I had a very particular engagement to breakfast in the Temple. It was a bitter north-easterly morning, and the sleet1 and slush lay inches deep in the streets. I could get no conveyance2, and was soon wet to the knees; but I should have been true to that appointment, though I had to wade3 to it up to my neck in the same impediments.
The appointment took me to some chambers4 in the Temple. They were at the top of a lonely corner house overlooking the river. The name, MR. ALFRED BECKWITH, was painted on the outer door. On the door opposite, on the same landing, the name MR. JULIUS SLINKTON. The doors of both sets of chambers stood open, so that anything said aloud in one set could be heard in the other.
I had never been in those chambers before. They were dismal5, close, unwholesome, and oppressive; the furniture, originally good, and not yet old, was faded and dirty, — the rooms were in great disorder6; there was a strong prevailing7 smell of opium8, brandy, and tobacco; the grate and fire-irons were splashed all over with unsightly blotches9 of rust10; and on a sofa by the fire, in the room where breakfast had been prepared, lay the host, Mr. Beckwith, a man with all the appearances of the worst kind of drunkard, very far advanced upon his shameful11 way to death.
‘Slinkton is not come yet,’ said this creature, staggering up when I went in; ‘I’ll call him. — Halloa! Julius Caesar! Come and drink!’ As he hoarsely12 roared this out, he beat the poker13 and tongs14 together in a mad way, as if that were his usual manner of summoning his associate.
The voice of Mr. Slinkton was heard through the clatter15 from the opposite side of the staircase, and he came in. He had not expected the pleasure of meeting me. I have seen several artful men brought to a stand, but I never saw a man so aghast as he was when his eyes rested on mine.
‘Julius Caesar,’ cried Beckwith, staggering between us, ‘Mist’ Sampson! Mist’ Sampson, Julius Caesar! Julius, Mist’ Sampson, is the friend of my soul. Julius keeps me plied16 with liquor, morning, noon, and night. Julius is a real benefactor17. Julius threw the tea and coffee out of window when I used to have any. Julius empties all the water-jugs of their contents, and fills ‘em with spirits. Julius winds me up and keeps me going. — Boil the brandy, Julius!’
There was a rusty18 and furred saucepan in the ashes, — the ashes looked like the accumulation of weeks, — and Beckwith, rolling and staggering between us as if he were going to plunge19 headlong into the fire, got the saucepan out, and tried to force it into Slinkton’s hand.
‘Boil the brandy, Julius Caesar! Come! Do your usual office. Boil the brandy!’
He became so fierce in his gesticulations with the saucepan, that I expected to see him lay open Slinkton’s head with it. I therefore put out my hand to check him. He reeled back to the sofa, and sat there panting, shaking, and red-eyed, in his rags of dressing-gown, looking at us both. I noticed then that there was nothing to drink on the table but brandy, and nothing to eat but salted herrings, and a hot, sickly, highly-peppered stew20.
‘At all events, Mr. Sampson,’ said Slinkton, offering me the smooth gravel21 path for the last time, ‘I thank you for interfering22 between me and this unfortunate man’s violence. However you came here, Mr. Sampson, or with whatever motive23 you came here, at least I thank you for that.’
‘Boil the brandy,’ muttered Beckwith.
Without gratifying his desire to know how I came there, I said, quietly, ‘How is your niece, Mr. Slinkton?’
He looked hard at me, and I looked hard at him.
‘I am sorry to say, Mr. Sampson, that my niece has proved treacherous24 and ungrateful to her best friend. She left me without a word of notice or explanation. She was misled, no doubt, by some designing rascal25. Perhaps you may have heard of it.’
‘I did hear that she was misled by a designing rascal. In fact, I have proof of it.’
‘Are you sure of that?’ said he.
‘Quite.’
‘Boil the brandy,’ muttered Beckwith. ‘Company to breakfast, Julius Caesar. Do your usual office, — provide the usual breakfast, dinner, tea, and supper. Boil the brandy!’
The eyes of Slinkton looked from him to me, and he said, after a moment’s consideration,
‘Mr. Sampson, you are a man of the world, and so am I. I will be plain with you.’
‘O no, you won’t,’ said I, shaking my head.
‘I tell you, sir, I will be plain with you.’
‘And I tell you you will not,’ said I. ‘I know all about you. YOU plain with any one? Nonsense, nonsense!’
‘I plainly tell you, Mr. Sampson,’ he went on, with a manner almost composed, ‘that I understand your object. You want to save your funds, and escape from your liabilities; these are old tricks of trade with you Office-gentlemen. But you will not do it, sir; you will not succeed. You have not an easy adversary26 to play against, when you play against me. We shall have to inquire, in due time, when and how Mr. Beckwith fell into his present habits. With that remark, sir, I put this poor creature, and his incoherent wanderings of speech, aside, and wish you a good morning and a better case next time.’
While he was saying this, Beckwith had filled a half-pint glass with brandy. At this moment, he threw the brandy at his face, and threw the glass after it. Slinkton put his hands up, half blinded with the spirit, and cut with the glass across the forehead. At the sound of the breakage, a fourth person came into the room, closed the door, and stood at it; he was a very quiet but very keen-looking man, with iron-gray hair, and slightly lame27.
Slinkton pulled out his handkerchief, assuaged28 the pain in his smarting eyes, and dabbled29 the blood on his forehead. He was a long time about it, and I saw that in the doing of it, a tremendous change came over him, occasioned by the change in Beckwith, — who ceased to pant and tremble, sat upright, and never took his eyes off him. I never in my life saw a face in which abhorrence30 and determination were so forcibly painted as in Beckwith’s then.
‘Look at me, you villain,’ said Beckwith, ‘and see me as I really am. I took these rooms, to make them a trap for you. I came into them as a drunkard, to bait the trap for you. You fell into the trap, and you will never leave it alive. On the morning when you last went to Mr. Sampson’s office, I had seen him first. Your plot has been known to both of us, all along, and you have been counter-plotted all along. What? Having been cajoled into putting that prize of two thousand pounds in your power, I was to be done to death with brandy, and, brandy not proving quick enough, with something quicker? Have I never seen you, when you thought my senses gone, pouring from your little bottle into my glass? Why, you Murderer and Forger31, alone here with you in the dead of night, as I have so often been, I have had my hand upon the trigger of a pistol, twenty times, to blow your brains out!’
This sudden starting up of the thing that he had supposed to be his imbecile victim into a determined32 man, with a settled resolution to hunt him down and be the death of him, mercilessly expressed from head to foot, was, in the first shock, too much for him. Without any figure of speech, he staggered under it. But there is no greater mistake than to suppose that a man who is a calculating criminal, is, in any phase of his guilt33, otherwise than true to himself, and perfectly34 consistent with his whole character. Such a man commits murder, and murder is the natural culmination35 of his course; such a man has to outface murder, and will do it with hardihood and effrontery36. It is a sort of fashion to express surprise that any notorious criminal, having such crime upon his conscience, can so brave it out. Do you think that if he had it on his conscience at all, or had a conscience to have it upon, he would ever have committed the crime?
Perfectly consistent with himself, as I believe all such monsters to be, this Slinkton recovered himself, and showed a defiance37 that was sufficiently38 cold and quiet. He was white, he was haggard, he was changed; but only as a sharper who had played for a great stake and had been outwitted and had lost the game.
‘Listen to me, you villain,’ said Beckwith, ‘and let every word you hear me say be a stab in your wicked heart. When I took these rooms, to throw myself in your way and lead you on to the scheme that I knew my appearance and supposed character and habits would suggest to such a devil, how did I know that? Because you were no stranger to me. I knew you well. And I knew you to be the cruel wretch39 who, for so much money, had killed one innocent girl while she trusted him implicitly40, and who was by inches killing41 another.’
Slinkton took out a snuff-box, took a pinch of snuff, and laughed.
‘But see here,’ said Beckwith, never looking away, never raising his voice, never relaxing his face, never unclenching his hand. ‘See what a dull wolf you have been, after all! The infatuated drunkard who never drank a fiftieth part of the liquor you plied him with, but poured it away, here, there, everywhere — almost before your eyes; who bought over the fellow you set to watch him and to ply42 him, by outbidding you in his bribe43, before he had been at his work three days — with whom you have observed no caution, yet who was so bent44 on ridding the earth of you as a wild beast, that he would have defeated you if you had been ever so prudent45 — that drunkard whom you have, many a time, left on the floor of this room, and who has even let you go out of it, alive and undeceived, when you have turned him over with your foot — has, almost as often, on the same night, within an hour, within a few minutes, watched you awake, had his hand at your pillow when you were asleep, turned over your papers, taken samples from your bottles and packets of powder, changed their contents, rifled every secret of your life!’
He had had another pinch of snuff in his hand, but had gradually let it drop from between his fingers to the floor; where he now smoothed it out with his foot, looking down at it the while.
‘That drunkard,’ said Beckwith, ‘who had free access to your rooms at all times, that he might drink the strong drinks that you left in his way and be the sooner ended, holding no more terms with you than he would hold with a tiger, has had his master-key for all your locks, his test for all your poisons, his clue to your cipher-writing. He can tell you, as well as you can tell him, how long it took to complete that deed, what doses there were, what intervals46, what signs of gradual decay upon mind and body; what distempered fancies were produced, what observable changes, what physical pain. He can tell you, as well as you can tell him, that all this was recorded day by day, as a lesson of experience for future service. He can tell you, better than you can tell him, where that journal is at this moment.’
Slinkton stopped the action of his foot, and looked at Beckwith.
‘No,’ said the latter, as if answering a question from him. ‘Not in the drawer of the writing-desk that opens with a spring; it is not there, and it never will be there again.’
‘Then you are a thief!’ said Slinkton.
Without any change whatever in the inflexible47 purpose, which it was quite terrific even to me to contemplate48, and from the power of which I had always felt convinced it was impossible for this wretch to escape, Beckwith returned,
‘And I am your niece’s shadow, too.’
With an imprecation Slinkton put his hand to his head, tore out some hair, and flung it to the ground. It was the end of the smooth walk; he destroyed it in the action, and it will soon be seen that his use for it was past.
Beckwith went on: ‘Whenever you left here, I left here. Although I understood that you found it necessary to pause in the completion of that purpose, to avert49 suspicion, still I watched you close, with the poor confiding50 girl. When I had the diary, and could read it word by word, — it was only about the night before your last visit to Scarborough, — you remember the night? you slept with a small flat vial tied to your wrist, — I sent to Mr. Sampson, who was kept out of view. This is Mr. Sampson’s trusty servant standing51 by the door. We three saved your niece among us.’
Slinkton looked at us all, took an uncertain step or two from the place where he had stood, returned to it, and glanced about him in a very curious way, — as one of the meaner reptiles52 might, looking for a hole to hide in. I noticed at the same time, that a singular change took place in the figure of the man, — as if it collapsed53 within his clothes, and they consequently became ill-shapen and ill-fitting.
‘You shall know,’ said Beckwith, ‘for I hope the knowledge will be bitter and terrible to you, why you have been pursued by one man, and why, when the whole interest that Mr. Sampson represents would have expended54 any money in hunting you down, you have been tracked to death at a single individual’s charge. I hear you have had the name of Meltham on your lips sometimes?’
I saw, in addition to those other changes, a sudden stoppage come upon his breathing.
‘When you sent the sweet girl whom you murdered (you know with what artfully made-out surroundings and probabilities you sent her) to Meltham’s office, before taking her abroad to originate the transaction that doomed55 her to the grave, it fell to Meltham’s lot to see her and to speak with her. It did not fall to his lot to save her, though I know he would freely give his own life to have done it. He admired her; — I would say he loved her deeply, if I thought it possible that you could understand the word. When she was sacrificed, he was thoroughly56 assured of your guilt. Having lost her, he had but one object left in life, and that was to avenge57 her and destroy you.’
I saw the villain’s nostrils58 rise and fall convulsively; but I saw no moving at his mouth.
‘That man Meltham,’ Beckwith steadily59 pursued, ‘was as absolutely certain that you could never elude60 him in this world, if he devoted61 himself to your destruction with his utmost fidelity62 and earnestness, and if he divided the sacred duty with no other duty in life, as he was certain that in achieving it he would be a poor instrument in the hands of Providence63, and would do well before Heaven in striking you out from among living men. I am that man, and I thank God that I have done my work!’
If Slinkton had been running for his life from swift-footed savages64, a dozen miles, he could not have shown more emphatic65 signs of being oppressed at heart and labouring for breath, than he showed now, when he looked at the pursuer who had so relentlessly66 hunted him down.
‘You never saw me under my right name before; you see me under my right name now. You shall see me once again in the body, when you are tried for your life. You shall see me once again in the spirit, when the cord is round your neck, and the crowd are crying against you!’
When Meltham had spoken these last words, the miscreant68 suddenly turned away his face, and seemed to strike his mouth with his open hand. At the same instant, the room was filled with a new and powerful odour, and, almost at the same instant, he broke into a crooked69 run, leap, start, — I have no name for the spasm70, — and fell, with a dull weight that shook the heavy old doors and windows in their frames.
That was the fitting end of him.
When we saw that he was dead, we drew away from the room, and Meltham, giving me his hand, said, with a weary air,
‘I have no more work on earth, my friend. But I shall see her again elsewhere.’
It was in vain that I tried to rally him. He might have saved her, he said; he had not saved her, and he reproached himself; he had lost her, and he was broken-hearted.
‘The purpose that sustained me is over, Sampson, and there is nothing now to hold me to life. I am not fit for life; I am weak and spiritless; I have no hope and no object; my day is done.’
In truth, I could hardly have believed that the broken man who then spoke67 to me was the man who had so strongly and so differently impressed me when his purpose was before him. I used such entreaties71 with him, as I could; but he still said, and always said, in a patient, undemonstrative way, — nothing could avail him, — he was broken-hearted.
He died early in the next spring. He was buried by the side of the poor young lady for whom he had cherished those tender and unhappy regrets; and he left all he had to her sister. She lived to be a happy wife and mother; she married my sister’s son, who succeeded poor Meltham; she is living now, and her children ride about the garden on my walking-stick when I go to see her.
The End
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sleet
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| n.雨雪；v.下雨雪，下冰雹 | |
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conveyance
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| n.(不动产等的)转让，让与；转让证书；传送；运送；表达；（正）运输工具 | |
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wade
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| v.跋涉，涉水；n.跋涉 | |
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chambers
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| n.房间( chamber的名词复数 )；（议会的）议院；卧室；会议厅 | |
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dismal
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| adj.阴沉的，凄凉的，令人忧郁的，差劲的 | |
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disorder
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| n.紊乱，混乱；骚动，骚乱；疾病，失调 | |
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prevailing
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| adj.盛行的；占优势的；主要的 | |
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opium
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| n.鸦片；adj.鸦片的 | |
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blotches
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| n.（皮肤上的）红斑，疹块( blotch的名词复数 )；大滴 [大片]（墨水或颜色的）污渍 | |
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rust
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| n.锈；v.生锈；(脑子)衰退 | |
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shameful
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| adj.可耻的，不道德的 | |
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hoarsely
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| adv.嘶哑地 | |
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poker
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| n.扑克；vt.烙制 | |
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tongs
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| n.钳；夹子 | |
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clatter
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| v./n.(使)发出连续而清脆的撞击声 | |
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plied
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| v.使用（工具）( ply的过去式和过去分词 )；经常供应（食物、饮料）；固定往来；经营生意 | |
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benefactor
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| n. 恩人，行善的人，捐助人 | |
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rusty
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| adj.生锈的；锈色的；荒废了的 | |
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plunge
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| v.跳入，(使)投入，(使)陷入；猛冲 | |
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stew
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| n.炖汤，焖，烦恼；v.炖汤，焖，忧虑 | |
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gravel
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| n.砂跞；砂砾层；结石 | |
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interfering
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| adj. 妨碍的 动词interfere的现在分词 | |
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motive
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| n.动机，目的；adv.发动的，运动的 | |
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treacherous
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| adj.不可靠的，有暗藏的危险的；adj.背叛的，背信弃义的 | |
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rascal
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| n.流氓；不诚实的人 | |
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adversary
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| adj.敌手，对手 | |
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lame
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| adj.跛的，(辩解、论据等)无说服力的 | |
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assuaged
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| v.减轻( assuage的过去式和过去分词 )；缓和；平息；使安静 | |
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dabbled
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| v.涉猎( dabble的过去式和过去分词 )；涉足；浅尝；少量投资 | |
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abhorrence
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| n.憎恶；可憎恶的事 | |
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forger
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| v.伪造；n.（钱、文件等的）伪造者 | |
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determined
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| adj.坚定的；有决心的 | |
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guilt
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| n.犯罪；内疚；过失，罪责 | |
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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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culmination
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| n.顶点；最高潮 | |
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effrontery
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| n.厚颜无耻 | |
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defiance
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| n.挑战，挑衅，蔑视，违抗 | |
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sufficiently
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| adv.足够地，充分地 | |
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wretch
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| n.可怜的人，不幸的人；卑鄙的人 | |
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implicitly
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| adv. 含蓄地, 暗中地, 毫不保留地 | |
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killing
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| n.巨额利润；突然赚大钱，发大财 | |
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ply
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| v.(搬运工等)等候顾客，弯曲 | |
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bribe
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| n.贿赂；v.向…行贿，买通 | |
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bent
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| n.爱好，癖好；adj.弯的；决心的，一心的 | |
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prudent
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| adj.谨慎的，有远见的，精打细算的 | |
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intervals
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| n.[军事]间隔( interval的名词复数 )；间隔时间；[数学]区间；（戏剧、电影或音乐会的）幕间休息 | |
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inflexible
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| adj.不可改变的，不受影响的，不屈服的 | |
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contemplate
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| vt.盘算，计议；周密考虑；注视，凝视 | |
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avert
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| v.防止，避免；转移(目光、注意力等) | |
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confiding
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| adj.相信人的，易于相信的v.吐露（秘密，心事等）( confide的现在分词 )；（向某人）吐露（隐私、秘密等） | |
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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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reptiles
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| n.爬行动物，爬虫( reptile的名词复数 ) | |
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collapsed
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| adj.倒塌的 | |
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expended
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| v.花费( expend的过去式和过去分词 )；使用（钱等）做某事；用光；耗尽 | |
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doomed
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| 命定的 | |
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thoroughly
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| adv.完全地，彻底地，十足地 | |
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avenge
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| v.为...复仇，为...报仇 | |
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58
nostrils
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| 鼻孔( nostril的名词复数 ) | |
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steadily
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| adv.稳定地；不变地；持续地 | |
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elude
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| v.躲避，困惑 | |
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devoted
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| adj.忠诚的，忠实的，热心的，献身于...的 | |
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fidelity
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| n.忠诚，忠实；精确 | |
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providence
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| n.深谋远虑，天道，天意；远见；节约；上帝 | |
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savages
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| 未开化的人，野蛮人( savage的名词复数 ) | |
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emphatic
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| adj.强调的，着重的；无可置疑的，明显的 | |
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66
relentlessly
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| adv.不屈不挠地；残酷地；不间断 | |
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67
spoke
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| n.（车轮的）辐条；轮辐；破坏某人的计划；阻挠某人的行动 v.讲，谈（speak的过去式）；说；演说；从某种观点来说 | |
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68
miscreant
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| n.恶棍 | |
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69
crooked
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| adj.弯曲的；不诚实的，狡猾的，不正当的 | |
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spasm
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| n.痉挛，抽搐；一阵发作 | |
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entreaties
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| n.恳求，乞求( entreaty的名词复数 ) | |
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