Markheim had but just entered from the daylight streets, and his eyes had not yet grown familiar with the mingled4 shine and darkness in the shop. At these pointed6 words, and before the near presence of the flame, he blinked painfully and looked aside.
The dealer chuckled8. “You come to me on Christmas Day,” he resumed, “when you know that I am alone in my house, put up my shutters9, and make a point of refusing business. Well, you will have to pay for that; you will have to pay for my loss of time, when I should be balancing my books; you will have to pay, besides, for a kind of manner that I remark in you to-day very strongly. I am the essence of discretion10, and ask no awkward questions; but when a customer cannot look me in the eye, he has to pay for it.” The dealer once more chuckled; and then, changing to his usual business voice, though still with a note of irony11, “You can give, as usual, a clear account of how you came into the possession of the object?” he continued. “Still your uncle’s cabinet? A remarkable12 collector, sir!”
And the little pale, round-shouldered dealer stood almost on tip-toe, looking over the top of his gold spectacles, and nodding his head with every mark of disbelief. Markheim returned his gaze with one of infinite pity, and a touch of horror.
“This time,” said he, “you are in error. I have not come to sell, but to buy. I have no curios to dispose of; my uncle’s cabinet is bare to the wainscot; even were it still intact, I have done well on the Stock Exchange, and should more likely add to it than otherwise, and my errand to-day is simplicity14 itself. I seek a Christmas present for a lady,” he continued, waxing more fluent as he struck into the speech he had prepared; “and certainly I owe you every excuse for thus disturbing you upon so small a matter. But the thing was neglected yesterday; I must produce my little compliment at dinner; and, as you very well know, a rich marriage is not a thing to be neglected.”
There followed a pause, during which the dealer seemed to weigh this statement incredulously. The ticking of many clocks among the curious lumber16 of the shop, and the faint rushing of the cabs in a near thoroughfare, filled up the interval17 of silence.
“Well, sir,” said the dealer, “be it so. You are an old customer after all; and if, as you say, you have the chance of a good marriage, far be it from me to be an obstacle. Here is a nice thing for a lady now,” he went on, “this hand-glass—fifteenth century, warranted; comes from a good collection, too; but I reserve the name, in the interests of my customer, who was just like yourself, my dear sir, the nephew and sole heir of a remarkable collector.”
The dealer, while he thus ran on in his dry and biting voice, had stooped to take the object from its place; and, as he had done so, a shock had passed through Markheim, a start both of hand and foot, a sudden leap of many tumultuous passions to the face. It passed as swiftly as it came, and left no trace beyond a certain trembling of the hand that now received the glass.
“A glass,” he said hoarsely18, and then paused, and repeated it more clearly. “A glass? For Christmas? Surely not?”
“And why not?” cried the dealer. “Why not a glass?”
Markheim was looking upon him with an indefinable expression. “You ask me why not?” he said. “Why, look here—look in it—look at yourself! Do you like to see it? No! nor I—nor any man.”
The little man had jumped back when Markheim had so suddenly confronted him with the mirror; but now, perceiving there was nothing worse on hand, he chuckled. “Your future lady, sir, must be pretty hard favoured,” said he.
“I ask you,” said Markheim, “for a Christmas present, and you give me this—this damned reminder20 of years, and sins and follies—this hand-conscience! Did you mean it? Had you a thought in your mind? Tell me. It will be better for you if you do. Come, tell me about yourself. I hazard a guess now, that you are in secret a very charitable man.”
The dealer looked closely at his companion. It was very odd, Markheim did not appear to be laughing; there was something in his face like an eager sparkle of hope, but nothing of mirth.
“What are you driving at?” the dealer asked.
“Not charitable?” returned the other, gloomily. “Not charitable; not pious21; not scrupulous22; unloving, unbeloved; a hand to get money, a safe to keep it. Is that all? Dear God, man, is that all?”
“I will tell you what it is,” began the dealer, with some sharpness, and then broke off again into a chuckle7. “But I see this is a love match of yours, and you have been drinking the lady’s health.”
“Ah!” cried Markheim, with a strange curiosity. “Ah, have you been in love? Tell me about that.”
“I,” cried the dealer. “I in love! I never had the time, nor have I the time to-day for all this nonsense. Will you take the glass?”
“Where is the hurry?” returned Markheim. “It is very pleasant to stand here talking; and life is so short and insecure that I would not hurry away from any pleasure—no, not even from so mild a one as this. We should rather cling, cling to what little we can get, like a man at a cliff’s edge. Every second is a cliff, if you think upon it—a cliff a mile high—high enough, if we fall, to dash us out of every feature of humanity. Hence it is best to talk pleasantly. Let us talk of each other; why should we wear this mask? Let us be confidential23. Who knows? we might become friends.”
“I have just one word to say to you,” said the dealer. “Either make your purchase, or walk out of my shop.”
“True, true,” said Markheim. “Enough fooling. To business. Show me something else.”
The dealer stooped once more, this time to replace the glass upon the shelf, his thin blond hair falling over his eyes as he did so. Markheim moved a little nearer, with one hand in the pocket of his greatcoat; he drew himself up and filled his lungs; at the same time many different emotions were depicted24 together on his face—terror, horror, and resolve, fascination25 and a physical repulsion; and through a haggard lift of his upper lip, his teeth looked out.
“This, perhaps, may suit,” observed the dealer. And then, as he began to rearise, Markheim bounded from behind upon his victim. The long, skewer-like dagger26 flashed and fell. The dealer struggled like a hen, striking his temple on the shelf, and then tumbled on the floor in a heap.
Time had some score of small voices in that shop—some stately and slow as was becoming to their great age; others garrulous27 and hurried. All these told out the seconds in an intricate chorus of tickings. Then the passage of a lad’s feet, heavily running on the pavement, broke in upon these smaller voices and startled Markheim into the consciousness of his surroundings. He looked about him awfully28. The candle stood on the counter, its flame solemnly wagging in a draught29; and by that inconsiderable movement the whole room was filled with noiseless bustle30 and kept heaving like a sea: the tall shadows nodding, the gross blots31 of darkness swelling32 and dwindling33 as with respiration34, the faces of the portraits and the china gods changing and wavering like images in water. The inner door stood ajar, and peered into that leaguer of shadows with a long slit35 of daylight like a pointing finger.
From these fear-stricken rovings, Markheim’s eyes returned to the body of his victim, where it lay, both humped and sprawling36, incredibly small and strangely meaner than in life. In these poor, miserly clothes, in that ungainly attitude, the dealer lay like so much sawdust. Markheim had feared to see it, and, lo! it was nothing. And yet, as he gazed, this bundle of old clothes and pool of blood began to find eloquent37 voices. There it must lie; there was none to work the cunning hinges or direct the miracle of locomotion38; there it must lie till it was found. Found! ay, and then? Then would this dead flesh lift up a cry that would ring over England, and fill the world with the echoes of pursuit. Ay, dead or not, this was still the enemy. “Time was that when the brains were out,” he thought; and the first word struck into his mind. Time, now that the deed was accomplished—time, which had closed for the victim, had become instant and momentous39 for the slayer40.
The thought was yet in his mind, when, first one and then another, with every variety of pace and voice—one deep as the bell from a cathedral turret41, another ringing on its treble notes the prelude42 of a waltz,—the clocks began to strike the hour of three in the afternoon.
The sudden outbreak of so many tongues in that dumb chamber43 staggered him. He began to bestir himself, going to and fro with the candle, beleaguered44 by moving shadows, and startled to the soul by chance reflections. In many rich mirrors, some of home design, some from Venice or Amsterdam, he saw his face repeated and repeated, as it were an army of spies; his own eyes met and detected him; and the sound of his own steps, lightly as they fell, vexed45 the surrounding quiet. And still, as he continued to fill his pockets, his mind accused him with a sickening iteration, of the thousand faults of his design. He should have chosen a more quiet hour; he should have prepared an alibi46; he should not have used a knife; he should have been more cautious, and only bound and gagged the dealer, and not killed him; he should have been more bold, and killed the servant also; he should have done all things otherwise. Poignant47 regrets, weary, incessant48 toiling49 of the mind to change what was unchangeable, to plan what was now useless, to be the architect of the irrevocable past. Meanwhile, and behind all this activity, brute50 terrors, like the scurrying51 of rats in a deserted52 attic53, filled the more remote chambers54 of his brain with riot; the hand of the constable55 would fall heavy on his shoulder, and his nerves would jerk like a hooked fish; or he beheld56, in galloping57 defile58, the dock, the prison, the gallows59, and the black coffin60.
Terror of the people in the street sat down before his mind like a besieging61 army. It was impossible, he thought, but that some rumour62 of the struggle must have reached their ears and set on edge their curiosity; and now, in all the neighbouring houses, he divined them sitting motionless and with uplifted ear—solitary people, condemned63 to spend Christmas dwelling64 alone on memories of the past, and now startingly recalled from that tender exercise; happy family parties struck into silence round the table, the mother still with raised finger—every degree and age and humour, but all, by their own hearths65, prying66 and hearkening and weaving the rope that was to hang him. Sometimes it seemed to him he could not move too softly; the clink of the tall Bohemian goblets67 rang out loudly like a bell; and alarmed by the bigness of the ticking, he was tempted68 to stop the clocks. And then, again, with a swift transition of his terrors, the very silence of the place appeared a source of peril69, and a thing to strike and freeze the passer-by; and he would step more boldly, and bustle aloud among the contents of the shop, and imitate, with elaborate bravado70, the movements of a busy man at ease in his own house.
But he was now so pulled about by different alarms that, while one portion of his mind was still alert and cunning, another trembled on the brink71 of lunacy. One hallucination in particular took a strong hold on his credulity. The neighbour hearkening with white face beside his window, the passer-by arrested by a horrible surmise72 on the pavement—these could at worst suspect, they could not know; through the brick walls and shuttered windows only sounds could penetrate73. But here, within the house, was he alone? He knew he was; he had watched the servant set forth74 sweet-hearting, in her poor best, “out for the day” written in every ribbon and smile. Yes, he was alone, of course; and yet, in the bulk of empty house above him, he could surely hear a stir of delicate footing; he was surely conscious, inexplicably75 conscious of some presence. Ay, surely; to every room and corner of the house his imagination followed it; and now it was a faceless thing, and yet had eyes to see with; and again it was a shadow of himself; and yet again behold76 the image of the dead dealer, reinspired with cunning and hatred78.
At times, with a strong effort, he would glance at the open door which still seemed to repel79 his eyes. The house was tall, the skylight small and dirty, the day blind with fog; and the light that filtered down to the ground story was exceedingly faint, and showed dimly on the threshold of the shop. And yet, in that strip of doubtful brightness, did there not hang wavering a shadow?
Suddenly, from the street outside, a very jovial80 gentleman began to beat with a staff on the shop door, accompanying his blows with shouts and railleries in which the dealer was continually called upon by name. Markheim, smitten81 into ice, glanced at the dead man. But no! he lay quite still; he was fled away far beyond earshot of these blows and shoutings; he was sunk beneath seas of silence; and his name, which would once have caught his notice above the howling of a storm, had become an empty sound. And presently the jovial gentleman desisted from his knocking and departed.
Here was a broad hint to hurry what remained to be done, to get forth from this accusing neighbourhood, to plunge82 into a bath of London multitudes, and to reach, on the other side of day, that haven83 of safety and apparent innocence—his bed. One visitor had come; at any moment another might follow and be more obstinate84. To have done the deed, and yet not to reap the profit, would be too abhorrent85 a failure. The money—that was now Markheim’s concern; and as a means to that, the keys.
He glanced over his shoulder at the open door, where the shadow was still lingering and shivering; and with no conscious repugnance86 of the mind, yet with a tremor87 of the belly88, he drew near the body of his victim. The human character had quite departed. Like a suit half-stuffed with bran, the limbs lay scattered89, the trunk doubled, on the floor; and yet the thing repelled90 him. Although so dingy91 and inconsiderable to the eye, he feared it might have more significance to the touch. He took the body by the shoulders, and turned it on its back. It was strangely light and supple92, and the limbs, as if they had been broken, fell into the oddest postures93. The face was robbed of all expression; but it was as pale as wax, and shockingly smeared94 with blood about one temple. That was, for Markheim, the one displeasing95 circumstance. It carried him back, upon the instant, to a certain fair-day in a fishers’ village: a gray day, a piping wind, a crowd upon the street, the blare of brasses96, the booming of drums, the nasal voice of a ballad97 singer; and a boy going to and fro, buried overhead in the crowd and divided between interest and fear, until, coming out upon the chief place of concourse, he beheld a booth and a great screen with pictures, dismally98 designed, garishly99 coloured—Brownrigg with her apprentice100, the Mannings with their murdered guest, Weare in the death-grip of Thurtell, and a score besides of famous crimes. The thing was as clear as an illusion He was once again that little boy; he was looking once again, and with the same sense of physical revolt, at these vile101 pictures; he was still stunned102 by the thumping103 of the drums. A bar of that day’s music returned upon his memory; and at that, for the first time, a qualm came over him, a breath of nausea104, a sudden weakness of the joints105, which he must instantly resist and conquer.
He judged it more prudent106 to confront than to flee from these considerations, looking the more hardily107 in the dead face, bending his mind to realise the nature and greatness of his crime. So little a while ago that face had moved with every change of sentiment, that pale mouth had spoken, that body had been all on fire with governable energies; and now, and by his act, that piece of life had been arrested, as the horologist, with interjected finger, arrests the beating of the clock. So he reasoned in vain; he could rise to no more remorseful108 consciousness; the same heart which had shuddered109 before the painted effigies110 of crime, looked on its reality unmoved. At best, he felt a gleam of pity for one who had been endowed in vain with all those faculties111 that can make the world a garden of enchantment112, one who had never lived and who was now dead. But of penitence113, no, not a tremor.
With that, shaking himself clear of these considerations, he found the keys and advanced toward the open door of the shop. Outside, it had begun to rain smartly, and the sound of the shower upon the roof had banished114 silence. Like some dripping cavern115, the chambers of the house were haunted by an incessant echoing, which filled the ear and mingled with the ticking of the clocks. And, as Markheim approached the door, he seemed to hear, in answer to his own cautious tread, the steps of another foot withdrawing up the stair. The shadow still palpitated loosely on the threshold. He threw a ton’s weight of resolve upon his muscles, and drew back the door.
The faint, foggy daylight glimmered116 dimly on the bare floor and stairs; on the bright suit of armour118 posted, halbert in hand, upon the landing; and on the dark wood-carvings, and framed pictures that hung against the yellow panels of the wainscot. So loud was the beating of the rain through all the house that, in Markheim’s ears, it began to be distinguished119 into many different sounds. Footsteps and sighs, the tread of regiments120 marching in the distance, the chink of money in the counting, and the creaking of doors held stealthily ajar, appeared to mingle5 with the patter of the drops upon the cupola and the gushing121 of the water in the pipes. The sense that he was not alone grew upon him to the verge123 of madness. On every side he was haunted and begirt by presences. He heard them moving in the upper chambers; from the shop, he heard the dead man getting to his legs; and as he began with a great effort to mount the stairs, feet fled quietly before him and followed stealthily behind. If he were but deaf, he thought, how tranquilly124 he would possess his soul! And then again, and hearkening with ever fresh attention, he blessed himself for that unresting sense which held the outposts and stood a trusty sentinel upon his life. His head turned continually on his neck; his eyes, which seemed starting from their orbits, scouted125 on every side, and on every side were half rewarded as with the tail of something nameless vanishing. The four and twenty steps to the first floor were four and twenty agonies.
On that first story, the doors stood ajar—three of them, like three ambushes126, shaking his nerves like the throats of cannon127. He could never again, he felt, be sufficiently128 immured129 and fortified130 from men’s observing eyes; he longed to be home, girt in by walls, buried among bedclothes, and invisible to all but God. And at that thought he wondered a little, recollecting131 tales of other murderers and the fear they were said to entertain of heavenly avengers. It was not so, at least, with him. He feared the laws of nature, lest, in their callous132 and immutable133 procedure, they should preserve some damning evidence of his crime. He feared tenfold more, with a slavish, superstitious134 terror, some scission in the continuity of man’s experience, some wilful135 illegality of nature. He played a game of skill, depending on the rules, calculating consequence from cause; and what if nature, as the defeated tyrant136 overthrew137 the chess-board, should break the mould of their succession? The like had befallen Napoleon (so writers said) when the winter changed the time of its appearance. The like might befall Markheim: the solid walls might become transparent138 and reveal his doings like those of bees in a glass hive; the stout139 planks140 might yield under his foot like quicksands and detain him in their clutch. Ay, and there were soberer accidents that might destroy him; if, for instance, the house should fall and imprison141 him beside the body of his victim, or the house next door should fly on fire, and the firemen invade him from all sides. These things he feared; and, in a sense, these things might be called the hands of God reached forth against sin. But about God himself he was at ease; his act was doubtless exceptional, but so were his excuses, which God knew; it was there, and not among men, that he felt sure of justice.
When he had got safe into the drawing-room, and shut the door behind him, he was aware of a respite142 from alarms. The room was quite dismantled143, uncarpeted besides, and strewn with packing-cases and incongruous furniture; several great pier-glasses, in which he beheld himself at various angles, like an actor on a stage; many pictures, framed and unframed, standing144, with their faces to the wall; a fine Sheraton sideboard, a cabinet of marquetry, and a great old bed, with tapestry145 hangings. The windows opened to the floor; but by great good fortune the lower part of the shutters had been closed, and this concealed146 him from the neighbours. Here, then, Markheim drew in a packing-case before the cabinet, and began to search among the keys. It was a long business, for there were many; and it was irksome, besides; for, after all, there might be nothing in the cabinet, and time was on the wing. But the closeness of the occupation sobered him. With the tail of his eye he saw the door—even glanced at it from time to time directly, like a besieged147 commander pleased to verify the good estate of his defences. But in truth he was at peace. The rain falling in the street sounded natural and pleasant. Presently, on the other side, the notes of a piano were wakened to the music of a hymn148, and the voices of many children took up the air and words. How stately, how comfortable was the melody! How fresh the youthful voices! Markheim gave ear to it smilingly, as he sorted out the keys; and his mind was thronged149 with answerable ideas and images: church-going children, and the pealing150 of the high organ; children afield, bathers by the brookside, ramblers on the brambly common, kite-flyers in the windy and cloud-navigated sky; and then, at another cadence151 of the hymn, back again to church, and the somnolence152 of summer Sundays, and the high genteel voice of the parson (which he smiled a little to recall) and the painted Jacobean tombs, and the dim lettering of the Ten Commandments in the chancel.
And as he sat thus, at once busy and absent, he was startled to his feet. A flash of ice, a flash of fire, a bursting gush122 of blood, went over him, and then he stood transfixed and thrilling. A step mounted the stair slowly and steadily153, and presently a hand was laid upon the knob, and the lock clicked, and the door opened.
Fear held Markheim in a vice154. What to expect he knew not—whether the dead man walking, or the official ministers of human justice, or some chance witness blindly stumbling in to consign155 him to the gallows. But when a face was thrust into the aperture156, glanced round the room, looked at him, nodded and smiled as if in friendly recognition, and then withdrew again, and the door closed behind it, his fear broke loose from his control in a hoarse19 cry. At the sound of this the visitant returned.
“Did you call me?” he asked, pleasantly, and with that he entered the room and closed the door behind him.
Markheim stood and gazed at him with all his eyes. Perhaps there was a film upon his sight, but the outlines of the new comer seemed to change and waver like those of the idols157 in the wavering candle-light of the shop; and at times he thought he knew him; and at times he thought he bore a likeness158 to himself; and always, like a lump of living terror, there lay in his bosom159 the conviction that this thing was not of the earth and not of God.
And yet the creature had a strange air of the commonplace, as he stood looking on Markheim with a smile; and when he added, “You are looking for the money, I believe?” it was in the tones of everyday politeness.
Markheim made no answer.
“I should warn you,” resumed the other, “that the maid has left her sweetheart earlier than usual and will soon be here. If Mr. Markheim be found in this house, I need not describe to him the consequences.”
“You know me?” cried the murderer.
The visitor smiled. “You have long been a favourite of mine,” he said; “and I have long observed and often sought to help you.”
“What are you?” cried Markheim; “the devil?”
“What I may be,” returned the other, “cannot affect the service I propose to render you.”
“It can,” cried Markheim; “it does! Be helped by you? No, never; not by you! You do not know me yet; thank God, you do not know me!”
“I know you,” replied the visitant, with a sort of kind severity or rather firmness. “I know you to the soul.”
“Know me!” cried Markheim. “Who can do so? My life is but a travesty160 and slander161 on myself. I have lived to belie13 my nature. All men do; all men are better than this disguise that grows about and stifles162 them. You see each dragged away by life, like one whom bravos have seized and muffled163 in a cloak. If they had their own control—if you could see their faces, they would be altogether different, they would shine out for heroes and saints! I am worse than most; myself is more overlaid; my excuse is known to me and God. But, had I the time, I could disclose myself.”
“To me?” inquired the visitant.
“To you before all,” returned the murderer. “I supposed you were intelligent. I thought—since you exist—you would prove a reader of the heart. And yet you would propose to judge me by my acts! Think of it—my acts! I was born and I have lived in a land of giants; giants have dragged me by the wrists since I was born out of my mother—the giants of circumstance. And you would judge me by my acts! But can you not look within? Can you not understand that evil is hateful to me? Can you not see within me the clear writing of conscience, never blurred164 by any wilful sophistry165, although too often disregarded? Can you not read me for a thing that surely must be common as humanity—the unwilling166 sinner?”
“All this is very feelingly expressed,” was the reply, “but it regards me not. These points of consistency167 are beyond my province, and I care not in the least by what compulsion you may have been dragged away, so as you are but carried in the right direction. But time flies; the servant delays, looking in the faces of the crowd and at the pictures on the hoardings, but still she keeps moving nearer; and remember, it is as if the gallows itself was striding towards you through the Christmas streets! Shall I help you—I, who know all? Shall I tell you where to find the money?”
“For what price?” asked Markheim.
“I offer you the service for a Christmas gift,” returned the other.
Markheim could not refrain from smiling with a kind of bitter triumph. “No,” said he, “I will take nothing at your hands; if I were dying of thirst, and it was your hand that put the pitcher168 to my lips, I should find the courage to refuse. It may be credulous15, but I will do nothing to commit myself to evil.”
“I have no objection to a death-bed repentance,” observed the visitant.
“Because you disbelieve their efficacy!” Markheim cried.
“I do not say so,” returned the other; “but I look on these things from a different side, and when the life is done my interest falls. The man has lived to serve me, to spread black looks under colour of religion, or to sow tares170 in the wheat-field, as you do, in a course of weak compliance171 with desire. Now that he draws so near to his deliverance, he can add but one act of service: to repent169, to die smiling, and thus to build up in confidence and hope the more timorous172 of my surviving followers173. I am not so hard a master. Try me; accept my help. Please yourself in life as you have done hitherto; please yourself more amply, spread your elbows at the board; and when the night begins to fall and the curtains to be drawn174, I tell you, for your greater comfort, that you will find it even easy to compound your quarrel with your conscience, and to make a truckling peace with God. I came but now from such a death-bed, and the room was full of sincere mourners, listening to the man’s last words; and when I looked into that face, which had been set as a flint against mercy, I found it smiling with hope.”
“And do you, then, suppose me such a creature?” asked Markheim. “Do you think I have no more generous aspirations175 than to sin and sin and sin and at last sneak176 into heaven? My heart rises at the thought. Is this, then, your experience of mankind? or is it because you find me with red hands that you presume such baseness? And is this crime of murder indeed so impious as to dry up the very springs of good?”
“Murder is to me no special category,” replied the other. “All sins are murder, even as all life is war. I behold your race, like starving mariners177 on a raft, plucking crusts out of the hands of famine and feeding on each other’s lives. I follow sins beyond the moment of their acting178; I find in all that the last consequence is death, and to my eyes, the pretty maid who thwarts179 her mother with such taking graces on a question of a ball, drips no less visibly with human gore180 than such a murderer as yourself. Do I say that I follow sins? I follow virtues181 also. They differ not by the thickness of a nail; they are both scythes182 for the reaping angel of Death. Evil, for which I live, consists not in action but in character. The bad man is dear to me, not the bad act, whose fruits, if we could follow them far enough down the hurtling cataract183 of the ages, might yet be found more blessed than those of the rarest virtues. And it is not because you have killed a dealer, but because you are Markheim, that I offer to forward your escape.”
“I will lay my heart open to you,” answered Markheim. “This crime on which you find me is my last. On my way to it I have learned many lessons; itself is a lesson—a momentous lesson. Hitherto I have been driven with revolt to what I would not; I was a bond-slave to poverty, driven and scourged184. There are robust185 virtues that can stand in these temptations; mine was not so; I had a thirst of pleasure. But to-day, and out of this deed, I pluck both warning and riches—both the power and a fresh resolve to be myself. I become in all things a free actor in the world; I begin to see myself all changed, these hands the agents of good, this heart at peace. Something comes over me out of the past—something of what I have dreamed on Sabbath evenings to the sound of the church organ, of what I forecast when I shed tears over noble books, or talked, an innocent child, with my mother. There lies my life; I have wandered a few years, but now I see once more my city of destination.”
“You are to use this money on the Stock Exchange, I think?” remarked the visitor; “and there, if I mistake not, you have already lost some thousands?”
“Ah,” said Markheim, “but this time I have a sure thing.”
“This time, again, you will lose,” replied the visitor quietly.
“Ah, but I keep back the half!” cried Markheim.
“That also you will lose,” said the other.
The sweat started upon Markheim’s brow. “Well then, what matter?” he exclaimed. “Say it be lost, say I am plunged186 again in poverty, shall one part of me, and that the worse, continue until the end to override187 the better? Evil and good run strong in me, hailing me both ways. I do not love the one thing; I love all. I can conceive great deeds, renunciations, martyrdoms; and though I be fallen to such a crime as murder, pity is no stranger to my thoughts. I pity the poor; who knows their trials better than myself? I pity and help them. I prize love; I love honest laughter; there is no good thing nor true thing on earth but I love it from my heart. And are my vices188 only to direct my life, and my virtues to lie without effect, like some passive lumber of the mind? Not so; good, also, is a spring of acts.”
But the visitant raised his finger. “For six and thirty years that you have been in this world,” said he, “through many changes of fortune and varieties of humour, I have watched you steadily fall. Fifteen years ago you would have started at a theft. Three years back you would have blenched189 at the name of murder. Is there any crime, is there any cruelty or meanness, from which you still recoil190? Five years from now I shall detect you in the fact! Downward, downward, lies your way; nor can anything but death avail to stop you.”
“It is true,” Markheim said huskily, “I have in some degree complied with evil. But it is so with all; the very saints, in the mere117 exercise of living, grow less dainty, and take on the tone of their surroundings.”
“I will propound191 to you one simple question,” said the other; “and as you answer I shall read to you your moral horoscope. You have grown in many things more lax; possibly you do right to be so; and at any account, it is the same with all men. But granting that, are you in any one particular, however trifling192, more difficult to please with your own conduct, or do you go in all things with a looser rein77?”
“In any one?” repeated Markheim, with an anguish193 of consideration. “No,” he added, with despair; “in none! I have gone down in all.”
“Then,” said the visitor, “content yourself with what you are, for you will never change; and the words of your part on this stage are irrevocably written down.”
Markheim stood for a long while silent, and, indeed, it was the visitor who first broke the silence. “That being so,” he said, “shall I show you the money?”
“And grace?” cried Markheim.
“Have you not tried it?” returned the other. “Two or three years ago did I not see you on the platform of revival194 meetings, and was not your voice the loudest in the hymn?”
“It is true,” said Markheim; “and I see clearly what remains195 for me by way of duty. I thank you for these lessons from my soul; my eyes are opened, and I behold myself at last for what I am.”
At this moment, the sharp note of the door-bell rang through the house; and the visitant, as though this were some concerted signal for which he had been waiting, changed at once in his demeanour.
“The maid!” he cried. “She has returned, as I forewarned you, and there is now before you one more difficult passage. Her master, you must say, is ill; you must let her in, with an assured but rather serious countenance196; no smiles, no overacting, and I promise you success! Once the girl within, and the door closed, the same dexterity197 that has already rid you of the dealer will relieve you of this last danger in your path. Thenceforward you have the whole evening—the whole night, if needful—to ransack198 the treasures of the house and to make good your safety. This is help that comes to you with the mask of danger. Up!” he cried; “up, friend. Your life hangs trembling in the scales; up, and act!”
Markheim steadily regarded his counsellor. “If I be condemned to evil acts,” he said, “there is still one door of freedom open: I can cease from action. If my life be an ill thing, I can lay it down. Though I be, as you say truly, at the beck of every small temptation, I can yet, by one decisive gesture, place myself beyond the reach of all. My love of good is damned to barrenness; it may, and let it be! But I have still my hatred of evil; and from that, to your galling199 disappointment, you shall see that I can draw both energy and courage.”
The features of the visitor began to undergo a wonderful and lovely change: they brightened and softened200 with a tender triumph, and, even as they brightened, faded and dislimned. But Markheim did not pause to watch or understand the transformation201. He opened the door and went downstairs very slowly, thinking to himself. His past went soberly before him; he beheld it as it was, ugly and strenuous202 like a dream, random203 as chance medley—a scene of defeat. Life, as he thus reviewed it, tempted him no longer; but on the further side he perceived a quiet haven for his bark. He paused in the passage, and looked into the shop, where the candle still burned by the dead body. It was strangely silent. Thoughts of the dealer swarmed204 into his mind, as he stood gazing. And then the bell once more broke out into impatient clamour.
He confronted the maid upon the threshold with something like a smile.
“You had better go for the police,” said he; “I have killed your master.”
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1
dealer
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| n.商人，贩子 | |
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dividend
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| n.红利，股息；回报，效益 | |
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virtue
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| n.德行，美德；贞操；优点；功效，效力 | |
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mingled
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| 混合，混入( mingle的过去式和过去分词 )； 混进，与…交往[联系] | |
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5
mingle
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| vt.使混合，使相混；vi.混合起来；相交往 | |
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6
pointed
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| adj.尖的，直截了当的 | |
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chuckle
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| vi.／n.轻声笑，咯咯笑 | |
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chuckled
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| 轻声地笑( chuckle的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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shutters
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| 百叶窗( shutter的名词复数 )； （照相机的）快门 | |
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discretion
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| n.谨慎；随意处理 | |
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irony
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| n.反语，冷嘲；具有讽刺意味的事，嘲弄 | |
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12
remarkable
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| adj.显著的，异常的，非凡的，值得注意的 | |
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belie
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| v.掩饰，证明为假 | |
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14
simplicity
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| n.简单，简易；朴素；直率，单纯 | |
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credulous
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| adj.轻信的，易信的 | |
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lumber
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| n.木材，木料；v.以破旧东西堆满；伐木；笨重移动 | |
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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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18
hoarsely
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| adv.嘶哑地 | |
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19
hoarse
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| adj.嘶哑的，沙哑的 | |
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20
reminder
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| n.提醒物，纪念品；暗示，提示 | |
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21
pious
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| adj.虔诚的；道貌岸然的 | |
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scrupulous
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| adj.审慎的，小心翼翼的，完全的，纯粹的 | |
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confidential
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| adj.秘（机）密的，表示信任的，担任机密工作的 | |
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depicted
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| 描绘，描画( depict的过去式和过去分词 )； 描述 | |
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25
fascination
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| n.令人着迷的事物，魅力，迷恋 | |
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26
dagger
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| n.匕首，短剑，剑号 | |
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27
garrulous
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| adj.唠叨的，多话的 | |
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28
awfully
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| adv.可怕地，非常地，极端地 | |
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29
draught
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| n.拉，牵引，拖；一网（饮，吸，阵)；顿服药量，通风；v.起草，设计 | |
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30
bustle
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| v.喧扰地忙乱，匆忙，奔忙；n.忙碌；喧闹 | |
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31
blots
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| 污渍( blot的名词复数 )； 墨水渍； 错事； 污点 | |
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32
swelling
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| n.肿胀 | |
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33
dwindling
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| adj.逐渐减少的v.逐渐变少或变小( dwindle的现在分词 ) | |
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34
respiration
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| n.呼吸作用；一次呼吸；植物光合作用 | |
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slit
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| n.狭长的切口；裂缝；vt.切开，撕裂 | |
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sprawling
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| adj.蔓生的，不规则地伸展的v.伸开四肢坐[躺]( sprawl的现在分词 )；蔓延；杂乱无序地拓展；四肢伸展坐着（或躺着） | |
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37
eloquent
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| adj.雄辩的，口才流利的；明白显示出的 | |
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locomotion
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| n.运动，移动 | |
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39
momentous
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| adj.重要的，重大的 | |
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40
slayer
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| n. 杀人者，凶手 | |
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41
turret
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| n.塔楼，角塔 | |
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42
prelude
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| n.序言，前兆，序曲 | |
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43
chamber
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| n.房间，寝室；会议厅；议院；会所 | |
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44
beleaguered
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| adj.受到围困[围攻]的；包围的v.围攻( beleaguer的过去式和过去分词)；困扰；骚扰 | |
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45
vexed
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| adj.争论不休的；（指问题等）棘手的；争论不休的问题；烦恼的v.使烦恼( vex的过去式和过去分词 )；使苦恼；使生气；详细讨论 | |
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46
alibi
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| n.某人当时不在犯罪现场的申辩或证明；借口 | |
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47
poignant
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| adj.令人痛苦的，辛酸的，惨痛的 | |
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48
incessant
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| adj.不停的，连续的 | |
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49
toiling
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| 长时间或辛苦地工作( toil的现在分词 )； 艰难缓慢地移动，跋涉 | |
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50
brute
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| n.野兽，兽性 | |
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51
scurrying
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| v.急匆匆地走( scurry的现在分词 ) | |
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52
deserted
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| adj.荒芜的，荒废的，无人的，被遗弃的 | |
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53
attic
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| n.顶楼，屋顶室 | |
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54
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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55
constable
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| n.(英国)警察，警官 | |
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56
beheld
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| v.看，注视( behold的过去式和过去分词 )；瞧；看呀；（叙述中用于引出某人意外的出现）哎哟 | |
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57
galloping
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| adj. 飞驰的, 急性的 动词gallop的现在分词形式 | |
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58
defile
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| v.弄污，弄脏；n.(山间)小道 | |
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59
gallows
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| n.绞刑架，绞台 | |
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60
coffin
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| n.棺材，灵柩 | |
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61
besieging
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| 包围，围困，围攻( besiege的现在分词 ) | |
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62
rumour
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| n.谣言，谣传，传闻 | |
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63
condemned
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| adj. 被责难的, 被宣告有罪的 动词condemn的过去式和过去分词 | |
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64
dwelling
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| n.住宅，住所，寓所 | |
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65
hearths
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| 壁炉前的地板，炉床，壁炉边( hearth的名词复数 ) | |
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66
prying
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| adj.爱打听的v.打听，刺探（他人的私事）( pry的现在分词 )；撬开 | |
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67
goblets
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| n.高脚酒杯( goblet的名词复数 ) | |
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68
tempted
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| v.怂恿（某人）干不正当的事；冒…的险（tempt的过去分词） | |
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69
peril
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| n.(严重的)危险；危险的事物 | |
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70
bravado
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| n.虚张声势，故作勇敢，逞能 | |
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71
brink
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| n.(悬崖、河流等的)边缘，边沿 | |
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72
surmise
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| v./n.猜想，推测 | |
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73
penetrate
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| v.透(渗)入；刺入，刺穿；洞察，了解 | |
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74
forth
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| adv.向前；向外，往外 | |
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75
inexplicably
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| adv.无法说明地，难以理解地，令人难以理解的是 | |
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76
behold
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| v.看，注视，看到 | |
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77
rein
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| n.疆绳，统治，支配；vt.以僵绳控制，统治 | |
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78
hatred
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| n.憎恶，憎恨，仇恨 | |
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79
repel
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| v.击退，抵制，拒绝，排斥 | |
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80
jovial
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| adj.快乐的，好交际的 | |
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81
smitten
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| 猛打，重击，打击( smite的过去分词 ) | |
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82
plunge
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| v.跳入，(使)投入，(使)陷入；猛冲 | |
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83
haven
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| n.安全的地方，避难所，庇护所 | |
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84
obstinate
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| adj.顽固的，倔强的，不易屈服的，较难治愈的 | |
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85
abhorrent
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| adj.可恶的，可恨的，讨厌的 | |
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86
repugnance
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| n.嫌恶 | |
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87
tremor
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| n.震动，颤动，战栗，兴奋，地震 | |
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88
belly
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| n.肚子，腹部；(像肚子一样)鼓起的部分，膛 | |
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89
scattered
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| adj.分散的，稀疏的；散步的；疏疏落落的 | |
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90
repelled
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| v.击退( repel的过去式和过去分词 )；使厌恶；排斥；推开 | |
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91
dingy
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| adj.昏暗的，肮脏的 | |
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92
supple
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| adj.柔软的，易弯的，逢迎的，顺从的，灵活的；vt.使柔软，使柔顺，使顺从；vi.变柔软，变柔顺 | |
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93
postures
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| 姿势( posture的名词复数 )； 看法； 态度； 立场 | |
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94
smeared
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| 弄脏； 玷污； 涂抹； 擦上 | |
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95
displeasing
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| 不愉快的，令人发火的 | |
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96
brasses
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| n.黄铜( brass的名词复数 )；铜管乐器；钱；黄铜饰品（尤指马挽具上的黄铜圆片） | |
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97
ballad
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| n.歌谣，民谣，流行爱情歌曲 | |
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98
dismally
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| adv.阴暗地，沉闷地 | |
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99
garishly
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| adv.鲜艳夺目地，俗不可耐地；华丽地 | |
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100
apprentice
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| n.学徒，徒弟 | |
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101
vile
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| adj.卑鄙的，可耻的，邪恶的；坏透的 | |
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102
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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103
thumping
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| adj.重大的，巨大的；重击的；尺码大的；极好的adv.极端地；非常地v.重击(thump的现在分词)；狠打；怦怦地跳；全力支持 | |
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104
nausea
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| n.作呕，恶心；极端的憎恶(或厌恶) | |
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105
joints
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| 接头( joint的名词复数 )； 关节； 公共场所（尤指价格低廉的饮食和娱乐场所） （非正式）； 一块烤肉 （英式英语） | |
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106
prudent
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| adj.谨慎的，有远见的，精打细算的 | |
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107
hardily
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| 耐劳地，大胆地，蛮勇地 | |
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108
remorseful
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| adj.悔恨的 | |
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109
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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110
effigies
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| n.（人的）雕像，模拟像，肖像( effigy的名词复数 ) | |
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111
faculties
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| n.能力( faculty的名词复数 )；全体教职员；技巧；院 | |
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112
enchantment
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| n.迷惑，妖术，魅力 | |
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113
penitence
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| n.忏悔，赎罪；悔过 | |
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114
banished
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| v.放逐，驱逐( banish的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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115
cavern
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| n.洞穴，大山洞 | |
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116
glimmered
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| v.发闪光，发微光( glimmer的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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117
mere
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| adj.纯粹的；仅仅，只不过 | |
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118
armour
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| （=armor）n.盔甲；装甲部队 | |
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119
distinguished
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| adj.卓越的，杰出的，著名的 | |
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120
regiments
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| （军队的）团( regiment的名词复数 )； 大量的人或物 | |
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121
gushing
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| adj.迸出的；涌出的；喷出的；过分热情的v.喷，涌( gush的现在分词 )；滔滔不绝地说话 | |
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122
gush
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| v.喷，涌；滔滔不绝(说话)；n.喷，涌流；迸发 | |
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123
verge
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| n.边，边缘；v.接近，濒临 | |
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124
tranquilly
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| adv. 宁静地 | |
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125
scouted
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| 寻找，侦察( scout的过去式和过去分词 )； 物色（优秀运动员、演员、音乐家等） | |
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126
ambushes
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| n.埋伏( ambush的名词复数 )；伏击；埋伏着的人；设埋伏点v.埋伏( ambush的第三人称单数 )；埋伏着 | |
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127
cannon
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| n.大炮，火炮；飞机上的机关炮 | |
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128
sufficiently
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| adv.足够地，充分地 | |
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129
immured
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| v.禁闭，监禁( immure的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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130
fortified
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| adj. 加强的 | |
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131
recollecting
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| v.记起，想起( recollect的现在分词 ) | |
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132
callous
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| adj.无情的，冷淡的，硬结的，起老茧的 | |
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133
immutable
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| adj.不可改变的，永恒的 | |
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134
superstitious
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| adj.迷信的 | |
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135
wilful
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| adj.任性的，故意的 | |
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136
tyrant
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| n.暴君，专制的君主，残暴的人 | |
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137
overthrew
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| overthrow的过去式 | |
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138
transparent
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| adj.明显的，无疑的；透明的 | |
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140
planks
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| （厚）木板( plank的名词复数 )； 政纲条目，政策要点 | |
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141
imprison
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| vt.监禁，关押，限制，束缚 | |
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142
respite
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| n.休息，中止，暂缓 | |
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143
dismantled
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| 拆开( dismantle的过去式和过去分词 )； 拆卸； 废除； 取消 | |
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144
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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145
tapestry
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| n.挂毯，丰富多采的画面 | |
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146
concealed
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| a.隐藏的，隐蔽的 | |
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147
besieged
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| 包围，围困，围攻( besiege的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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148
hymn
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| n.赞美诗，圣歌，颂歌 | |
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149
thronged
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| v.成群，挤满( throng的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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150
pealing
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| v.（使）（钟等）鸣响，（雷等）发出隆隆声( peal的现在分词 ) | |
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151
cadence
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| n.（说话声调的）抑扬顿挫 | |
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152
somnolence
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| n.想睡，梦幻；欲寐；嗜睡；嗜眠 | |
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153
steadily
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| adv.稳定地；不变地；持续地 | |
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154
vice
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| n.坏事；恶习；[pl.]台钳，老虎钳；adj.副的 | |
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155
consign
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| vt.寄售（货品），托运，交托，委托 | |
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156
aperture
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| n.孔，隙，窄的缺口 | |
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157
idols
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| 偶像( idol的名词复数 )； 受崇拜的人或物； 受到热爱和崇拜的人或物； 神像 | |
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158
likeness
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| n.相像，相似（之处） | |
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159
bosom
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| n.胸，胸部；胸怀；内心；adj.亲密的 | |
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160
travesty
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| n.歪曲，嘲弄，滑稽化 | |
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161
slander
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| n./v.诽谤，污蔑 | |
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162
stifles
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| （使）窒息， （使）窒闷( stifle的第三人称单数 )； 镇压，遏制 | |
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163
muffled
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| adj.（声音）被隔的；听不太清的；（衣服）裹严的；蒙住的v.压抑，捂住( muffle的过去式和过去分词 )；用厚厚的衣帽包着（自己） | |
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164
blurred
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| v.（使）变模糊( blur的过去式和过去分词 )；（使）难以区分；模模糊糊；迷离 | |
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165
sophistry
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| n.诡辩 | |
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166
unwilling
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| adj.不情愿的 | |
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167
consistency
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| n.一贯性，前后一致，稳定性；(液体的)浓度 | |
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168
pitcher
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| n.(有嘴和柄的)大水罐；(棒球)投手 | |
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169
repent
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| v.悔悟，悔改，忏悔，后悔 | |
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170
tares
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| 荑；稂莠；稗 | |
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171
compliance
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| n.顺从；服从；附和；屈从 | |
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172
timorous
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| adj.胆怯的，胆小的 | |
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173
followers
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| 追随者( follower的名词复数 )； 用户； 契据的附面； 从动件 | |
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174
drawn
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| v.拖，拉，拔出；adj.憔悴的，紧张的 | |
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175
aspirations
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| 强烈的愿望( aspiration的名词复数 )； 志向； 发送气音； 发 h 音 | |
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176
sneak
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| vt.潜行(隐藏,填石缝)；偷偷摸摸做；n.潜行；adj.暗中进行 | |
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177
mariners
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| 海员，水手（mariner的复数形式） | |
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178
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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179
thwarts
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| 阻挠( thwart的第三人称单数 )； 使受挫折； 挫败； 横过 | |
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180
gore
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| n.凝血，血污；v.（动物）用角撞伤，用牙刺破；缝以补裆；顶 | |
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181
virtues
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| 美德( virtue的名词复数 )； 德行； 优点； 长处 | |
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182
scythes
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| n.（长柄）大镰刀( scythe的名词复数 )v.（长柄）大镰刀( scythe的第三人称单数 ) | |
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183
cataract
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| n.大瀑布，奔流，洪水，白内障 | |
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184
scourged
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| 鞭打( scourge的过去式和过去分词 )； 惩罚，压迫 | |
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185
robust
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| adj.强壮的，强健的，粗野的，需要体力的，浓的 | |
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186
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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187
override
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| vt.不顾，不理睬，否决；压倒，优先于 | |
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188
vices
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| 缺陷( vice的名词复数 )； 恶习； 不道德行为； 台钳 | |
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189
blenched
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| v.（因惊吓而）退缩，惊悸( blench的过去式和过去分词 )；（使）变白，（使）变苍白 | |
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190
recoil
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| vi.退却，退缩，畏缩 | |
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191
propound
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| v.提出 | |
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192
trifling
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| adj.微不足道的；没什么价值的 | |
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193
anguish
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| n.(尤指心灵上的)极度痛苦，烦恼 | |
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194
revival
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| n.复兴，复苏，（精力、活力等的）重振 | |
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195
remains
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| n.剩余物，残留物；遗体，遗迹 | |
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196
countenance
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| n.脸色，面容；面部表情；vt.支持，赞同 | |
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197
dexterity
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| n.(手的)灵巧，灵活 | |
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198
ransack
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| v.彻底搜索，洗劫 | |
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199
galling
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| adj.难堪的,使烦恼的,使焦躁的 | |
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200
softened
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| （使）变软( soften的过去式和过去分词 )； 缓解打击； 缓和； 安慰 | |
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201
transformation
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| n.变化；改造；转变 | |
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202
strenuous
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| adj.奋发的，使劲的；紧张的；热烈的，狂热的 | |
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203
random
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| adj.随机的；任意的；n.偶然的(或随便的)行动 | |
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204
swarmed
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| 密集( swarm的过去式和过去分词 )； 云集； 成群地移动； 蜜蜂或其他飞行昆虫成群地飞来飞去 | |
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