‘Miss Hewett has gone away,’ she reported.
‘To spend the day, do you mean?’ was Snowdon’s troubled question.
‘No, she has left the house. She went yesterday, in the afternoon. It was very sudden, the landlady3 says, and she doesn’t know where she’s gone to.’
Jane had no understanding of what her information implied; seeing that it was received as grave news, she stood regarding her grandfather anxiously. Though Clara had passed out of her world since those first days of illness, Jane held her in a memory which knew no motive4 of retention5 so strong as gratitude6. The thought of harm or sorrow coming upon her protector had a twofold painfulness. Instantly she divined that Clara was in some way the cause of Sidney Kirkwood’s inability to go into the country today. For a long time the two had been closely linked in her reflections; Mrs. Peckover and Clem used constantly to exchange remarks which made this inevitable7. But not until now had Jane really felt the significance of the bond. Of a sudden she had a throbbing8 at her heart, and a confusion of mind which would not allow her to pursue the direct train of thought naturally provoked by the visit she had just paid. A turbid9 flood of ideas, of vague surmises10, of apprehensions11, of forecasts, swept across her consciousness. The blood forsook12 her cheeks. But that the old man began to move away, she could have remained thus for many minutes, struggling with that new, half-understood thing which was taking possession of her life.
The disappointment of the day was no longer simple, and such as a child experiences. Nor ever from this hour onwards would Jane regard things as she had been wont13 to do, with the simple feelings of childhood.
Snowdon walked on in silence until the street they had visited was far behind them. Jane was accustomed to his long fits of musing14, but now she with difficulty refrained from questioning him. He said at length:
‘Jane, I’m afraid we shall have to give up our day in the country.’
She assented15 readily, gladly; all the joy had gone out of the proposed excursion, and she wished Dow to be by herself in quietness.
‘I think I’ll let you go home alone,’ Snowdon continued. ‘I want to see Mr. Kirkwood, and I dare say I shall find him in, if I walk on at once.’
They went in different directions, and Snowdon made what speed he could to Tysoe Street. Sidney had already been out, walking restlessly and aimlessly for two or three hours. The news he now heard was the half-incredible fulfilment of a dread16 that had been torturing him through the night. No calamity17 is so difficult to realise when it befalls as one which has haunted us in imagination.
‘That means nothing!’ he exclaimed, as if resentfully. ‘She was dissatisfied with the lodging18, that’s all. Perhaps she’s already got a place. I dare say there’s a note from her at home this morning.’
‘Shall you go and see if there is?’ asked Snowdon, allowing, as usual, a moment’s silence to intervene.
Sidney hesitated, avoiding the other’s look.
‘I shall go to that house first of all, I think. Of course I shall hear no more than they told Jane; but —’
He took a deep breath.
‘Yes, go there,’ said Snowdon; ‘but afterwards go to the Hewetts’. If she hasn’t written to them, or let them have news of any kind, her father oughtn’t to be kept in ignorance for another hour.’
‘He ought to have been told before this,’ replied Sidney ill a thick under-voice. ‘He ought to have been told on Saturday. And the blame’ll be mine.’
It is an experience familiar to impulsive19 and self-confident men that a moment’s crisis may render scarcely intelligible20 a mode of thought or course of action which till then one had deemed perfectly21 rational. Sidney, hopeless in spite of the pretences22 he made, stood aghast at the responsibility he had taken upon himself. It was so obvious to him now that he ought to have communicated to John Hewett without loss of time the news which Mrs. Hewett brought on Saturday morning. But could he be sure that John was still in ignorance of Clara’s movements? Was it not all but certain that Mrs. Hewett must have broken the news before this? If not, there lay before him a terrible duty.
The two went forth together, and another visit was paid to the lodging-house. After that Sidney called upon Mrs. Tubbs, and made a simple inquiry23 for Clara, with the anticipated result.
‘You won’t find her in this part of London, it’s my belief,’ said the woman significantly. ‘She’s left the lodgings24 as she took — so much I know. Never meant to stay there, not she! You’re a friend of her father’s, mister?’
Sidney could not trust himself to make a reply. He rejoined Snowdon at a little distance, and expressed his intention of going at once to Clerkenwell Close.
‘Let me see you again today,’ said the old man sadly.
Sidney promised, and they took leave of each other. It was now nearing ten o’clock. In the Close an organ was giving delight to a great crowd of children, some of them wearing holiday garb25, but most clad in the native rags which served them for all seasons and all days. The volume of clanging melody fell with torture upon Kirkwood’s ear, and when he saw that the instrument was immediately before Mrs. Peckover’s house, he stood aside in gloomy impatience26, waiting till it should move away. This happened in a few minutes. The house door being open, he walked straight upstairs.
On the landing he confronted Mrs. Hewett; she started on seeing him, and whispered a question. The exchange of a few words apprised27 Sidney that Hewett did not even know of Clara’s having quitted Mrs. Tubbs’.
‘Then I must tell him everything,’ he said. To put the task upon the poor woman would have been simple cowardice28. Merely in hearing his news she was blanched29 with dread. She could only point to the door of the front room — the only one rented by the family since Jane Snowdon’s occupation of the other had taught them to be as economical in this respect as their neighbours were.
Sidney knocked and entered. Two months had passed since his latest visit, and he observed that in the meantime everything had become more squalid. The floor, the window, the furniture, were not kept so clean as formerly30 — inevitable result of the overcrowding of a room; the air was bad, the children looked untidy. The large bed had not been set in order since last night; in it lay the baby, crying as always, ailing31 as it had done from the day of its birth. John Hewett was engaged in mending one of the chairs, of which the legs had become loose. He looked with surprise at the visitor, and at once averted32 his face sullenly33.
‘Mr. Hewett,’ Kirkwood began, without form of greeting, ‘on Saturday morning I heard something that I believe I ought to have let you know at once. I felt, though, that it was hardly my business; and somehow we haven’t been quite so open with each other just lately as we used to be.’
His voice sank. Hewett had risen from his crouching34 attitude, and was looking him full in the face with eyes which grew momentarily darker and more hostile.
‘Well? Why are you stopping? What have you got to say?’
The words came from a dry throat; the effort to pronounce them clearly made the last all but violent.
‘On Friday night,’ Sidney resumed, his own utterance35 uncertain, ‘Clara left her place. She took a room not far from Upper Street, and I saw her, spoke36 to her. She’d quarrelled with Mrs. Tubbs. I urged her to come home, but she wouldn’t listen to me. This morning I’ve been to try and see her again, but they tell me she went away yesterday afternoon. I can’t find where she’s living now.’
Hewett took a step forward. His face was so distorted, so fierce, that Sidney involuntarily raised an arm, as if to defend himself.
‘An’ it’s you as comes tellin’ me this!’ John exclaimed, a note of anguish37 blending with his fury. ‘You have the face to stand there an’ speak like that to me, when you know it’s all your own doing! Who was the cause as the girl went away from ‘ome? Who was it, I say? Haven’t been as friendly as we used to be, haven’t we? An’ why? Haven’t I seen it plainer an’ plainer what you was thinkin’ when you told me to let her have her own way? I spoke the truth then —‘cause I felt it; an’ I was fool enough, for all that, to try an’ believe I was in the wrong. Now you come an’ stand before me — why, I couldn’t a’ thought there was a man had so little shame in him!’
Mrs. Hewett entered the room; the loud angry voice had reached her ears, and in spite of terror she came to interpose between the two men.
‘Do you know what he’s come to tell me?’ cried her husband. ‘Oh, you do! He’s been tryin’ to talk you over, has he? You just answer to me, an’ tell the truth. Who was it persuaded me to let Clara go from ‘ome? Who was it come here an’ talked an’ talked till he got his way? He knew what ‘ud be the end of it — he knew, I tell you — an’ it’s just what he wanted. Hasn’t he been drawin’ away from us ever since the girl left? I saw it all that night when he came here persuadin’ me, an’ I told it him plain. He wanted to ‘a done with her, and to a’ done with us. Am I speakin’ the truth or not?’
‘Why should he think that way, John?’ pleaded the woman faintly. ‘You know very well as Clara ‘ud never listen to him. What need had he to do such things?’
‘Oh yes, I’m wrong! Of course I’m wrong! You always did go against me when there was anything to do with Clara. She’d never listen to him? No, of course she wouldn’t, an’ he couldn’t rest until he saw her come to harm. What do you care either? She’s no child of yours. But I tell you I’d see you an’ all your children beg an’ die in the streets rather than a hair of my own girl’s head should be touched!’
Indulgence of his passion was making a madman of him. Never till now had he uttered an unfeeling word to his wife, but the look with which lie accompanied this brutal38 speech was one of fiery39 hatred40.
‘Don’t turn on her!’ cried Sidney, with bitterness. ‘Say what you like to me, and believe the worst you can of me; I shouldn’t have come here if I hadn’t been ready to bear everything. It’s no good speaking reason to you now, but maybe you’ll understand some day.’
‘Who know’s as she’s come to harm?’ urged Mrs. Hewett. ‘Nobody can say it of her for certain, yet.’
‘I’d have told him that, if he’d only listened to me and given me credit for honesty,’ said Kirkwood. ‘It is as likely as not she’s gone away just because I angered her on Saturday. Perhaps she said to herself she’d have done with me once for all. It would be just her way.’
‘Speak another word against my girl,’ Hewett shouted, misinterpreting the last phrase, ‘an’ I’ll do more than say what I think of you — old man though they call me! Take yourself out of this room; it was the worst day of my life that ever you came into it. Never let me an’ you come across each other again. I hate the sight of you, an’ I hate the sound of your voice!’
The animal in Sidney Kirkwood made it a terrible minute for him as he turned away in silence before this savage41 injustice42. The veins43 upon his forehead were swollen44; his clenched45 teeth gave an appearance of ferocity to his spirited features. With head bent46, and shoulders quivering as if in supreme47 muscular exertion48, he left the room without another word.
In a few minutes Hewett also quitted the house. He went to the luncheon-bar in Upper Street, and heard for the first time Mrs. Tubbs’s rancorous surmises. He went to Clara’s recent lodgings; a girl of ten was the only person in the house, and she could say nothing more than that Miss Hewett no longer lived there. Till midway in the afternoon John walked about the streets of Islington, Highbury, Hoxton, Clerkenwell, impelled49 by the unreasoning hope that he might see Clara, but also because he could not rest in any place. He was half-conscious now of the madness of his behaviour to Kirkwood, but this only confirmed him in hostility50 to the young man; the thought of losing Clara was anguish intolerable, yet with it mingled51 a bitter resentment52 of the girl’s cruelty to him. And all these sources of misery53 swelled54 the current of rebellious55 feeling which had so often threatened to sweep his life into wreckage56. He was Clara’s father, and the same impulse of furious revolt which had driven the girl to recklessness now inflamed57 him with the rage of despair.
On a Bank-holiday only a few insignificant58 shops remain open even in the poor districts of London; sweets you can purchase, and tobacco, but not much else that is sold across an ordinary counter. The more noticeable becomes the brisk trade of public-houses. At the gin-shop centres the life of each street; here is a wide door and a noisy welcome, the more attractive by contrast with the stretch of closed shutters59 on either hand. At such a door, midway in the sultry afternoon, John Hewett paused. To look at his stooping shoulders, his uncertain swaying this way and that, his flushed, perspiring60 face, you might have taken him for one who had already been drinking. No; it was only a struggle between his despairing wretchedness and a lifelong habit of mind. Not difficult to foresee which would prevail; the public-house always has its doors open in expectation of such instances. With a gesture which made him yet more like a drunken man he turned from the pavement and entered . . . .
About nine o’clock in the evening, just when Mrs. Hewett had put the unwilling61 children to bed, and had given her baby a sleeping-dose — it had cried incessantly62 for eighteen hours — the door of the room was pushed open. Her husband came in. She stood looking at him — unable to credit the evidence of her eyes.
‘John!’
She laid her hand upon him and stared into his face. The man shook her off, without speaking, and moved staggeringly forward. Then he turned round, waved his arm, and shouted:
‘Let her go to the devil She cares nothing for her father.’
He threw himself upon the bed, and soon sank into drunken sleep.
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1
forth
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| adv.向前；向外，往外 | |
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inquiries
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| n.调查( inquiry的名词复数 )；疑问；探究；打听 | |
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landlady
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| n.女房东，女地主 | |
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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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retention
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| n.保留，保持，保持力，记忆力 | |
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gratitude
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| adj.感激，感谢 | |
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inevitable
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| adj.不可避免的，必然发生的 | |
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throbbing
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| a. 跳动的,悸动的 | |
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turbid
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| adj.混浊的，泥水的，浓的 | |
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surmises
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| v.臆测，推断( surmise的第三人称单数 )；揣测；猜想 | |
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11
apprehensions
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| 疑惧 | |
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forsook
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| forsake的过去式 | |
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wont
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| adj.习惯于；v.习惯；n.习惯 | |
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musing
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| n. 沉思，冥想 adj. 沉思的, 冥想的 动词muse的现在分词形式 | |
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15
assented
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| 同意，赞成( assent的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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dread
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| vt.担忧，忧虑；惧怕，不敢；n.担忧，畏惧 | |
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17
calamity
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| n.灾害，祸患，不幸事件 | |
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18
lodging
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| n.寄宿，住所；(大学生的)校外宿舍 | |
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impulsive
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| adj.冲动的，刺激的；有推动力的 | |
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intelligible
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| adj.可理解的，明白易懂的，清楚的 | |
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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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pretences
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| n.假装( pretence的名词复数 )；作假；自命；自称 | |
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23
inquiry
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| n.打听，询问，调查，查问 | |
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lodgings
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| n. 出租的房舍, 寄宿舍 | |
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garb
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| n.服装，装束 | |
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impatience
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| n.不耐烦，急躁 | |
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apprised
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| v.告知，通知( apprise的过去式和过去分词 )；评价 | |
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cowardice
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| n.胆小，怯懦 | |
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29
blanched
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| v.使变白( blanch的过去式 )；使（植物）不见阳光而变白；酸洗（金属）使有光泽；用沸水烫（杏仁等）以便去皮 | |
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formerly
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| adv.从前，以前 | |
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ailing
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| v.生病 | |
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averted
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| 防止，避免( avert的过去式和过去分词 )； 转移 | |
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sullenly
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| 不高兴地，绷着脸，忧郁地 | |
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crouching
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| v.屈膝，蹲伏( crouch的现在分词 ) | |
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utterance
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| n.用言语表达，话语，言语 | |
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spoke
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| n.（车轮的）辐条；轮辐；破坏某人的计划；阻挠某人的行动 v.讲，谈（speak的过去式）；说；演说；从某种观点来说 | |
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anguish
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| n.(尤指心灵上的)极度痛苦，烦恼 | |
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brutal
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| adj.残忍的，野蛮的，不讲理的 | |
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fiery
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| adj.燃烧着的，火红的；暴躁的；激烈的 | |
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hatred
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| n.憎恶，憎恨，仇恨 | |
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savage
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| adj.野蛮的；凶恶的，残暴的；n.未开化的人 | |
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injustice
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| n.非正义，不公正，不公平，侵犯（别人的）权利 | |
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veins
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| n.纹理；矿脉( vein的名词复数 )；静脉；叶脉；纹理 | |
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44
swollen
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| adj.肿大的，水涨的；v.使变大，肿胀 | |
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45
clenched
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| v.紧握，抓紧，咬紧( clench的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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46
bent
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| n.爱好，癖好；adj.弯的；决心的，一心的 | |
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supreme
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| adj.极度的，最重要的；至高的，最高的 | |
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exertion
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| n.尽力，努力 | |
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49
impelled
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| v.推动、推进或敦促某人做某事( impel的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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50
hostility
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| n.敌对，敌意；抵制［pl.］交战，战争 | |
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51
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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52
resentment
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| n.怨愤，忿恨 | |
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53
misery
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| n.痛苦，苦恼，苦难；悲惨的境遇，贫苦 | |
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54
swelled
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| 增强( swell的过去式和过去分词 )； 肿胀； （使）凸出； 充满（激情） | |
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55
rebellious
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| adj.造反的，反抗的，难控制的 | |
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56
wreckage
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| n.（失事飞机等的）残骸，破坏，毁坏 | |
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57
inflamed
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| adj.发炎的，红肿的v.（使）变红，发怒，过热( inflame的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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58
insignificant
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| adj.无关紧要的，可忽略的，无意义的 | |
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59
shutters
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| 百叶窗( shutter的名词复数 )； （照相机的）快门 | |
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60
perspiring
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| v.出汗，流汗( perspire的现在分词 ) | |
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61
unwilling
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| adj.不情愿的 | |
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incessantly
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| ad.不停地 | |
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