Here he found gentlemen and grooms2, huntsmen and farmers, on horseback, riding up and down the river-bank; some carrying lighted torches, whose lurid3 glare shone red against the darkness of the night; all busy, all excited.
Amongst these the baronet found Douglas Dale, who rode up to meet his cousin, as the other approached.
“Any news, Reginald?” he asked, in a voice that was hoarse4 with fatigue5 and excitement.
“None,” answered Sir Reginald: “I have ridden miles, and made many inquiries6, but have been able to discover no traces. Have you no tidings?”
“None but evil ones,” replied Douglas Dale, in a tone of despair “we have found a battered7 hat on the edge of the river — hat which my brother’s valet identifies as that worn by his master. We fear the worst, Reginald — the very worst. All inquiries have been made in the village, at every farm-house in the parish, and far beyond the parish. My brother has been seen nowhere. Since we rode down the hill, it seems as if no human eye had rested on him. In that moment he vanished as utterly9 as if the earth had opened to swallow him up alive.”
“What is it that you fear?”
“We fear that he tried to cross the river at some point higher up, where the stream is swollen10 to a perilous11 extent, and that both horse and rider were swept away by the current.”
“In that case both horse and rider must be found — alive or dead.”
“Ultimately, perhaps, but not easily,” answered Douglas; “the bed of the stream is a mass of tangled12 weeds. I have heard Lionel say that men have been drowned in that river whose bodies have never been discovered.”
“It is horrible!” exclaimed Reginald; “but let us still hope for the best. All this may be needless misery13.”
“I fear not, Reginald,” answered Douglas; “my brother Lionel is not a man to be careless about giving anxiety to those who love him.”
“I will ride farther along the bank,” said the baronet; “I may hear something.”
“And I will wait here,” replied Douglas, with the dull apathy14 of despair. “The news of my brother’s death will reach me soon enough.”
Reginald Eversleigh rode on by the river brink15, following a group of horsemen carrying torches. Douglas waited, with his ear on the alert to catch every sound, his heart beating tumultuously, in the terrible expectation that each moment would bring him the news he dreaded16 to hear.
Endless as that interval18 of expectation and suspense19 appeared to Douglas Dale, in reality it was not of very long duration. The cold of the winter’s night did not affect him, the burning fever of fear devoured20 him. Soon he lost sight of the glimmering21 of the torches, as the bearers followed the bend of the river, and the sound of the men’s voices died out of his ears. But after a while he heard a shout, then another, and then two men came running towards him, as fast as they could in the darkness. Douglas Dale knew them both, and called out, “What is it, Freeman? What is it, Carey? Bad news, I fear.”
“Yes, Mr. Douglas, bad news. We’ve found the rector’s hunting-whip.”
“Where?” stammered22 Douglas.
“Below the bridge, sir, close by the ash-tree; and the bank is broken. I’m afraid it’s all up, sir; if he went in there, the horse and he are both gone, sir.”
Like a man walking in a dream, Douglas Dale accompanied the bearers of the evil tidings to the spot where the group of searchers was collected together. In the midst stood Squire23 Mordaunt, holding in his hand a heavy hunting-whip, which all present recognized, and many had seen in the rector’s hand only that morning. They all made way for Douglas Dale; they were very silent now, and hopeless conviction was on every face.
“This makes it too plain, Douglas,” said Squire Mordaunt, as he handed the whip to the rector’s brother; “bear it as well as you can, my dear fellow. There’s nothing to be done now till daylight.”
“Nothing more?” said Reginald, while Douglas covered his face, and groaned25 in unrestrained anguish26; “the drags can surely be used? the —”
“Wait a minute, Sir Reginald,” said the squire, holding up his hand; “of course your impatience27 is very natural, but it would only defeat itself. To drag the river by torchlight would be equally difficult and vain. It shall be done as soon as ever there is light. Till then, there is nothing for any of us to do but to wait. And first, let us get poor Douglas home.”
Douglas Dale made no resistance; he knew the squire spoke28 truth and common-sense. The melancholy29 group broke up, the members of the rectory returned to its desolate30 walls, and Douglas at once shut himself up in his room, leaving to Sir Reginald Eversleigh and Squire Mordaunt the task of making all the arrangements for the morrow, and communicating to the ladies the dire1 intelligence which must be imparted.
Early in the morning, Squire Mordaunt went to Douglas Dale’s room. He found him stretched upon the bed in his clothes. He had made no change in his dress, and had evidently intended to prolong his vigil until the morning, but nature had been exhausted31, and in spite of himself Douglas? Dale slept. His old friend stole softly from the room, and cautioning the household not to permit him who must now be regarded as their master to be disturbed, he went out, and proceeded to the search.
Douglas Dale did not awake until nine o’clock, and then, starting up with a terrible consciousness of sorrow, and a sense of self-reproach because he had slept, he found Squire Mordaunt standing32 by his bed. The good old gentleman took the young man’s hand in silence, and pressed it with a pressure which told all.
They laid the disfigured dead body of him who but yesterday had been the beloved and honoured master of the house in the library, where he had received the ineffectual warning of the gipsy. It was while Douglas Dale was contemplating33 the pale, still features of his brother, with grief unutterable, that a servant tapped gently at the door, and called Mr. Mordaunt out.
“‘Niagara’ is come home, sir,” said the man. “He were found, just now, on the lower road, a-grazing, and he ain’t cut, nor hurt in any way, sir.”
“He’s dirty and wet, I suppose?”
“Well, sir, he’s dirty, certainly; and the saddle is soaking; but he’s pretty dry, considering.”
“Are the girths broken?”
“No, sir, there’s nothing amiss with them.”
“Very well. Take care of the horse, but say nothing about him to Mr. Dale at present.”
The visitors at Hallgrove Rectory had received the intelligence which Sir Reginald Eversleigh had communicated to them with the deepest concern. Arrangements were made for the immediate34 departure of the Grahams, and of Mrs. Mordaunt and her daughters. The squire and Sir Reginald were to remain with Douglas Dale until the painful formalities of the inquest and the funeral should be completed.
Douglas Dale was not a weak man, and no one more disliked any exhibition of sentiment than he. Nevertheless, it was a hard task for him to enter the breakfast-room, and bid farewell to the guests who had been so merry only yesterday. But it had to be done, and he did it. A few sad and solemn words were spoken between him and the Mordaunts, and the girls left the room in tears. Then he advanced to Lydia Graham, who was seated in an arm-chair by the fire, still, and pale as a marble statue. There were no tears in her eyes, no traces of tears upon her cheeks, but in her heart there was angry, bitter, raging disappointment — almost fury, almost despair.
Douglas Dale could not look at her without seeing that in very truth the event which was so terrible to him was terrible to her also, and his manly35 heart yearned36 towards the woman whom he had thought but little of until now; who had perhaps loved, and certainly now was grieving for, his beloved brother.
“Shall we ever meet again, Mr. Dale?” she said, wonderingly.
“Why should we not?”
“You will not be able to endure England, perhaps, after this terrible calamity37. You will go abroad. You will seek distraction38 in change of scene. Men are such travellers now-a-days.”
“I shall not leave England, Miss Graham,” answered Douglas, quietly; “I am a man of the world — I venture to hope that I am also a Christian39 — and I can nerve myself to endure grief as a Christian and a man of the world should endure it. My brother’s death will make no alteration40 in the plan of my life. I shall return to London almost immediately.”
“And we may hope to see you in London?”
“Captain Graham and I are members of the same club. We are very likely to meet occasionally.”
“And am I not to see you as well as my brother?” asked Lydia, in a low voice.
“Do you really wish to see me?”
“Can you wonder that I do so — for the sake of old times. We are friends of long standing, remember, Mr. Dale.”
“Yes,” answered Douglas, with marked gravity. “We have known each other for a long time.”
Captain Graham entered the room at this moment.
“The carriage which is to take us to Frimley is ready, Lydia,” he said; “your trunks are all on the roof, and you have only to wish Mr. Dale good-bye.”
“A very sad farewell,” murmured Miss Graham. “I can only trust that we may meet again under happier circumstances.”
“I trust we may,” replied Douglas, earnestly.
Miss Graham was bonneted42 and cloaked for the journey. She had dressed herself entirely43 in black, in respectful regard of the melancholy circumstances attending her departure. Nor did she forget that the sombre hue44 was peculiarly becoming to her. She wore a dress of black silk, a voluminous cloak of black velvet45 trimmed with sables46, and a fashionable bonnet41 of the same material, with a drooping47 feather.
Douglas conducted his guests to the carriage, and saw Miss Graham comfortably seated, with her shawls and travelling-bags on the seat opposite.
It was with a glance of mournful tenderness that Miss Graham uttered her final adieu; but there was no responsive glance in the eyes of Douglas Dale. His manner was serious and subdued48; but it was a manner not easy to penetrate49.
Gordon Graham flung himself back in his seat with a despairing groan24.
“Well, Lydia,” he said, “this accident in the hunting-field has been the ruin of all our hopes. I really think you are the most unlucky woman I ever encountered. After angling for something like ten years in the matrimonial fisheries, you were just on the point of landing a valuable fish, and at the last moment your husband that is to be goes and gets drowned during a day’s pleasure.”
“What should you say if this accident, which you think unlucky, should, after all, be a fortunate event for us?” asked Lydia, with significance.
“What the deuce do you mean?”
“How very slow of comprehension you are to-day, Gordon!” exclaimed the lady, impatiently; “Lionel Dale’s income was only five thousand a year — very little, after all, for a woman with my views of life.”
“And with your genius for running into debt,” muttered her brother.
“Do you happen to remember the terms of Sir Oswald Eversleigh’s will?” “I should think I do, indeed,” replied the captain; “the will was sufficiently50 talked about at the time of the baronet’s death.”
“That will left five thousand a year to each of the two brothers, Lionel and Douglas. If either should die unmarried, the fortune left to him was to go to the survivor51. Lionel Dale’s death doubles Douglas Dale’s income. A husband with ten thousand a year would suit me very well indeed. And why should I not win Douglas as easily as I won Lionel?”
“Because you are not likely to have the same opportunities.”
“I have asked Douglas to visit us in London.”
“An invitation which must be very flattering to him, but which he may or may not accept. However, my dear Lydia, I have the most profound respect for your courage and perseverance52; and if you can win a husband with ten thousand a year instead of five, so much the better for you, and so much the better for me, as I shall have a richer brother-in-law to whom to apply when I find myself in difficulties.”
The carriage had reached Frimley by this time. The brother and sister took their places in the coach which was to convey them to London.
Lydia drew down her veil, and settled herself comfortably in a corner of the vehicle, where she slept through the tedium53 of the journey.
At thirty years of age a woman of Miss Graham’s character is apt to be studiously careful of her beauty; and Lydia felt that she needed much repose54 after the fever and excitement of her visit to Hallgrove Rectory.
Sir Reginald Eversleigh played his part well during the few days in which he remained at the rectory. No mourner could have seemed more sincere than he, and everybody agreed that the spendthrift baronet exhibited an unaffected sorrow for his cousin’s fate, which proved him to be a very noble-hearted fellow, in spite of all the dark stories that had been told of his youth.
Before leaving Hallgrove, Reginald took care to make himself thoroughly55 acquainted with his cousin’s plans for the future. Douglas, with ten thousand a year, was, of course, a more valuable acquaintance than he had been as the possessor of half that income, even if there had been no dark influence ever busy weaving its secret and fatal web.
“You will go back to your old life in London, Douglas, I suppose?” said Sir Reginald. “There you will soonest forget the sad affliction that has befallen you. In the hurrying whirlpool of modern life there is no leisure for sorrow.”
“Yes, I shall come to London,” answered Douglas.
“And you will occupy your old quarters?”
“Decidedly.”
“And we shall see as much of each other as ever — eh, Douglas?” said Sir Reginald. “You must not let poor Lionel’s fate prey56 upon your mind, you know, my dear fellow; or your health, as well as your spirits, will suffer. You must go down to Hilton House, and mix with the old set again. That sort of thing will cheer you up a little.”
“Yes,” answered Douglas. “I know how far I may rely upon your friendship, Reginald. I shall place myself quite in your hands.”
“My dear fellow, you will not find me unworthy of your confidence.”
“I ought not to find you so, Reginald.”
Sir Reginald looked at his kinsman57 thoughtfully for a moment, fancying there was some hidden meaning in Douglas Dale’s words. But the tone in which he had uttered them was perfectly58 careless; and Reginald’s suspicion was dispelled59 by the frank expression of his face.
Sir Reginald left Hallgrove a few days after the fatal accident in the hunting-field, and went back to his London lodging60, which seemed very shabby and comfortless after the luxury of Hallgrove Rectory. He did not care to spend his evenings at Hilton House, for he shrank from hearing Paulina’s complaints about her loneliness and poverty. The London season had not yet begun, and there were few dupes whom the gamester could victimize by those skilful61 manoeuvres which so often helped him to success. It may be that some of the victims had complained of their losses, and the villa8 inhabited by the elegant Austrian widow had begun to be known amongst men of fashion as a place to be avoided.
Reginald Eversleigh feared that it must be so, when he found the few young men he met at his club rather disinclined to avail themselves of Madame Durski’s hospitality.
“Have you been to Fulham lately, Caversham?” he asked of a young lordling, who was master of a good many thousands per annum, but not the most talented of mankind.
“Fulham!” exclaimed Lord Caversham; “what’s Fulham? Ah, to be sure, I remember — place by the river — very nice — villas62 — boat-races, and that kind of thing. Let me see, bishops63, and that kind of church-going people live at Fulham, don’t they?”
“I thought you would have remembered one person who lives at Fulham — a very handsome woman, who made a strong impression upon you.”
“Did she — did she, by Jove?” cried the viscount; “and yet, upon my honour, Eversleigh, I can’t remember her. You see, I know so many splendid women; and splendid women are perpetually making an impression upon me — and I am perpetually making an impression upon splendid women. It’s mutual64, by Jove, Eversleigh, quite mutual. And pray, who is the lady in question?”
“The beautiful Viennese, Paulina Durski.”
The lordling made a wry65 face.
“Paulina Durski! Yes, Paulina is a pretty woman,” he murmured, languidly; “a very pretty woman; and you’re right, Eversleigh — she did make a profound impression upon me. But, you see, I found the impression cost me rather too much. Hilton House is the nicest place in the world to visit; but if a fellow finds himself losing two or three hundred every time he crosses the threshold, you can be scarcely surprised if he prefers spending his evenings where he can enjoy himself a little more cheaply. However, perhaps you’ll hardly understand my feelings on this subject, Eversleigh; for if I remember rightly you were always a winner when I played at Madame Durski’s.”
“Was I?” said Sir Reginald, with the air of a man who endeavours to recall circumstances that are almost forgotten.
The lordling was not altogether without knowledge of the world and of his fellow-men, and there had been a certain significance in his speech which had made Eversleigh wince66.
“Did I win when you were there?” he asked, carelessly. “Upon my word, I have forgotten all about it.”
“I haven’t,” answered Lord Caversham. “I bled pretty freely on several occasions when you and I played écarté; and I have not forgotten the figures on the cheques I had the pleasure of signing in your favour. No, my dear Eversleigh, although I consider Madame Durski the most charming of women, I don’t feel inclined to go to Hilton House again.”
“Ah!” said Sir Reginald, with a sneer67; “there are so few men who have the art of losing with grace. We have no Stavordales now-a-days. The man who could win eleven thousand at a coup68, and regret that he was not playing high, since in that case he would have won millions, is an extinct animal.”
“No doubt of it, dear boy; the gentlemanly art of losing placidly69 is dying out; and I confess that, for my part, I prefer winning,” answered Lord Caversham, coolly.
This brief conversation was a very unpleasant one for Sir Reginald Eversleigh. It told him that his career as a gamester must soon come to a close, or he would find himself a disgraced and branded wretch70, avoided and despised by the men he now called his friends.
It was evident that Viscount Caversham suspected that he had been cheated; nor was it likely that he would keep his suspicions secret from the men of his set.
The suspicion once whispered would speedily be repeated by others who had lost money in the saloons of Madame Durski. Hints and whispers would swell71 into a general cry, and Sir Reginald Eversleigh would find himself tabooed.
The prospect72 before him looked black as night — a night illumined by one lurid star, and that was the promise of Victor Carrington.
“It is time for me to have done with poverty,” he said to himself. “Lord Caversham’s insolent73 innuendoes74 would be silenced if I had ten thousand a year. It is clear that the game is up at Hilton House. Paulina may as well go back to Paris or Vienna. The pigeons have taken fright, and the hawks75 must seek a new quarry76.”
Sir Reginald drove straight from his club to the little cottage beyond Malda Hill. He scarcely expected to find the man whom he had last seen at an inn in Dorsetshire; but, to his surprise, he was conducted immediately to the laboratory, where he discovered Victor Carrington bending over an alembic, which was placed on the top of a small furnace.
The surgeon looked up with a start, and Reginald perceived that he wore the metal mask which he had noticed on a former occasion.
“Who brought you here?” asked Victor, impatiently.
“The servant who admitted me,” answered Reginald. “I told her I was your intimate friend, and that I wanted to see you immediately. She therefore brought me here.”
“She had no right to do so. However, no matter. When did you return? I scarcely expected to see you in town as soon.”
“I scarcely expected to find you hereafter our meeting at Frimley,” replied the baronet.
“There was nothing to detain me in the country. I came back some days ago, and have been busy with my old studios in chemistry.”
“You still dabble77 with poisons, I perceive,” said Sir Reginald, pointing to the mask which Victor had laid aside on a table near him.
“Every chemist must dabble in poisons, since poison forms an element of all medicines,” replied Victor. “And now tell me to what new dilemma78 of yours do I owe the honour of this visit. You rarely enter this house except when you find yourself desperately79 in need of my humble80 services. What is the last misfortune?”
“I have just come from the Phoenix81, where I met Caversham, I thought I should be able to get a hundred or so out of him at écarté to-night; but the game is up in that quarter.”
“He suspects that he has been —singularly unfortunate?”
“He knows it. No man who was not certain of the fact would have dared to say what he said to me. He insulted me, Carrington-insulted me grossly; and I was not able to resent his insolence82.”
“Never mind his insolence,” answered Victor; “in six months your position will be such that no man will presume to insult you. So the game is up at Hilton House, is it? I thought you were going on a little too fast. And pray what is to be the next move?”
“What can we do? Paulina’s creditors83 are impatient, and she has very little money to give them. My own debts are too pressing to permit of my helping84 her; and such being the case, the best thing she can do will be to get back to the Continent as soon as she can.”
“On no account, my dear Reginald!” exclaimed Carrington. “Madame Durski must not leave Hilton House.”
“Why not?”
“Never mind the why. I tell you, Reginald, she must stay. You and I must find enough money to stave off the demands of her sharpest creditors.”
“I have not a sixpence to give her,” answered the baronet; “I can scarcely afford to pay for the lodging that shelters me, and can still less afford to lend money to other people.”
“Not even to the woman who loves you, and whom you profess85 to love?” said Victor, with a sneer. “What a noble-minded creature you are, Sir Reginald Eversleigh — a pattern of chivalry86 and devotion! However, Madame Durski must remain; that is essential to the carrying out of my plans. If you will not find the money, I know who will.”
“And pray who is this generous knight-errant so ready to rush to the rescue of beauty in distress87?”
“Douglas Dale. He is over head and ears in love with the Austrian widow, and will lend her the money she wants. I shall go at once to Madame Durski and give her a few hints as to her line of conduct.”
There was a pause, during which the baronet seemed to be thinking deeply.
“Do you think that a wise course?” he asked, at last.
“Do I think what course wise?” demanded his friend.
“The line of conduct you propose. You say Douglas is in love with Paulina, and I myself have seen enough to convince me that you are right. If he is in love with her, he is just the man to sacrifice every other consideration for her sake. What if he should marry her? Would not that be a bad look-out for us?”
“You are a fool, Reginald Eversleigh,” cried Victor contemptuously; “you ought to know me better than to fear my discretion88. Douglas Dale loves Paulina Durski, and is the very man to sacrifice all worldly interests for her sake; the man to marry her, even were she more unworthy of his love than she is. But he never will marry her, notwithstanding.”
“How will you prevent such a marriage?”
“That is my secret. Depend upon it I will prevent it. You remember our compact the night we met at Frimley.”
“I do,” answered Reginald, in a voice that was scarcely above a whisper.
“Very well; I will be true to my part of that compact, depend upon it. Before this new-born year is out you shall be a rich man.”
“I have need of wealth, Victor,” replied the baronet, eagerly; “I have bitter need of it. There are men who can endure poverty; but I am not one of them. If my position does not change speedily I may find myself branded with the stigma89 of dishonour90 — an outlaw91 from society. I must be rich at any cost — at any cost, Victor.”
“You have told me that before,” answered the Frenchman, coolly, “and I have promised that you shall be rich. But if I am to keep my promise, you must submit yourself with unquestioning faith to my guidance. If the path we must tread together is a dark one, tread it blindly. The end will be success. And now tell me when you expect to see Douglas Dale in London.”
Sir Reginald explained his cousin’s plans, and after a brief conversation left the cottage. He heard Mrs. Carrington’s birds twittering in the cold January sunshine, and a passing glimpse through the open doorway92 of the drawing-room revealed to him the exquisite93 neatness and purity of the apartment, which even at this season was adorned94 with a few flowers.
“Strange!” he thought to himself, as he left the house; “any stranger entering that abode95 would imagine it the very shrine96 of domestic peace and simple happiness, and yet it is inhabited by a fiend.”
He went back to town. He dined alone in his dingy97 lodging, scarcely daring to show himself at his club — Lord Caversham had spoken so plainly; and had, no doubt, spoken to others still more plainly. Reginald Eversleigh’s face grew hot with shame as he remembered the insults he had been obliged to endure with pretended unconsciousness.
He feared to encounter other men who also had been losers at Hilton House, and who might speak as significantly as the viscount had spoken. This man, who violated the laws of heaven and earth with little terror of the Divine vengeance98, feared above all to be cut by the men of his set.
This is the slavery which the man of fashion creates for himself — these are the fetters99 which such men as Reginald Eversleigh forge for their own souls.
But before we trace the progress of Sir Reginald from step to step in this terrible career, we must once more revert100 to the strange visitors at Frimley.
Jane Payland by no means approved of passing Christmas-day in the uninteresting seclusion101 of a country inn, with nothing more festive102 to look forward to than a specially103 ordered, but lonely dinner, and nothing to divert her thoughts but the rural spectacle afforded by the inn-yard. As to going out for a walk in such weather, she would not have thought of such a thing, even if she had any one to walk out with; and to go alone — no — Jane Payland had no fancy for amusement of that order. The day had been particularly dreary104 to the lady’s maid, because the lady had been busily engaged in affairs of which she had no cognizance, and this ignorance, not a little exasperating105 even in town, became well-nigh intolerable to her in the weariness, the idleness, and the dullness of Frimley. When Lady Eversleigh went out in the dark evening, accompanied by the mysterious personage in whom Jane Payland had recognized their fellow-lodger, the amazement106 which she experienced produced an agreeable variety in her sensations, and the fact that the man with the vulture-like beak107 carried a carpet-bag intensified108 her surprise.
“Now I’m almost sure she is something to him; and she has come down here with him to see her people,” said Jane Payland to herself, as she sat desolately109 by the fire in her mistress’s room, a well-thumbed novel lying neglected on her knee; “and she’s mean enough to be ashamed of them. Well, I don’t think I should be that of my own flesh and blood, if I was ever so great and so grand. I suppose the bag is full of presents — I’m sure she might have told me if it was clothes she was going to give away; I shouldn’t have grudged110 ’em to the poor things.”
Grumbling111 a good deal, wondering more, and feasting a little, Jane Payland got through the time until her mistress returned. But for all her grumbling, and all her suspicion, the girl was daily growing more and more attached to her mistress, and her respect was increasing with her liking112. Lady Eversleigh returned to the inn alone late on that dismal113 Christmas-night, and she looked worn, troubled, and weary. After a few kind words to Jane Payland, she dismissed the girl, and went to bed, very tired and heart-sick. “How am I to prove it?” she asked herself, as she lay wearily awake. “How am I to prove it? in my borrowed character I am suspected; in my own, I should not be believed, or even listened to for a moment. He is a good man, that Lionel Dale, and he is doomed114, I fear.”
On the morning of the twenty-sixth Mr. Andrew Larkspur had another long private conference with Lady Eversleigh, the immediate result of which was his setting out, mounted on the stout115 pony116 which we have seen in difficulties in a previous chapter, and vainly endeavouring to come up with Lionel Dale at the hunt. When Mr. Andrew Larkspur arrived at the melancholy conviction that his errand was a useless one, and that he must only return to Frimley, and concert with Lady Eversleigh a new plan of action, he also became aware that he was more hurt and shaken by his fall than he had at first supposed. When he reached Frimley he felt exceedingly sick and weak, (“queer,” he expressed it), and was constrained117 to tell his anxious and unhappy client that he must go away and rest if he hoped to be fit for anything in the evening, or on the next day. “I will see Mr. Dale to-night, if he and I are both alive,” said Mr. Larkspur; “but if he was there before me I could not say a word to him now. I don’t mean to say I have not had a hurt or two in the course of my life before now, but I never was so regularly dead~beat; and that’s the truth.”
Thus it happened that the acute Mr. Larkspur was hors de combat just at the time when his acuteness would have found most employment, and thus Lady Eversleigh’s project of vengeance received, unconsciously, the first check. The game of reprisals118 was, indeed, destined119 to be played, but not by her; Providence120 would do that, in time, in the long run. Meanwhile, she strove, after her own fashion, to become the executor of its decrees.
The news of Lionel Dale’s sudden disappearance121, and the alarm to which it gave rise, reached the little town of Frimley in due course; but it was slow to reach the lonely lady at the inn. Lady Eversleigh had taken counsel with herself after Mr. Larkspur had left her, and had come to the determination that she would tell Lionel Dale the whole truth. She resolved to lay before him a full statement of all the circumstances of her life, to reveal all she knew, and all she suspected concerning Sir Reginald Eversleigh, and to tell him of Carrington’s presence in her neighbourhood, as well as the designs which she believed him to cherish. She told herself that her dead husband’s kinsman could scarcely refuse to believe her statement, when she reminded him that she had no object to serve in this revelation but the object of truth and respect for her husband’s memory. When he, Lionel Dale, could have rehabilitated122 her in public opinion by taking his place beside her, he had not done so; it was too late now, no advance on his part could undo123 that which had been done, and he could not therefore think that in taking this step she was trying to curry124 favour with him in order to further her own interest. After debating the question for some time, she resolved to write a letter, which Larkspur could carry to the rectory.
A great deal of time was consumed by Lady Eversleigh in writing this letter, and the darkness had fallen long before it was finished. When she rang for lights, she took no notice of the person who brought them, and she directed that her dinner should not be served until she rang for it. Thus no interruption of her task occurred, until Mr. Larkspur, looking very little the better for his rest and refreshment125, presented himself before her. Lady Eversleigh was just beginning to tell him what she had done, when he interrupted her, by saying, in a tone which would have astonished any of his intimates, for there was a touch of real feeling in it, apart from considerations of business —
“I’m afraid we’re too late. I’m very much afraid Carrington has been one too many for us, and has done the trick.”
“What do you mean?” asked Lady Eversleigh, rising, in extreme agitation126, and turning deadly pale. “Has any harm come to Lionel Dale?”
Then Mr. Andrew Larkspur told Lady Eversleigh the report which had reached the town, and of whose truth a secret instinct assured them both, only too completely. They were, indeed, powerless now; the enemy had been too strong, too subtle, and too quick for them. Mr. Larkspur did not remain long with Lady Eversleigh; but having counselled her to keep silence on the subject, to ask no questions of any one, and to preserve the letter she had written, which Mr. Larkspur, for reasons of his own, was anxious to see, he left her, and set off for the rectory. He reached his destination before the return of the party who had gone to search for the missing man. He mingled127 freely, almost unnoticed, with the servants and the villagers who had crowded about the house and lodges128, and all he heard confirmed him in his belief that the worst had happened, that Lionel Dale had, indeed, come by his death, either through the successful contrivance of Carrington, or by an extraordinary accident, coincident with his enemy’s fell designs. Mr. Larkspur asked a great many questions of several persons that night, and as talking to a stranger helped the watchers and loiterers over some of the time they had to drag through until the genuine apprehension129 of some, and the curiosity of others, should be realized or satisfied, he met with no rebuffs. But, on the other hand, neither did he obtain any information of value. No stranger had been seen to join the hunt that day, or noticed lurking130 about Hallgrove that morning, and Mr. Larkspur’s own reliable eyes had assured him that Carrington was not among the recipients131 of the rector’s hospitality on Christmas-day. The footman, who had directed the unknown visitor by the way past the stables to the lower road, did not remember that circumstance and so it did not come to Mr. Larkspur’s knowledge. When the party who had led the search for Lionel Dale returned to the rectory, and the worst was known, Mr. Larkspur went away, after having arranged with a small boy, who did odd jobs for the gardener at Hallgrove, that if the body was brought home in the morning, he should go over to Frimley, on consideration of half-a-crown, and inquire at the inn for Mr. Bennett.
“It’s no good thinking about what’s to be done, till the body’s found, and the inquest settled,” thought Mr. Larkspur. “I don’t think anything can be done then, but it’s clear there’s no use in thinking about it to-night. So I shall just tell my lady so, and get to bed. Confound that pony!”
At a reasonably early hour on the following morning, the juvenile132 messenger arrived from Hallgrove, and, on inquiring for Mr. Bennett, was ushered133 into the presence of Mr. Larkspur. The intelligence he brought was brief, but important. The rector’s body had been found, much disfigured; he had struck against a tree, the doctors said, in falling into the river, and been killed by the blow, “as well as drownded,” added the boy, with some appreciation134 of the additional piquancy135 of the circumstance. He was laid out in the library. The fine folks were gone, or going, except Squire Mordaunt and Sir Reginald, the rector’s cousin. Mr. Douglas took on about it dreadfully; the bay horse had come home, with his saddle wet, but he was not hurt or cut about, as the boy knew of. This was all the boy had to tell.
Mr. Larkspur dismissed the messenger, having faithfully paid him the stipulated136 half-crown, and immediately sought the presence of Lady Eversleigh. The realization137 of all her fears shocked her deeply, and in the solemnity of the dread17 event which had occurred she almost lost sight of her own purpose, it seemed swallowed up in a calamity so appalling138. But Mr. Larkspur was of a tougher and more practical temperament139. He lost no time in setting before his client the state of the case as regarded herself, and the purpose with which she had gone to Frimley, now rendered futile140. Mr. Larkspur entertained no doubt that Carrington had been in some way accessory to the death of Lionel Dale, but circumstances had so favoured the criminal that it would be impossible to prove his crime.
“If I told you all I know about the horse and about the man,” said Mr. Larkspur, “what good would it do? The man bought a horse very like Mr. Dale’s, and he rode away from here mounted on that horse, on the same day that Mr. Dale was drowned. I believe he changed the horses in Mr. Dale’s stable; but there’s not a tittle of proof of it, and how he contrived141 the thing I cannot undertake to say, for no mortal saw him at the rectory or at the meet; and the horse that every one would be prepared to swear was the horse that Mr. Dale rode, is safe at home at the rectory now, having evidently been in the river. Seeing we can’t prove the matter, it’s my opinion we’d better not meddle142 with it, more particularly as nothing that we can prove will do Sir Reginald Eversleigh any harm, and, if either of this precious pair of rascals143 is to escape, you don’t want it to be him.”
“Oh, no, no!” said Lady Eversleigh, “he is so much worse than the other as his added cowardice144 makes him.”
“Just so. Well, then, if you want to punish him and his agent, this is certainly not the opportunity. Next to winning, there’s nothing like thoroughly understanding and acknowledging what you’ve lost, and we have lost this game, beyond all question. Let us see, now, if we cannot win the next. If I understand the business right, Mr. Douglas Dale is his brother’s heir?”
“Yes,” said Lady Eversleigh; “his life only now stands between Sir Reginald and fortune.”
“Then he will take that life by Carrington’s agency, as I believe he has taken Lionel Dale’s,” said Mr. Larkspur; “and my idea is that the proper way to prevent him is to go away from this place, where no good is to be done, and where any movement will only defeat our purpose, by putting him on his guard — letting him know he is watched (forewarned, forearmed, you know)— and set ourselves to watch Carrington in London.”
“Why in London? How do you know he’s there?”
Mr. Larkspur smiled.
“Lord bless your innocence145!” he replied. “How do I know it? Why, ain’t London the natural place for him to be in? Ain’t London the place where every one that has done a successful trick goes to enjoy it, and every one that has missed his tip goes to hide himself? I’ll take my davy, though it’s a thing I don’t like doing in general, that Carrington’s back in town, living with his mother, as right as a trivet.”
So Lady Eversleigh and Jane Payland travelled up to town again, and took up their old quarters. And Mr. Larkspur returned, and resumed his room and his accustomed habits. But before he had been many hours in London, he had ascertained146, by the evidence of his own eyes, that Victor Carrington was, as he had predicted, in town, living with his mother, and “as right as a trivet.”
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收听单词发音
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1
dire
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| adj.可怕的，悲惨的，阴惨的，极端的 | |
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grooms
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| n.新郎( groom的名词复数 )；马夫v.照料或梳洗（马等）( groom的第三人称单数 )；使做好准备；训练；（给动物）擦洗 | |
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lurid
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| adj.可怕的；血红的；苍白的 | |
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hoarse
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| adj.嘶哑的，沙哑的 | |
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fatigue
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| n.疲劳，劳累 | |
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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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battered
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| adj.磨损的；v.连续猛击；磨损 | |
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villa
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| n.别墅，城郊小屋 | |
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utterly
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| adv.完全地，绝对地 | |
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swollen
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| adj.肿大的，水涨的；v.使变大，肿胀 | |
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perilous
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| adj.危险的，冒险的 | |
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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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misery
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| n.痛苦，苦恼，苦难；悲惨的境遇，贫苦 | |
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apathy
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| n.漠不关心，无动于衷；冷淡 | |
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brink
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| n.(悬崖、河流等的)边缘，边沿 | |
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16
dreaded
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| adj.令人畏惧的；害怕的v.害怕，恐惧，担心( dread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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18
interval
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| n.间隔，间距；幕间休息，中场休息 | |
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suspense
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| n.（对可能发生的事）紧张感，担心，挂虑 | |
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devoured
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| 吞没( devour的过去式和过去分词 )； 耗尽； 津津有味地看； 狼吞虎咽地吃光 | |
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21
glimmering
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| n.微光，隐约的一瞥adj.薄弱地发光的v.发闪光，发微光( glimmer的现在分词 ) | |
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22
stammered
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| v.结巴地说出( stammer的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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squire
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| n.护卫, 侍从, 乡绅 | |
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24
groan
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| vi./n.呻吟，抱怨；(发出)呻吟般的声音 | |
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25
groaned
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| v.呻吟( groan的过去式和过去分词 )；发牢骚；抱怨；受苦 | |
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26
anguish
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| n.(尤指心灵上的)极度痛苦，烦恼 | |
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27
impatience
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| n.不耐烦，急躁 | |
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28
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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29
melancholy
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| n.忧郁，愁思；adj.令人感伤（沮丧）的，忧郁的 | |
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30
desolate
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| adj.荒凉的，荒芜的；孤独的，凄凉的；v.使荒芜，使孤寂 | |
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31
exhausted
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| adj.极其疲惫的，精疲力尽的 | |
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32
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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contemplating
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| 深思，细想，仔细考虑( contemplate的现在分词 )； 注视，凝视； 考虑接受（发生某事的可能性）； 深思熟虑，沉思，苦思冥想 | |
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34
immediate
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| adj.立即的；直接的，最接近的；紧靠的 | |
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manly
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| adj.有男子气概的；adv.男子般地，果断地 | |
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36
yearned
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| 渴望，切盼，向往( yearn的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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calamity
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| n.灾害，祸患，不幸事件 | |
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38
distraction
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| n.精神涣散，精神不集中，消遣，娱乐 | |
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Christian
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| adj.基督教徒的；n.基督教徒 | |
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40
alteration
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| n.变更，改变；蚀变 | |
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41
bonnet
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| n.无边女帽；童帽 | |
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42
bonneted
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| 发动机前置的 | |
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43
entirely
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| ad.全部地，完整地；完全地，彻底地 | |
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44
hue
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| n.色度；色调；样子 | |
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45
velvet
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| n.丝绒，天鹅绒；adj.丝绒制的，柔软的 | |
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46
sables
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| n.紫貂( sable的名词复数 )；紫貂皮；阴暗的；暗夜 | |
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47
drooping
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| adj. 下垂的，无力的 动词droop的现在分词 | |
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48
subdued
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| adj. 屈服的，柔和的，减弱的 动词subdue的过去式和过去分词 | |
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49
penetrate
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| v.透(渗)入；刺入，刺穿；洞察，了解 | |
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50
sufficiently
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| adv.足够地，充分地 | |
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51
survivor
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| n.生存者，残存者，幸存者 | |
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52
perseverance
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| n.坚持不懈，不屈不挠 | |
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53
tedium
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| n.单调；烦闷 | |
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54
repose
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| v.(使)休息；n.安息 | |
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55
thoroughly
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| adv.完全地，彻底地，十足地 | |
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56
prey
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| n.被掠食者，牺牲者，掠食；v.捕食，掠夺，折磨 | |
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57
kinsman
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| n.男亲属 | |
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58
perfectly
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| adv.完美地，无可非议地，彻底地 | |
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59
dispelled
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| v.驱散，赶跑( dispel的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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60
lodging
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| n.寄宿，住所；(大学生的)校外宿舍 | |
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61
skilful
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| (=skillful)adj.灵巧的，熟练的 | |
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62
villas
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| 别墅，公馆( villa的名词复数 )； （城郊）住宅 | |
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63
bishops
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| （基督教某些教派管辖大教区的）主教( bishop的名词复数 )； （国际象棋的）象 | |
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64
mutual
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| adj.相互的，彼此的；共同的，共有的 | |
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wry
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| adj.讽刺的；扭曲的 | |
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66
wince
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| n.畏缩，退避，（因痛苦，苦恼等)面部肌肉抽动；v.畏缩，退缩，退避 | |
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67
sneer
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| v.轻蔑；嘲笑；n.嘲笑，讥讽的言语 | |
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68
coup
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| n.政变；突然而成功的行动 | |
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69
placidly
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| adv.平稳地，平静地 | |
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70
wretch
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| n.可怜的人，不幸的人；卑鄙的人 | |
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71
swell
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| vi.膨胀，肿胀；增长，增强 | |
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72
prospect
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| n.前景，前途；景色，视野 | |
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insolent
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| adj.傲慢的，无理的 | |
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74
innuendoes
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| n.影射的话( innuendo的名词复数 )；讽刺的话；含沙射影；暗讽 | |
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75
hawks
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| 鹰( hawk的名词复数 )； 鹰派人物，主战派人物 | |
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76
quarry
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| n.采石场；v.采石；费力地找 | |
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77
dabble
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| v.涉足，浅赏 | |
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78
dilemma
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| n.困境，进退两难的局面 | |
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79
desperately
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| adv.极度渴望地，绝望地，孤注一掷地 | |
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80
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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81
phoenix
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| n.凤凰，长生(不死)鸟；引申为重生 | |
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82
insolence
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| n.傲慢；无礼；厚颜；傲慢的态度 | |
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83
creditors
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| n.债权人，债主( creditor的名词复数 ) | |
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84
helping
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| n.食物的一份&adj.帮助人的，辅助的 | |
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85
profess
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| v.声称，冒称，以...为业，正式接受入教，表明信仰 | |
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86
chivalry
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| n.骑士气概，侠义；（男人）对女人彬彬有礼，献殷勤 | |
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87
distress
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| n.苦恼，痛苦，不舒适；不幸；vt.使悲痛 | |
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88
discretion
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| n.谨慎；随意处理 | |
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89
stigma
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| n.耻辱，污名；(花的)柱头 | |
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90
dishonour
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| n./vt.拒付（支票、汇票、票据等）；vt.凌辱，使丢脸；n.不名誉，耻辱，不光彩 | |
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91
outlaw
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| n.歹徒，亡命之徒；vt.宣布…为不合法 | |
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92
doorway
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| n.门口，(喻)入门；门路，途径 | |
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93
exquisite
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| adj.精美的；敏锐的；剧烈的，感觉强烈的 | |
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94
adorned
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| [计]被修饰的 | |
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95
abode
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| n.住处，住所 | |
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96
shrine
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| n.圣地，神龛，庙；v.将...置于神龛内，把...奉为神圣 | |
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97
dingy
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| adj.昏暗的，肮脏的 | |
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98
vengeance
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| n.报复，报仇，复仇 | |
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fetters
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| n.脚镣( fetter的名词复数 )；束缚v.给…上脚镣，束缚( fetter的第三人称单数 ) | |
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100
revert
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| v.恢复，复归，回到 | |
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101
seclusion
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| n.隐遁，隔离 | |
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102
festive
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| adj.欢宴的，节日的 | |
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103
specially
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| adv.特定地；特殊地；明确地 | |
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104
dreary
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| adj.令人沮丧的，沉闷的，单调乏味的 | |
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105
exasperating
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| adj. 激怒的 动词exasperate的现在分词形式 | |
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106
amazement
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| n.惊奇，惊讶 | |
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107
beak
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| n.鸟嘴，茶壶嘴，钩形鼻 | |
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108
intensified
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| v.（使）增强， （使）加剧( intensify的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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109
desolately
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| 荒凉地，寂寞地 | |
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110
grudged
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| 怀恨（grudge的过去式与过去分词形式） | |
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111
grumbling
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| adj. 喃喃鸣不平的, 出怨言的 | |
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112
liking
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| n.爱好；嗜好；喜欢 | |
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113
dismal
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| adj.阴沉的，凄凉的，令人忧郁的，差劲的 | |
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114
doomed
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| 命定的 | |
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116
pony
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| adj.小型的；n.小马 | |
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constrained
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| adj.束缚的,节制的 | |
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118
reprisals
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| n.报复（行为）( reprisal的名词复数 ) | |
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119
destined
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| adj.命中注定的；(for)以…为目的地的 | |
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120
providence
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| n.深谋远虑，天道，天意；远见；节约；上帝 | |
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121
disappearance
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| n.消失，消散，失踪 | |
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122
rehabilitated
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| 改造（罪犯等）( rehabilitate的过去式和过去分词 )； 使恢复正常生活； 使恢复原状； 修复 | |
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123
undo
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| vt.解开，松开；取消，撤销 | |
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124
curry
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| n.咖哩粉，咖哩饭菜；v.用咖哩粉调味，用马栉梳，制革 | |
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125
refreshment
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| n.恢复，精神爽快，提神之事物；（复数）refreshments:点心，茶点 | |
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126
agitation
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| n.搅动；搅拌；鼓动，煽动 | |
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127
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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128
lodges
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| v.存放( lodge的第三人称单数 )；暂住；埋入；（权利、权威等）归属 | |
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129
apprehension
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| n.理解，领悟；逮捕，拘捕；忧虑 | |
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130
lurking
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| 潜在 | |
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131
recipients
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| adj.接受的；受领的；容纳的；愿意接受的n.收件人；接受者；受领者；接受器 | |
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132
juvenile
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| n.青少年，少年读物；adj.青少年的，幼稚的 | |
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133
ushered
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| v.引，领，陪同( usher的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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134
appreciation
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| n.评价；欣赏；感谢；领会，理解；价格上涨 | |
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135
piquancy
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| n.辛辣，辣味，痛快 | |
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136
stipulated
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| vt.& vi.规定；约定adj.[法]合同规定的 | |
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137
realization
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| n.实现；认识到，深刻了解 | |
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138
appalling
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| adj.骇人听闻的，令人震惊的，可怕的 | |
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139
temperament
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| n.气质，性格，性情 | |
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140
futile
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| adj.无效的，无用的，无希望的 | |
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141
contrived
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| adj.不自然的，做作的；虚构的 | |
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142
meddle
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| v.干预，干涉，插手 | |
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143
rascals
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| 流氓( rascal的名词复数 )； 无赖； （开玩笑说法）淘气的人（尤指小孩）； 恶作剧的人 | |
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144
cowardice
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| n.胆小，怯懦 | |
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145
innocence
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| n.无罪；天真；无害 | |
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146
ascertained
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| v.弄清，确定，查明( ascertain的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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