear old John!' And again she burst into an agony of tears.
Martin Gurwood was almost at his wits' end. He foresaw that if the question were put to him again--as it would be put, he knew, so soon as her access of grief was over--if Alice again called upon him to take her to her husband, in default of any reasonable excuse he should probably be forced to confess the truth, and then he must be prepared to take the consequences, which he knew would be serious. This girl's utter prostration36 and humiliation37, Mrs. Calverley's first outburst of rage, and subsequent malignant38 revenge, the shattering of the dead man's reputation, and the despicable slander39 and gossip which would ensue, Martin Gurwood thought of all these; knew that their being called into action was dependent on how to manage to get through the next few minutes. Why on earth had he undertaken this business? Why had not Statham, whose experience in such matters ought to have forewarned him that such a point was likely to arise--why had he not instructed him how to deal with it? From her point of view, this poor girl was, no doubt, strictly40 right. She considered herself to be the dead man's widow (Martin had now not the smallest doubt on that point), and was therefore perfectly justified41 in demanding to be taken to him. Even if Martin Gurwood 's conscience would have absolved42 him from telling a white lie on the occasion, his inventive powers were not of calibre sufficient to devise the necessary fiction; he felt there was no chance for him but to tell Alice as little of the truth as would satisfy her, in as roundabout a manner as he could manage, and then to risk the result.
Just as he had arrived at this determination he raised his eyes, and saw a little child run past the window. A small, delicate-looking girl, with long fair hair streaming down her shoulders, prettily43, even elegantly dressed, and laughing heartily44 as she pursued a large elastic45 ball which bounded before her. Martin saw her but for an instant, then she disappeared down the garden path.
But that momentary46 glimpse was sufficient to give Martin Gurwood an idea. And when Alice raised her tear-blurred face, now stern with the expression of a set and determined47 purpose, he was to a certain extent prepared for her.
'You must take me to my husband,' she said quietly. 'I am grateful to you for coming here Mr.--'
'Gurwood--my name is Martin Gurwood.'
'I am grateful to you for coming here, Mr. Gurwood, and for the delicate manner in which you have performed your task. But now I wish to be taken to my husband. I have a right to make that claim, and I do so.'
'My dear madam,' said Martin Gurwood, in the same quiet tone, but with much more firmness than he had hitherto exhibited, 'I will not allow that you owe me the smallest obligation; but if you did, the way in which you could best repay me would be by exciting yourself as little as possible. Under these most painful circumstances, you must not give way, Mrs. Claxton; you must keep up as best you can, for the sake of his memory, for the sake of the child which he has left behind him.'
'Little Bell? the child who is playing in the garden, and who just now passed the window?'
'Little Bell! She is not Mr. Claxton's child, sir, nor mine, but she is another living proof of John's goodness, and thoughtfulness, and care for others.' She rose from her seat as she spoke, and wandered in a purposeless manner to the window. 'So thoughtful, so unselfish, so generous,' she murmured. 'It is three years ago since little Bell first came here.'
'Indeed!' said Martin, delighted at the unexpected reprieve49, and anxious to divert her thoughts as long as possible from the one dread23 subject. 'Indeed! And where did she come from?'
'From the workhouse,' said Alice, not looking at him, but gazing straight before her through the window, against which her forehead was pressed--'from the workhouse. It was John's doing that we brought her here--all John's doing. It was from Mr. Tomlinson, the clergyman,' she continued, in a low tone, and with a certain abrupt50 incoherence of manner, that we heard about it--such cold weather, with the snow lying deep in the fields. Mr. Tomlinson told us that they had found her lying against a haystack in one of Farmer Mullins's fields, half frozen, and with a baby at her breast. So thin, and pale, and delicate, she looked when we went down to see her lying in the workhouse bed. She had been starved as well as frozen, Mr. Broadbent said, and her cheeks were hollow, and there were great dark circles round her eyes. But she must have been pretty, O so pretty! Her chestnut51 hair was soft and delicate, and her poor thin hands, almost transparent52, were white and well-shaped.'
In his first relief from the repetition of her demand which he expected Alice would make, Martin Gurwood did not pay much attention to the commencement of her little story, but as it progressed his interest became excited, and at this point he left his chair and stood by her at the window.
'Who was she?' he asked. 'Where did she come from?'
'We never knew,' said Alice, shaking her head. 'She never spoke from the time they found her until her death, two days after; but she had never been married; there was no wedding-ring on her finger, and when they told me that, I turned to John and spoke to him.'
'Do you recollect53 what you said?' asked Martin, half with a desire to satisfy his own curiosity, half wishing to lead her on.
'Recollect?' said Alice. 'I remember the very words. "O John," I said, "my dear old John, isn't it an awful thing to think how this poor creature has been deceived; you may depend upon it, John," I said, "that the man who has brought her to this shame made her a promise of marriage, or deceived her in some cruel and heartless manner."'
'Did you say that?' asked Martin, in a low voice.
'I did, and more. "Her death will lie at his door, John," I said, "as surely as if he had killed her with his hand. He did kill her, first her soul and then her body, and he will be held responsible for the murder of each!" I recollect then that John threw his arms around me and implored54 me to stop. His face was quite white, and the tears were streaming down his cheeks, for he had the tenderest heart. And then when the poor girl died, he proposed that we should take the baby and adopt it for our own; and we did so. Strange it was, I recollect, that for weeks after that, whenever John was at home, and in one of his silent moods, which came upon him first about that time, I would see him of an evening, when he thought I was not looking at him, with his eyes fixed55 upon me, and with the tears stealing down his cheeks.'
Was it strange, knowing what he did? Martin thought not; but he did not speak.
'He was thinking of that poor girl, I suppose,' murmured Alice, half to herself; 'thinking of all the troubles and sufferings she had come through; thinking, I shouldn't wonder, that they might have been mine, if I had not been mercifully placed in a different position, and out of the reach of temptation; for he had the tenderest heart, and he loved me so dearly--O so dearly! that the mere56 thought of anything happening to me to cause me pain or suffering, was enough to make him utterly wretched.' Then the sense of her situation dawning again upon her, she cried out: 'And now he is lost to me for ever! There is no one now to think of or take care of me! We were all in all to each other, and now I am left alone in the world; what shall I do, O, what shall I do!'
It had been Martin Gurwood 's lot, in the discharge of his clerical duties, to listen a hundred times in his life to this despairing wail57 from women just robbed of their husbands by death: a hundred times had he cheered the darkened and dispirited soul with recapitulations of the Almighty58 goodness, with the hope that the parting from the loved and lost one was but temporary and not of long duration, and that in the future the two reunited might enjoy an eternity59 of bliss60 such as they had never known before. What could he say to the woman now writhing61 before him in misery62 and despair? What word of encouragement, what scrap63 of hope could he whisper into her dulled ear? How could he, with the fearful knowledge which he had acquired, speak to her of the future of this man, whose memory she so blindly worshipped, ignorant of the manner in which he had basely betrayed her? How could he even speak kindly64 of the dead man's past, and echo the terms of affection in which she mentioned him, knowing as he did the full measure of the deceit and iniquity65 practised upon her by the man whom she imagined to have been her husband?
No! In all Martin Gurwood's clerical career (and the experiences of a zealous66 and earnest clergyman in an agricultural district are fraught67 with more horrors, and tend to a lower appreciation68 of the human race than the uninitiated would believe), he had never had to deal with such a case as this. In his reproof69 he could temper justice with mercy, in his consolation70 he could bid 'despair and anguish71 flee the struggling soul;' but to attempt now to cast down the idol72 from its pedestal, to attempt to show to the heartbroken woman, whose sobs73 were resounding74 through the room, that the man whose loss she was deploring75 had been her worst and bitterest enemy, to point out that the emotion which he had exhibited at the story of the outcast woman and her baby, was merely caused by 'the conscience-prick and the memory-smart,' proving to him the similarity of his own crime with that of the man on whom he was invited to sit in judgment--to do all or any of this was beyond Martin Gurwood's power; he ought to have done it, he knew, but he was only human after all, and he decided76 to leave it alone.
The story of the frozen woman with the baby in her arms--his thoughts had wandered away to that--slight and delicate was she, and with long chestnut hair--what a strange coincidence! That this man, who had himself deceived a young and trusting woman, should by his unsuspecting victim be called upon to exercise his charity towards another victim, should be expected to denounce the crime of which he had himself been guilty! How strange to think that--Martin was interrupted in his reverie by a movement on Alice's part. She had risen to her feet, twisted her dishevelled hair into a knot behind her head, and stood pale and statuesque before him.
'I shall be ready in five minutes,' she said, 'and I shall then expect you to take me straight to where my husband's body is lying. If you refuse to do so, I shall call upon you to tell me where it is--to
give me the address. I have a right as his wife--O, my God!' she moaned--'as his widow! to demand that, and I shall do so.'
The critical time had arrived. Martin knew that, and felt stronger and more self-reliant than he had anticipated. The fact was, that he thought he saw a way of tiding the matter over until he could communicate with Humphrey Statham, and possibly get his friend to take the burden of the disclosure upon himself.
'My dear madam,' he said, 'I can quite appreciate your anxiety, which is perfectly natural under the circumstances, and which I shall be most anxious to alleviate77; but I must ask you to have a little patience. This evening--should you still wish it--you shall be taken to the place where Mr. Claxton's body was conveyed.'
'Where is that place, Mr. Gurwood?' cried Alice. There is some mystery about this which I do not understand; I insist upon knowing where this place is!'
'You shall know,' said Martin, quietly. 'The place to which the body was conveyed was Mr. Calverley's house in Great Walpole-street.'
'Mr. Calverley's! What, John's partner?'
'Mr. Calverley, of Mincing-lane. You have heard of him?'
'O, a thousand times. Mr. Claxton was a sleeping partner in the house of Calverley and Company, you know. O, of course it was quite natural that my poor darling should be carried there! I am so relieved, Mr. Gurwood. I was afraid that poor John had been taken to some horrid78 place, and thought that was the reason why you objected to my going there; but as he is at Mr. Calverley's house--'
'For that reason you must defer79 going there until the evening,' said Martin Gurwood, with more firmness than he had hitherto shown. 'This sad event has thrown the house into great confusion, and it will be necessary that I should go back and apprise80 Mrs. Calverley, whom you do not know, I think, of your intention of coming there tonight.'
'I suppose you are right,' said Alice, in a disappointed tone. 'I suppose, even at such a dreadful time as this, there are regulations and observances which must be respected. Will you promise me that you will come to me this evening?'
'Either I myself or some friend whom I can trust,' said Martin. 'And now I must leave you; for the time is short, and I have a great deal to do in it.'
He took one glance at her pale, tearful face, with even more than interest, and withdrew.
He was thinking to himself how very beautiful she was, when his reflections were checked by his catching sight of a female figure, in a black cloak, in the path before him.
On his near approach the lady raised her veil, and to his astonished eyes revealed the features of Madame Du Tertre.
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1
revolving
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| adj.旋转的，轮转式的；循环的v.（使）旋转( revolve的现在分词 )；细想 | |
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eminently
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| adv.突出地；显著地；不寻常地 | |
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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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fully
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| adv.完全地，全部地，彻底地；充分地 | |
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lodge
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| v.临时住宿，寄宿，寄存，容纳；n.传达室，小旅馆 | |
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cravat
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| n.领巾，领结；v.使穿有领结的服装，使结领结 | |
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touching
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| adj.动人的，使人感伤的 | |
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forefinger
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| n.食指 | |
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9
contented
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| adj.满意的，安心的，知足的 | |
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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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neatly
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| adv.整洁地，干净地，灵巧地，熟练地 | |
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thoroughly
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| adv.完全地，彻底地，十足地 | |
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admiration
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| n.钦佩，赞美，羡慕 | |
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latch
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| n.门闩，窗闩；弹簧锁 | |
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15
babbling
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| n.胡说，婴儿发出的咿哑声adj.胡说的v.喋喋不休( babble的现在分词 )；作潺潺声（如流水）；含糊不清地说话；泄漏秘密 | |
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hush
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| int.嘘，别出声；n.沉默，静寂；v.使安静 | |
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portico
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| n.柱廊，门廊 | |
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apprehension
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| n.理解，领悟；逮捕，拘捕；忧虑 | |
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garb
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| n.服装，装束 | |
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peculiar
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| adj.古怪的，异常的；特殊的，特有的 | |
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proceeding
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| n.行动，进行，(pl.)会议录，学报 | |
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vividly
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| adv.清楚地，鲜明地，生动地 | |
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dread
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| vt.担忧，忧虑；惧怕，不敢；n.担忧，畏惧 | |
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entreat
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| v.恳求，恳请 | |
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suspense
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| n.（对可能发生的事）紧张感，担心，挂虑 | |
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sobbed
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| 哭泣，啜泣( sob的过去式和过去分词 )； 哭诉，呜咽地说 | |
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perfectly
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| adv.完美地，无可非议地，彻底地 | |
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nervously
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| adv.神情激动地，不安地 | |
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hesitation
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| n.犹豫，踌躇 | |
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utterly
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| adv.完全地，绝对地 | |
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straightforward
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| adj.正直的，坦率的；易懂的，简单的 | |
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contingency
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| n.意外事件，可能性 | |
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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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catching
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| adj.易传染的，有魅力的，迷人的，接住 | |
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gainsay
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| v.否认，反驳 | |
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prostration
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| n. 平伏, 跪倒, 疲劳 | |
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humiliation
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| n.羞辱 | |
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malignant
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| adj.恶性的，致命的；恶意的，恶毒的 | |
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slander
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| n./v.诽谤，污蔑 | |
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40
strictly
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| adv.严厉地，严格地；严密地 | |
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41
justified
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| a.正当的，有理的 | |
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42
absolved
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| 宣告…无罪，赦免…的罪行，宽恕…的罪行( absolve的过去式和过去分词 )； 不受责难，免除责任 [义务] ,开脱（罪责） | |
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43
prettily
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| adv.优美地；可爱地 | |
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44
heartily
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| adv.衷心地，诚恳地，十分，很 | |
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45
elastic
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| n.橡皮圈，松紧带；adj.有弹性的；灵活的 | |
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46
momentary
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| adj.片刻的，瞬息的；短暂的 | |
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determined
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| adj.坚定的；有决心的 | |
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mite
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| n.极小的东西；小铜币 | |
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reprieve
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| n.暂缓执行（死刑）；v.缓期执行；给…带来缓解 | |
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abrupt
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| adj.突然的，意外的；唐突的，鲁莽的 | |
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chestnut
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| n.栗树，栗子 | |
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transparent
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| adj.明显的，无疑的；透明的 | |
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recollect
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| v.回忆，想起，记起，忆起，记得 | |
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implored
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| 恳求或乞求（某人）( implore的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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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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mere
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| adj.纯粹的；仅仅，只不过 | |
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wail
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| vt./vi.大声哀号，恸哭；呼啸，尖啸 | |
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almighty
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| adj.全能的，万能的；很大的，很强的 | |
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eternity
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| n.不朽，来世；永恒，无穷 | |
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bliss
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| n.狂喜，福佑，天赐的福 | |
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writhing
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| （因极度痛苦而）扭动或翻滚( writhe的现在分词 ) | |
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misery
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| n.痛苦，苦恼，苦难；悲惨的境遇，贫苦 | |
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63
scrap
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| n.碎片；废料；v.废弃，报废 | |
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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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iniquity
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| n.邪恶；不公正 | |
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zealous
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| adj.狂热的，热心的 | |
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fraught
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| adj.充满…的，伴有(危险等)的；忧虑的 | |
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appreciation
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| n.评价；欣赏；感谢；领会，理解；价格上涨 | |
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reproof
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| n.斥责，责备 | |
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consolation
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| n.安慰，慰问 | |
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anguish
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| n.(尤指心灵上的)极度痛苦，烦恼 | |
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idol
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| n.偶像，红人，宠儿 | |
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sobs
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| 啜泣（声），呜咽（声）( sob的名词复数 ) | |
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resounding
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| adj. 响亮的 | |
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deploring
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| v.悲叹，痛惜，强烈反对( deplore的现在分词 ) | |
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decided
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| adj.决定了的，坚决的；明显的，明确的 | |
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alleviate
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| v.减轻，缓和，缓解(痛苦等) | |
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horrid
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| adj.可怕的；令人惊恐的；恐怖的；极讨厌的 | |
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defer
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| vt.推迟，拖延；vi.(to)遵从，听从，服从 | |
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apprise
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| vt.通知，告知 | |
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