It was at the conclusion of the trial; and, together with Madge, he had gone down to his office, when his clerk entered with a telegram. The lawyer opened it hastily, and, with a silent look of pleasure on his face, handed the telegram to Madge.
She, womanlike, being more impulsive1, gave a cry when she read it, and, falling on her knees, thanked God for having heard her prayers, and saved her lover’s life.
“Take me to her at once,” she implored2 the lawyer.
She was anxious to hear from Sal Rawlins’ own lips the joyful3 words which would save Brian from a felon’s death.
“No, my dear,” answered Calton, firmly, but kindly4. “I can hardly take a lady to the place where Sal Rawlins lives. You will know all to-morrow, but, meanwhile, you must go home and get some sleep.”
“And you will tell him?” she whispered, clasping her hands on Calton’s arm.
“At once,” he answered promptly5. “And I will see Sal Rawlins to-night, and hear what she has to say. Rest content, my dear,” he added, as he placed her in the carriage, “he is perfectly6 safe now.”
Brian heard the good news with a deep feeling of gratitude7, knowing that his life was safe, and that he could still keep his secret. It was the natural revulsion of feeling after the unnatural8 life he had been leading since his arrest. When one is young and healthy, and has all the world before one, it is a terrible thing to contemplate9 a sudden death. And yet, in spite of his joy at being delivered from the hangman’s rope, there mingled10 with his delight the horror of that secret which the dying woman had told him with such malignant11 joy.
“I had rather she had died in silence than she should have bequeathed me this legacy12 of sorrow.”
And the gaoler, seeing his haggard face the next morning, muttered to himself, “He war blest if the swell13 warn’t sorry he war safe.”
So, while Brian was pacing up and down his cell during the weary watches of the night, Madge, in her own room, was kneeling beside her bed and thanking God for His great mercy; and Calton, the good fairy of the two lovers, was hurrying towards the humble14 abode15 of Mrs. Rawlins, familiarly known as Mother Guttersnipe. Kilsip was beside him, and they were talking eagerly about the providential appearance of the invaluable17 witness.
“What I like,” observed Kilsip, in his soft, purring tone, “is the sell it will be for that Gorby. He was so certain that Mr. Fitzgerald was the man, and when he gets off to-morrow Gorby will be in a rage.”
“Where was Sal the whole time?” asked Calton, absently, not thinking of what the detective was saying.
“Ill,” answered Kilsip. “After she left the Chinaman she went into the country, caught cold by falling into some river, and ended up by getting brain fever. Some people found her, took her in, and nursed her. When she got well she came back to her grandmother’s.”
“But why didn’t the people who nursed her tell her she was wanted? They must have seen the papers.”
“Not they,” retorted the detective. “They knew nothing.”
“Vegetables!” muttered Calton, contemptuously. “How can people be so ignorant! Why, all Australia has been ringing with the case. At any rate, it’s money out of their pocket. Well?”
“There’s nothing more to tell,” said Kilsip, “except that she turned up to-night at five o’clock, looking more like a corpse19 than anything else.”
When they entered the squalid, dingy20 passage that led to Mother Guttersnipe’s abode, they saw a faint light streaming down the stair. As they climbed up they could hear the rancorous voice of the old hag pouring forth21 alternate blessings23 and curses on her prodigal24 offspring, and the low tones of a girl’s voice in reply. On entering the room Calton saw that the sick woman, who had been lying in the corner on the occasion of his last visit, was gone. Mother Guttersnipe was seated in front of the deal table, with a broken cup and her favourite bottle of spirits before her. She evidently intended to have a night of it, in order to celebrate Sal’s return, and had commenced early, so as to lose no time. Sal herself was seated on a broken chair, and leaned wearily against the wall. She stood up as Calton and the detective entered, and they saw that she was a tall, slender woman of about twenty-five, not bad-looking, but with a pallid26 and haggard appearance from recent illness. She was clothed in a kind of tawdry blue dress, much soiled and torn, and had over her shoulders an old tartan shawl, which she drew tightly across her breast as the strangers entered. Her grandmother, who looked more weird27 and grotesquely28 horrible than ever, saluted30 Calton and the detective on their entrance with a shrill31 yell, and a volley of choice language.
“Oh, ye’ve come again, ’ave ye,” she screeched32, raising her skinny arms, “to take my gal25 away from ’er pore old gran’mother, as nussed ’er, cuss her, when ’er own mother had gone a-gallivantin’ with swells33. I’ll ’ave the lawr of ye both, s’elp me, I will.”
Kilsip paid no attention to this outbreak of the old fury, but turned to the girl.
“This is the gentleman who wants to speak to you,” he said, gently, making the girl sit on the chair again, for indeed she looked too ill to stand. “Just tell him what you told me.”
“‘Bout the ‘Queen,’ sir?” said Sal, in a low, hoarse34 voice, fixing her wild eyes on Calton. “If I’d only known as you was a-wantin’ me I’d ’ave come afore.”
“Where were you?” asked Calton, in a pitying tone.
“Noo South Wales,” answered the girl with a shiver. “The cove35 as I went with t’ Sydney left me — yes, left me to die like a dog in the gutter16.”
“Cuss ’im!” croaked36 the old woman in a sympathetic manner, as she took a drink from the broken cup.
“I tooked up with a Chinerman,” went on her granddaughter, wearily, “an’ lived with ’im for a bit — it’s orful, ain’t it?” she said with a dreary37 laugh, as she saw the disgust on the lawyer’s face. “But Chinermen ain’t bad; they treat a pore girl a dashed sight better nor a white cove does. They don’t beat the life out of ’em with their fists, nor drag ’em about the floor by the ’air.”
“Cuss ’em!” croaked Mother Guttersnipe, drowsily38, “I’ll tear their ’earts out.”
“I think I must have gone mad, I must,” said Sal, pushing her tangled39 hair off her forehead, “for arter I left the Chiner cove, I went on walkin’ and walkin’ right into the bush, a-tryin’ to cool my ’ead, for it felt on fire like. I went into a river an’ got wet, an’ then I took my ’at an’ boots orf an’ lay down on the grass, an’ then the rain comed on, an’ I walked to a ’ouse as was near, where they tooked me in. Oh, sich kind people,” she sobbed40, stretching out her hands, “that didn’t badger41 me ’bout my soul, but gave me good food to eat. I gave ’em a wrong name. I was so ’fraid of that Army a-findin’ me. Then I got ill, an’ knowd nothin’ for weeks They said I was orf my chump. An’ then I came back ’ere to see gran’.”
“Cuss ye,” said the old woman, but in such a tender tons that it sounded like a blessing22.
“And did the people who took you in never tell you anything about the murder?” asked Calton.
Sal shook her head.
“No, it were a long way in the country, and they never knowd anythin’, they didn’t.”
“Ah! that explains it,” muttered Calton to himself.
“Come, now,” he said cheerfully, “tell me all that happened on the night you brought Mr. Fitzgerald to see the ‘Queen.’”
“Who’s ’e?” asked Sal, puzzled.
“Mr. Fitzgerald, the gentleman you brought the letter for to the Melbourne Club.”
“Oh, ’im?” said Sal, a sudden light breaking over her wan18 face. “I never knowd his name afore.”
Calton nodded complacently42.
“I knew you didn’t,” he said, “that’s why you didn’t ask for him at the Club.”
“She never told me ’is name,” said Sal, jerking her head in the direction of the bed.
“Then whom did she ask you to bring to her?” asked Calton, eagerly.
“No one,” replied the girl. “This was the way of it. On that night she was orfil ill, an’ I sat beside ’er while gran’ was asleep.”
“I was drunk,” broke in gran’, fiercely, “none of yer lies; I was blazin’ drunk.”
“An’ ses she to me, she ses,” went on the girl, indifferent to her grandmother’s interruption, “‘Get me some paper an’ a pencil, an’ I’ll write a note to ’im, I will.’ So I goes an’ gits ’er what she arsks fur out of gran’s box.”
“Stole it, cuss ye,” shrieked43 the old hag, shaking her fist.
“Hold your tongue,” said Kilsip, in a peremptory44 tone.
Mother Guttersnipe burst into a volley of oaths, and having run rapidly through all she knew, subsided45 into a sulky silence.
“She wrote on it,” went on Sal, “an’ then arsked me to take it to the Melbourne Club an’ give it to ’im. Ses I, ‘Who’s ’im?’ Ses she, ‘It’s on the letter; don’t you arsk no questions an’ you won’t ’ear no lies, but give it to ’im at the Club, an’ wait for ’im at the corner of Bourke Street and Russell Street.’ So out I goes, and gives it to a cove at the Club, an’ then ’e comes along, an’ ses ’e, ‘Take me to ’er,’ and I tooked ’im.”
“And what like was the gentleman?”
“Oh, werry good lookin’,” said Sal. “Werry tall, with yeller ’air an’ moustache. He ’ad party clothes on, an’ a masher coat, an’ a soft ’at.”
“That’s Fitzgerald right enough,” muttered Calton. “And what did he do when he came?”
“He goes right up to ’er, and she ses, ‘Are you ’e?’ and ’e ses, ‘I am.’ Then ses she, ‘Do you know what I’m a-goin’ to tell you?’ an’ ’e says, ‘No.’ Then she ses, ‘It’s about ’er;’ and ses ’e, lookin’ very white, ‘’Ow dare you ’ave ’er name on your vile46 lips?’ an’ she gits up an’ screeches47, ‘Turn that gal out, an’ I’ll tell you;’ an’ ’e takes me by the arm, an’ ses ’e, ‘‘Ere git out,’ an’ I gits out, an’ that’s all I knows.”
“And how long was he with her?” asked Calton, who had been listening attentively48.
“‘Bout arf-a-hour,” answered Sal. “I takes ’im back to Russell Street ’bout twenty-five minutes to two, ’cause I looked at the clock on the Post Office, an’ ’e gives me a sov., an’ then he goes a-tearin’ up the street like anything.”
“Take him about twenty minutes to walk to East Melbourne,” said Calton to himself “So he must just have got in at the time Mrs. Sampson said. He was in with the ‘Queen’ the whole time, I suppose?” he asked, looking keenly at Sal.
“I was at that door,” said Sal, pointing to it, “an’ ’e couldn’t ’ave got out unless I’d seen ’im.”
“Oh, it’s all right,” said Calton, nodding to Kilsip, “there won’t be any difficulty in proving an alibi49. But I say,” he added, turning to Sal, “what were they talking about?”
“I dunno,” answered Sal. “I was at the door, an’ they talks that quiet I couldn’t ’ear ’em. Then he sings out, ‘My G — it’s too horrible!’ an’ I ’ear ’er a larfin’ like to bust50, an’ then ’e comes to me, and ses, quite wild like, ‘Take me out of this ’ell!’ an’ I tooked ’im.”
“And when you came back?”
“She was dead.”
“Dead?”
“As a blessed door-nail,” said Sal, cheerfully.
“An’ I never knowd I was in the room with a corpse,” wailed51 Mother Guttersnipe, waking up. “Cuss ’er, she was allays52 a-doin’ contrary things.”
“How do you know?” said Calton, sharply, as he rose to go.
“I knowd ’er longer nor you,” croaked the old woman, fixing one evil eye on the lawyer; “an’ I know what you’d like to know; but ye shan’t, ye shan’t.”
Calton turned from her with a shrug53 of his shoulders.
“You will come to the Court to-morrow with Mr. Kilsip,” he said to Sal, “and tell what you have just now told me.”
“It’s all true, s’elp me,” said Sal, eagerly; “’e was ’ere all the time.”
Calton stepped towards the door, followed by the detective, when Mother Guttersnipe rose.
“Where’s the money for finin’ her?” she screeched, pointing one skinny finger at Sal.
“Well, considering the girl found herself,” said Calton, dryly, “the money is in the bank, and will remain there.”
“An’ I’m to be done out of my ’ard earned tin, s’elp me?” howled the old fury. “Cuss ye, I’ll ’ave the lawr of ye, and get ye put in quod.”
“You’ll go there yourself if you don’t take care,” said Kilsip, in his soft, purring tones.
“Yah!” shrieked Mother Guttersnipe, snapping her fingers at him. “What do I care about yer quod? Ain’t I bin54 in Pentrig’, an’ it ain’t ’urt me, it ain’t? I’m as lively as a gal, I am.”
And the old fury, to prove the truth of her words, danced a kind of war dance in front of Mr. Calton, snapping her fingers and yelling out curses, as an accompaniment to her ballet. Her luxurious55 white hair streamed out during her gyrations, and with her grotesque29 appearance and the faint light of the candle, she presented a gruesome spectacle.
Calton remembered the tales he had heard of the women of Paris, at the revolution, and the way they danced “La Carmagnole.” Mother Guttersnipe would have been in her element in that sea of blood and turbulence56 he thought. But he merely shrugged57 his shoulders, and walked out of the room, as with a final curse, delivered in a hoarse voice, Mother Guttersnipe sank exhausted58 on the floor, and yelled for gin.
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收听单词发音
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1
impulsive
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| adj.冲动的，刺激的；有推动力的 | |
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2
implored
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| 恳求或乞求（某人）( implore的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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3
joyful
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| adj.欢乐的，令人欢欣的 | |
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4
kindly
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| adj.和蔼的，温和的，爽快的；adv.温和地，亲切地 | |
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5
promptly
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| adv.及时地，敏捷地 | |
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6
perfectly
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| adv.完美地，无可非议地，彻底地 | |
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7
gratitude
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| adj.感激，感谢 | |
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8
unnatural
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| adj.不自然的；反常的 | |
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9
contemplate
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| vt.盘算，计议；周密考虑；注视，凝视 | |
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10
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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11
malignant
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| adj.恶性的，致命的；恶意的，恶毒的 | |
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12
legacy
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| n.遗产，遗赠；先人(或过去)留下的东西 | |
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13
swell
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| vi.膨胀，肿胀；增长，增强 | |
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14
humble
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| adj.谦卑的，恭顺的；地位低下的；v.降低，贬低 | |
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15
abode
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| n.住处，住所 | |
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16
gutter
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| n.沟，街沟，水槽，檐槽，贫民窟 | |
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17
invaluable
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| adj.无价的，非常宝贵的，极为贵重的 | |
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18
wan
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| (wide area network)广域网 | |
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19
corpse
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| n.尸体，死尸 | |
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20
dingy
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| adj.昏暗的，肮脏的 | |
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21
forth
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| adv.向前；向外，往外 | |
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22
blessing
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| n.祈神赐福；祷告；祝福，祝愿 | |
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23
blessings
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| n.（上帝的）祝福( blessing的名词复数 )；好事；福分；因祸得福 | |
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24
prodigal
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| adj.浪费的，挥霍的，放荡的 | |
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25
gal
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| n.姑娘，少女 | |
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26
pallid
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| adj.苍白的，呆板的 | |
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27
weird
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| adj.古怪的，离奇的；怪诞的，神秘而可怕的 | |
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28
grotesquely
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| adv. 奇异地,荒诞地 | |
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29
grotesque
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| adj.怪诞的，丑陋的；n.怪诞的图案，怪人（物） | |
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30
saluted
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| v.欢迎，致敬( salute的过去式和过去分词 )；赞扬，赞颂 | |
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31
shrill
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| adj.尖声的；刺耳的；v尖叫 | |
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32
screeched
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| v.发出尖叫声( screech的过去式和过去分词 )；发出粗而刺耳的声音；高叫 | |
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33
swells
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| 增强( swell的第三人称单数 )； 肿胀； （使）凸出； 充满（激情） | |
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34
hoarse
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| adj.嘶哑的，沙哑的 | |
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35
cove
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| n.小海湾，小峡谷 | |
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36
croaked
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| v.呱呱地叫( croak的过去式和过去分词 )；用粗的声音说 | |
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37
dreary
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| adj.令人沮丧的，沉闷的，单调乏味的 | |
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38
drowsily
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| adv.睡地，懒洋洋地，昏昏欲睡地 | |
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39
tangled
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| adj. 纠缠的，紊乱的 动词tangle的过去式和过去分词 | |
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40
sobbed
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| 哭泣，啜泣( sob的过去式和过去分词 )； 哭诉，呜咽地说 | |
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41
badger
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| v.一再烦扰，一再要求，纠缠 | |
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42
complacently
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| adv. 满足地, 自满地, 沾沾自喜地 | |
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43
shrieked
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| v.尖叫( shriek的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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44
peremptory
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| adj.紧急的，专横的，断然的 | |
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45
subsided
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| v.（土地）下陷（因在地下采矿）( subside的过去式和过去分词 )；减弱；下降至较低或正常水平；一下子坐在椅子等上 | |
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46
vile
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| adj.卑鄙的，可耻的，邪恶的；坏透的 | |
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47
screeches
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| n.尖锐的声音( screech的名词复数 )v.发出尖叫声( screech的第三人称单数 )；发出粗而刺耳的声音；高叫 | |
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48
attentively
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| adv.聚精会神地；周到地；谛；凝神 | |
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49
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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50
bust
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| vt.打破；vi.爆裂；n.半身像；胸部 | |
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51
wailed
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| v.哭叫，哀号( wail的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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52
allays
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| v.减轻，缓和( allay的第三人称单数 ) | |
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53
shrug
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| v.耸肩(表示怀疑、冷漠、不知等) | |
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54
bin
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| n.箱柜；vt.放入箱内；[计算机] DOS文件名:二进制目标文件 | |
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55
luxurious
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| adj.精美而昂贵的；豪华的 | |
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56
turbulence
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| n.喧嚣，狂暴，骚乱，湍流 | |
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57
shrugged
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| vt.耸肩（shrug的过去式与过去分词形式） | |
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58
exhausted
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| adj.极其疲惫的，精疲力尽的 | |
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