Douglas Dale could not attend that inquest. He was stricken down with fever; the fate of the woman he had so loved, so unjustly suspected, nearly cost him his life, and when he recovered sufficiently5, he left England, not to return for three years. Before his departure he saw Lady Eversleigh and her mother, and established with them a bond of friendship as close as that of their kin6. He provided liberally for Miss Brewer, but her rescue from poverty brought her no happiness: she was a broken-hearted woman.
Victor Carrington’s mother retired7 into a convent, and was probably as happy as she had ever been. She had loved him but little, whose only virtue8 was that he had loved her much.
Captain Copplestone’s rapture9 knew no bounds when he clasped little Gertrude in his arms once more. He was almost jealous of Rosamond Jernam, when he found how great a hold she had obtained on the heart of her charge; but his jealousy10 was mingled11 with gratitude12, and he joined Lady Eversleigh in testifying his friendship for the tender-hearted woman who had protected and cherished the heiress of Raynham in the hour of her desolation.
It is not to be supposed that the world remained long in ignorance of this romantic episode in the common-place story of every-day life.
Paragraphs found their way into the newspapers, no one knew how, and society marvelled13 at the good fortune of Sir Oswald’s widow.
“That woman’s wealth must be boundless,” exclaimed aristocratic dowagers, for whom the grip of poverty’s bony fingers had been tight and cruel. “Her husband left her magnificent estates, and an enormous amount of funded property; and now a mother drops down from the skies for her benefit — a mother who is reported to be almost as rich as herself.”
Amongst those who envied Lady Eversleigh’s good fortune, there was none whose envy was so bitter as that of her husband’s disappointed nephew, Sir Reginald.
This woman had stood between him and fortune, and it would have been happiness to him to see her grovelling14 in the dust, a beggar and an outcast. Instead of this, he heard of her exaltation, and he hated her with an intense hatred15 which was almost childish in its purposeless fury.
He speedily found, however, that life was miserable16 without his evil counsellor. The Frenchman’s unabating confidence in ultimate success had sustained the penniless idler in the darkest day of misfortune. But now he found himself quite alone; and there was no voice to promise future triumph. He knew that the game of life had been played to the last card, and that it was lost.
His feeble character was not equal to support the burden of poverty and despair.
He dared not show his face at any of the clubs where he had once been so distinguished17 a member; for he knew that the voice of society was against him.
Thus hopeless, friendless, and abandoned by his kind, Sir Reginald Eversleigh had recourse to the commonest form of consolation18. He fled from a country in which his name had become odious19, and took up his abode20 in Paris, where he found a miserable lodging21 in one of the narrowest alleys23 in the neighbourhood of the Luxembourg, which was then a labyrinth24 of narrow streets and lanes.
Here he could afford to buy brandy, for at that date brandy was much cheaper in France than it is now. Here he could indulge his growing propensity25 for strong drink to the uttermost extent of his means, and could drown his sorrows, and drink destruction to his enemies, in fiery26 draughts27 of cognac.
For some years he inhabited the same dirty garret, keeping the key of his wretched chamber29, going up and down the crumbling30 old staircase uncared for and unnoticed. Few who had known him in the past would have recognized the once elegant young man in this latter stage of his existence. Form and features, complexion31 and expression, were alike degraded. The garments worn by him, who had once been the boasted patron of crack West-end tailors, were now shapeless and hideous32. The dandy of the clubs had become a perambulating mass of rags.
Every day when the sun shone he buttoned his greasy34, threadbare overcoat across his breast, and crawled to the public garden of the Luxembourg, where he might be seen shuffling35 slipshod along the sunniest walk, an object of contempt and aversion in the eyes of nursery-maids and grisettes— a butt33 for the dare-devil students of the quarter.
Had he any consciousness of his degradation36?
Yes; that was the undying vulture which preyed37 upon his entrails — the consuming fire that was never quenched38.
During the brief interval39 of each day in which he was sober, Sir Reginald Eversleigh was wont40 to reflect upon the past. He knew himself to be the wretch28 and outcast he was; and, looking back at his start in life, he could but remember how different his career might have been had he so chosen.
In those hours the slow tears made furrows41 in his haggard cheeks — the tears of remorse42, vain repentance43, that came too late for earth; but not, perhaps, utterly44 too late for heaven, since, even for this last and worst of sinners, there might be mercy.
Thus his life passed — a changeless routine, unbroken by one bright interval, one friendly visit, one sign or token to show that there was any link between this lonely wretch and the rest of humanity.
One day the porter, who lived in a little den3 at the bottom of the lodging-house staircase, suddenly missed the familiar figure which had gone by his rabbit-hutch every day for the last six years; the besotted face that had stared at him morning and evening with the blank, unseeing gaze of the habitual45 drunkard.
“What has become of the old toper who lives up yonder among the chimney-pots?” cried the porter, suddenly, to the wife of his bosom46. “I have not seen him to-day nor yesterday, nor for many days. He must be ill. I will go upstairs and make inquiries47 by-and-by, when I have leisure.”
The porter waited for a leisure half-hour after dark, and then tramped wearily up the steep old staircase with a lighted candle to see after the missing lodger48. He might have waited even longer without detriment49 to Sir Reginald Eversleigh.
The baronet had been dead many days, suffocated50 by the fumes51 of his poor little charcoal52 stove. A trap-door in the roof, which he had been accustomed to open for the ventilation of his garret, had been closed by the wind, and the baronet had passed unconsciously from sleep to death.
He had died, and no one had been aware of his death. The people of the house did not know either his name or his country. His burial was that of an unknown pauper53; and the bones of the last male scion54 of the house of Eversleigh were mingled with the bones of Parisian paupers55 in the cemetery56 of Père la Chaise.
While Sir Reginald Eversleigh dragged out the wretched remnant of his existence in a dingy57 Parisian alley22, there was perfect peace and tranquil58 happiness for the woman against whose fair fame he and Victor Carrington had so basely conspired59.
Yes, Anna was at peace; surrounded by friends; delighted day by day to watch the budding loveliness, the sportive grace of Gertrude Eversleigh, the idolized heiress of Raynham. As Lady Eversleigh paced the terraces of an Italian garden, her mother by her side, with Gertrude clinging to her side; as she looked out over the vast domain60 which owned her as mistress — it might seem that fortune had lavished61 her fairest gifts into the lap of her who had been once a friendless stranger, singing in the taverns62 of Wapping.
Wonderful indeed had been the transitions which had befallen her; but even now, when the horizon seemed so fair before her, there were dark shadows upon the past which, in some measure, clouded the brightness of the present, and dimmed the radiance of the future.
She could not forget her night of agony in the house amongst the marshes63 beyond Ratcliff Highway; she could not cease to lament64 the loss of that noble friend who had rescued her in the hour of her despair.
The world wondered at the prolonged widowhood of the mistress of Raynham. People were surprised to find that a woman in the golden prime of womanhood and beauty could be constant to the memory of a husband old enough to have been her father. But in due time society learned to accept the fact as a matter of course, and Lady Eversleigh was no longer the subject of hopes and speculations65.
Her constant gratitude and friendship for the Jernams suffered no diminution66 as time went on. The difference in their social position made no difference to her; and no more frequent or more welcome guests were seen at Raynham than Captain Duncombe, his daughter and son-inlaw, and honest Joyce Harker. Lady Eversleigh had a particular regard for the man who had so true and faithful a heart, and she would often talk to him; but she never mentioned the subject of that miserable night on which he had seen her down at Wapping. That subject was tacitly avoided by both. There was a pain too intense, a memory too dark, associated with the events of that period.
And so the story ends. There is no sound of pleasant wedding bells to close my record with their merry, jangling chorus. Is it not the fate of the innocent to suffer in this life for the sins of the wicked? Lady Eversleigh’s widowhood, Douglas Dale’s lonely life, are the work of Victor Carrington — a work not to be undone67 upon this earth. If he has failed in all else, he has succeeded at least in this: he has ruined the happiness of two lives. For both his victims time brings peace — a sober gladness that is not without its charm. For one a child’s affection — a child’s growing grace of mind and form, bring a happiness on, clouded at intervals68 by the dark shadows of past sorrow. But in the heart of Douglas Dale there is an empty place which can never be filled upon earth.
“Will the Eternal and all-seeing One forgive her for her reckless, useless life, and shall I meet her among the blest in heaven?” he asks himself sometimes, and then he remembers the holy words of comfort unspeakable: “Come unto me, ye that are weary and heavy laden69, and I will give you rest.”
Had not Paulina been “weary, and heavy laden,” bowed down by the burden of a false accusation70, friendless, hopeless, from her very cradle?
He thought of the illimitable Mercy, and he dared to hope for the day in which he should meet her he loved “Beyond the Veil.”
The End
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1
remains
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| n.剩余物，残留物；遗体，遗迹 | |
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brewer
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| n. 啤酒制造者 | |
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den
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| n.兽穴；秘密地方；安静的小房间，私室 | |
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opium
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| n.鸦片；adj.鸦片的 | |
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sufficiently
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| adv.足够地，充分地 | |
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kin
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| n.家族，亲属，血缘关系；adj.亲属关系的，同类的 | |
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retired
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| adj.隐退的，退休的，退役的 | |
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virtue
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| n.德行，美德；贞操；优点；功效，效力 | |
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rapture
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| n.狂喜；全神贯注；着迷；v.使狂喜 | |
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jealousy
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| n.妒忌，嫉妒，猜忌 | |
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mingled
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| 混合，混入( mingle的过去式和过去分词 )； 混进，与…交往[联系] | |
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gratitude
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| adj.感激，感谢 | |
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marvelled
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| v.惊奇，对…感到惊奇( marvel的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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14
grovelling
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| adj.卑下的，奴颜婢膝的v.卑躬屈节，奴颜婢膝( grovel的现在分词 )；趴 | |
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hatred
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| n.憎恶，憎恨，仇恨 | |
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miserable
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| adj.悲惨的，痛苦的；可怜的，糟糕的 | |
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distinguished
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| adj.卓越的，杰出的，著名的 | |
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consolation
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| n.安慰，慰问 | |
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odious
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| adj.可憎的，讨厌的 | |
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abode
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| n.住处，住所 | |
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lodging
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| n.寄宿，住所；(大学生的)校外宿舍 | |
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alley
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| n.小巷，胡同；小径，小路 | |
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alleys
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| 胡同，小巷( alley的名词复数 )； 小径 | |
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labyrinth
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| n.迷宫；难解的事物；迷路 | |
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propensity
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| n.倾向；习性 | |
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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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draughts
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| n. <英>国际跳棋 | |
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wretch
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| n.可怜的人，不幸的人；卑鄙的人 | |
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29
chamber
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| n.房间，寝室；会议厅；议院；会所 | |
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crumbling
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| adj.摇摇欲坠的 | |
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complexion
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| n.肤色；情况，局面；气质，性格 | |
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hideous
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| adj.丑陋的，可憎的，可怕的，恐怖的 | |
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butt
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| n.笑柄；烟蒂；枪托；臀部；v.用头撞或顶 | |
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greasy
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| adj. 多脂的，油脂的 | |
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shuffling
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| adj. 慢慢移动的, 滑移的 动词shuffle的现在分词形式 | |
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degradation
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| n.降级；低落；退化；陵削；降解；衰变 | |
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37
preyed
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| v.掠食( prey的过去式和过去分词 )；掠食；折磨；（人）靠欺诈为生 | |
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38
quenched
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| 解（渴）( quench的过去式和过去分词 )； 终止（某事物）； （用水）扑灭（火焰等）； 将（热物体）放入水中急速冷却 | |
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interval
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| n.间隔，间距；幕间休息，中场休息 | |
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40
wont
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| adj.习惯于；v.习惯；n.习惯 | |
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41
furrows
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| n.犁沟( furrow的名词复数 )；（脸上的）皱纹v.犁田，开沟( furrow的第三人称单数 ) | |
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42
remorse
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| n.痛恨，悔恨，自责 | |
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repentance
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| n.懊悔 | |
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44
utterly
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| adv.完全地，绝对地 | |
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45
habitual
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| adj.习惯性的；通常的，惯常的 | |
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bosom
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| n.胸，胸部；胸怀；内心；adj.亲密的 | |
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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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48
lodger
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| n.寄宿人，房客 | |
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49
detriment
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| n.损害；损害物，造成损害的根源 | |
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50
suffocated
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| （使某人）窒息而死( suffocate的过去式和过去分词 )； （将某人）闷死； 让人感觉闷热； 憋气 | |
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51
fumes
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| n.(强烈而刺激的)气味，气体 | |
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52
charcoal
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| n.炭，木炭，生物炭 | |
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53
pauper
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| n.贫民，被救济者，穷人 | |
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54
scion
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| n.嫩芽，子孙 | |
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55
paupers
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| n.穷人( pauper的名词复数 )；贫民；贫穷 | |
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56
cemetery
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| n.坟墓，墓地，坟场 | |
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57
dingy
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| adj.昏暗的，肮脏的 | |
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58
tranquil
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| adj. 安静的, 宁静的, 稳定的, 不变的 | |
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59
conspired
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| 密谋( conspire的过去式和过去分词 )； 搞阴谋； （事件等）巧合； 共同导致 | |
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60
domain
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| n.(活动等)领域，范围；领地，势力范围 | |
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61
lavished
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| v.过分给予，滥施( lavish的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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62
taverns
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| n.小旅馆，客栈，酒馆( tavern的名词复数 ) | |
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marshes
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| n.沼泽，湿地( marsh的名词复数 ) | |
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64
lament
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| n.悲叹，悔恨，恸哭；v.哀悼，悔恨，悲叹 | |
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65
speculations
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| n.投机买卖( speculation的名词复数 )；思考；投机活动；推断 | |
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66
diminution
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| n.减少；变小 | |
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67
undone
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| a.未做完的，未完成的 | |
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68
intervals
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| n.[军事]间隔( interval的名词复数 )；间隔时间；[数学]区间；（戏剧、电影或音乐会的）幕间休息 | |
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69
laden
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| adj.装满了的；充满了的；负了重担的；苦恼的 | |
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accusation
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| n.控告，指责，谴责 | |
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