He went up to the house again on the Wednesday, and again on the Thursday,—but nothing had been heard from the Squire9. The bailiff was very unhappy. Even though there might come a cheque on the Saturday morning, which both Fenwick and the bailiff thought to be probable, still there would be grave difficulties.
“Here’ll be the first of September on us afore we know where we are,” said the bailiff, “and is we to go on with the horses?”
For the Squire was of all men the most regular, and began to get his horses into condition on the first of September as regularly as he began to shoot partridges. The Vicar went home and then made up his mind that he would go up to London after his friend. He must provide for his next Sunday’s duty, but he could do that out of a neighbouring parish, and he would start on the morrow. He arranged the matter with his wife and with his friend’s curate, and on the Friday he started.
He drove himself into Salisbury instead of to the Bullhampton Road station in order that he might travel by the express train. That at least was the reason which he gave to himself and to his wife. But there was present to his mind the idea that he might look into the court and see how the trial was going on. Poor Carry Brattle would have a bad time of it beneath a lawyer’s claws. Such a one as Carry, of the evil of whose past life there was no doubt, and who would appear as a witness against a man whom she had once been engaged to marry, would certainly meet with no mercy from a cross-examining barrister. The broad landmarks10 between the respectable and the disreputable may guide the tone of a lawyer somewhat, when he has a witness in his power; but the finer lines which separate that which is at the moment good and true from that which is false and bad cannot be discerned amidst the turmoil11 of a trial, unless the eyes, and the ears, and the inner touch of him who has the handling of the victim be of a quality more than ordinarily high.
The Vicar drove himself over to Salisbury and had an hour there for strolling into the court. He had heard on the previous day that the case would be brought on the first thing on the Friday, and it was half-past eleven when he made his way in through the crowd. The train by which he was to be taken on to London did not start till half-past twelve. At that moment the court was occupied in deciding whether a certain tradesman, living at Devizes, should or should not be on the jury. The man himself objected that, being a butcher, he was, by reason of the second nature acquired in his business, too cruel, and bloody-minded to be entrusted12 with an affair of life and death. To a proposition in itself so reasonable no direct answer was made; but it was argued with great power on behalf of the crown, which seemed to think at the time that the whole case depended on getting this one particular man into the jury box, that the recalcitrant13 juryman was not in truth a butcher, that he was only a dealer14 in meat, and that though the stain of the blood descended15 the cruelty did not. Fenwick remained there till he heard the case given against the pseudo-butcher, and then retired16 from the court. He had, however, just seen Carry Brattle and her father seated side by side on a bench in a little outside room appropriated to the witnesses, and there had been a constable17 there seeming to stand on guard over them. The miller18 was sitting, leaning on his stick, with his eyes fixed19 upon the ground, and Carry was pale, wretched, and draggled. Sam had not yet made his appearance.
“I’m afeard, sir, he’ll be in trouble,” said Carry to the Vicar.
“Let ’un alone,” said the miller; “when they wants ’im he’ll be here. He know’d more about it nor I did.”
That afternoon Fenwick went to the club of which he and Gilmore were both members, and found that his friend was in London. He had been so, at least, that morning at nine o’clock. According to the porter at the club door, Mr. Gilmore called there every morning for his letters as soon as the club was open. He did not eat his breakfast in the house, nor, as far as the porter’s memory went, did he even enter the club. Fenwick had lodged20 himself at an hotel in the immediate21 neighbourhood of Pall-Mall, and he made up his mind that his only chance of catching22 his friend was to be at the steps of the club door when it was opened at nine o’clock. So he eat his dinner,—very much in solitude23, for on the 28th of August it is not often that the coffee rooms of clubs are full,—and in the evening took himself to one of the theatres which was still open. His club had been deserted24, and it had seemed to him that the streets also were empty. One old gentleman, who, together with himself, had employed the forces of the establishment that evening, had told him that there wasn’t a single soul left in London. He had gone to his tailor’s and had found that both the tailor and the foreman were out of town. His publisher,—for our Vicar did a little in the way of light literature on social subjects, and had brought out a pretty volume in green and gold on the half-profit system, intending to give his share to a certain county hospital,—his publisher had been in the north since the 12th, and would not be back for three weeks. He found, however, a confidential25 young man who was able to tell him that the hospital need not increase the number of its wards26 on this occasion. He had dropped down to Dean’s Yard to see a clerical friend,—but the house was shut up and he could not even get an answer. He sauntered into the Abbey, and found them mending the organ. He got into a cab and was driven hither and thither27 because all the streets were pulled up. He called at the War-Office to see a young clerk, and found one old messenger fast asleep in his arm-chair. “Gone for his holiday, sir,” said the man in the arm-chair, speaking amidst his dreams, without waiting to hear the particular name of the young clerk who was wanted. And yet, when he got to the theatre, it was so full that he could hardly find a seat on which to sit. In all the world around us there is nothing more singular than the emptiness and the fullness of London.
He was up early the next morning and breakfasted before he went out, thinking that even should he succeed in catching the Squire, he would not be able to persuade the unhappy man to come and breakfast with him. At a little before nine he was in Pall-Mall, walking up and down before the club, and as the clocks struck the hour he began to be impatient. The porter had said that Gilmore always came exactly at nine, and within two minutes after that hour the Vicar began to feel that his friend was breaking an engagement and behaving badly to him. By ten minutes past, the idea had got into his head that all the people in Pall-Mall were watching him, and at the quarter he was angry and unhappy. He had just counted the seconds up to twenty minutes, and had begun to consider that it would be absurd for him to walk there all the day, when he saw the Squire coming slowly along the street. He had been afraid to make himself comfortable within the club, and there to wait for his friend’s coming, lest Gilmore should have escaped him, not choosing to be thus caught by any one;—and even now he had his fear lest his quarry28 should slip through his fingers. He waited till the Squire had gone up to the porter and returned to the street, and then he crossed over and seized him by the arm. “Harry29,” he said, “you didn’t expect to see me in London;—did you?”
“Certainly not,” said the other, implying very plainly by his looks that the meeting had given him no special pleasure.
“I came up yesterday afternoon, and I was at Cutcote’s the tailor’s, and at Messrs. Bringémout and Neversell’s. Bringémout has retired, but it’s Neversell that does the business. And then I went down to see old Drybird, and I called on young Dozey at his office. But everybody is out of town. I never saw anything like it. I vote that we take to having holidays in the country, and all come to London, and live in the empty houses.”
“I suppose you came up to look after me?” said Gilmore, with a brow as black as a thunder-cloud.
Fenwick perceived that he need not carry on any further his lame30 pretences32. “Well, I did. Come, old fellow, this won’t do, you know. Everything is not to be thrown overboard because a girl doesn’t know her own mind. Aren’t your anchors better than that?”
“I haven’t an anchor left,” said Gilmore.
“How can you be so weak and so wicked as to say so? Come, Harry, take a turn with me in the park. You may be quite sure I shan’t let you go now I’ve got you.”
“You’ll have to let me go,” said the other.
“Not till I’ve told you my mind. Everybody is out of town, so I suppose even a parson may light a cigar down here. Harry, you must come back with me.”
“No;—I cannot.”
“Do you mean to say that you will yield up all your strength, all your duty, all your life, and throw over every purpose of your existence because you have been ill-used by a wench? Is that your idea of manhood,—of that manhood you have so often preached?”
“After what I have suffered there I cannot bear the place.”
“You must force yourself to bear it. Do you mean to say that because you are unhappy you will not pay your debts?”
“I owe no man a shilling;—or, if I do, I will pay it to-morrow.”
“There are debts you can only settle by daily payments. To every man living on your land you owe such a debt. To every friend connected with you by name, or blood, or love, you owe such a debt. Do you suppose that you can cast yourself adrift, and make yourself a by-word, and hurt no one but yourself? Why is it that we hate a suicide?”
“Because he sins.”
“Because he is a coward, and runs away from the burden which he ought to bear gallantly33. He throws his load down on the roadside, and does not care who may bear it, or who may suffer because he is too poor a creature to struggle on! Have you no feeling that, though it may be hard with you here,”—and the Vicar, as he spoke34, struck his breast,—“you should so carry your outer self, that the eyes of those around you should see nothing of the sorrow within? That is my idea of manliness35, and I have ever taken you to be a man.”
“We work for the esteem36 of others while we desire it. I desire nothing now. She has so knocked me about that I should be a liar37 if I were to say that there is enough manhood left in me to bear it. I shan’t kill myself.”
“No, Harry, you won’t do that.”
“But I shall give up the place, and go abroad.”
“Whom will you serve by that?”
“It is all very well to preach, Frank. Bad as I am I could preach to you if there were a matter to preach about. I don’t know that there is anything much easier than preaching. But as for practising, you can’t do it if you have not got the strength. A man can’t walk if you take away his legs. If you break a bird’s wing he can’t fly, let the bird be ever so full of pluck. All that there was in me she has taken out of me. I could fight him, and would willingly, if I thought there was a chance of his meeting me.”
“He would not be such a fool.”
“But I could not stand up and look at her.”
“She has left Bullhampton, you know.”
“It does not matter, Frank. There is the place that I was getting ready for her. And if I were there, you and your wife would always be thinking about it. And every fellow about the estate knows the whole story. It seems to me to be almost inconceivable that a woman should have done such a thing.”
“She has not meant to act badly, Harry.”
“To tell the truth, when I look back at it all, I blame myself more than her. A man should never be ass38 enough to ask any woman a second time. But I had got it into my head that it was a disgraceful thing to ask and not to have. It is that which kills me now. I do not think that I will ever again attempt anything, because failure is so hard to me to bear. At any rate, I won’t go back to the Privets.” This he added after a pause, during which the Vicar had been thinking what new arguments he could bring up to urge his friend’s return.
Fenwick learned that Gilmore had sent a cheque to his bailiff by the post of the preceding night. He acknowledged that in sending the cheque he had said no more than to bid the man pay what wages were due. He had not as yet made up his mind as to any further steps. As they walked round the enclosure of St. James’s Park together, and as the warmth of their old friendship produced freedom of intercourse39, Gilmore acknowledged a dozen wild schemes that had passed through his brain. That to which he was most wedded40 was a plan for meeting Walter Marrable and cudgelling him pretty well to death. Fenwick pointed41 out three or four objections to this. In the first place, Marrable had committed no offence whatever against Gilmore. And then, in all probability, Marrable might be as good at cudgelling as the Squire himself. And thirdly, when the cudgelling was over, the man who began the row would certainly be put into prison, and in atonement for that would receive no public sympathy. “You can’t throw yourself on the public pity as a woman might,” said the Vicar.
“D—— the public pity,” said the Squire, who was not often driven to make his language forcible after that fashion.
Another scheme was that he would publish the whole transaction. And here again his friend was obliged to remind him, that a man in his position should be reticent42 rather than outspoken43. “You have already declared,” said the Vicar, “that you can’t endure failure, and yet you want to make your failure known to all the world.” His third proposition was more absurd still. He would write such a letter to Mary Lowther as would cover her head with red hot coals. He would tell her that she had made the world utterly44 unbearable45 to him, and that she might have the Privets for herself and go and live there. “I do not doubt but that such a letter would annoy her,” said the Vicar.
“Why should I care how much she is annoyed?”
“Just so;—but everyone who saw the letter would know that it was pretence31 and bombast46. Of course you will do nothing of the kind.”
They were together pretty nearly the whole day. Gilmore, no doubt, would have avoided the Vicar in the morning had it been possible; but now that he had been caught, and had been made to undergo his friend’s lectures, he was rather grateful than otherwise for something in the shape of society. It was Fenwick’s desire to induce him to return to Bullhampton. If this could not be done, it would no doubt be well that some authority should be obtained from him as to the management of the place. But this subject had not been mooted47 as yet, because Fenwick felt that if he once acknowledged that the runaway48 might continue to be a runaway, his chance of bringing the man back to his own home would be much lessened49. As yet, however, he had made no impression in that direction. At last they parted on an understanding that they were to breakfast together the next morning at Fenwick’s hotel, and then go to the eleven o’clock Sunday service at a certain noted50 metropolitan51 church. At breakfast, and during the walk to church, Fenwick said not a word to his friend about Bullhampton. He talked of church services, of ritual, of the quietness of a Sunday in London, and of the Sunday occupations of three millions of people not a fourth of whom attend divine service. He chose any subject other than that of which Gilmore was thinking. But as soon as they were out of church he made another attack upon him. “After that, Harry, don’t you feel like trying to do your duty?”
“I feel that I can’t fly because my wing is broken,” said the Squire.
They spent the whole of the afternoon and evening together, but no good was done. Gilmore, as far as he had a plan, intended to go abroad, travel to the East, or to the West,—or to the South, if so it came about. The Privets might be let if any would choose to take the place. As far as he was concerned his income from his tenants52 would be more than he wanted. “As for doing them any good, I never did them any good,” he said, as he parted from the Vicar for the night. “If they can’t live on the land without my being at home, I am sure they won’t if I stay there.”
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1
disconsolate
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| adj.忧郁的，不快的 | |
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planks
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| （厚）木板( plank的名词复数 )； 政纲条目，政策要点 | |
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3
disorder
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| n.紊乱，混乱；骚动，骚乱；疾病，失调 | |
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stagnant
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| adj.不流动的，停滞的，不景气的 | |
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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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pauper
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| n.贫民，被救济者，穷人 | |
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7
providence
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| n.深谋远虑，天道，天意；远见；节约；上帝 | |
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worthy
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| adj.(of)值得的，配得上的；有价值的 | |
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squire
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| n.护卫, 侍从, 乡绅 | |
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10
landmarks
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| n.陆标( landmark的名词复数 )；目标；（标志重要阶段的）里程碑 ~ (in sth)；有历史意义的建筑物（或遗址） | |
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11
turmoil
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| n.骚乱，混乱，动乱 | |
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12
entrusted
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| v.委托，托付( entrust的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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13
recalcitrant
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| adj.倔强的 | |
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dealer
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| n.商人，贩子 | |
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descended
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| a.为...后裔的，出身于...的 | |
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16
retired
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| adj.隐退的，退休的，退役的 | |
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17
constable
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| n.(英国)警察，警官 | |
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18
miller
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| n.磨坊主 | |
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19
fixed
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| adj.固定的，不变的，准备好的；(计算机)固定的 | |
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20
lodged
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| v.存放( lodge的过去式和过去分词 )；暂住；埋入；（权利、权威等）归属 | |
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immediate
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| adj.立即的；直接的，最接近的；紧靠的 | |
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catching
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| adj.易传染的，有魅力的，迷人的，接住 | |
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solitude
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| n. 孤独; 独居,荒僻之地,幽静的地方 | |
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24
deserted
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| adj.荒芜的，荒废的，无人的，被遗弃的 | |
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25
confidential
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| adj.秘（机）密的，表示信任的，担任机密工作的 | |
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26
wards
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| 区( ward的名词复数 )； 病房； 受监护的未成年者； 被人照顾或控制的状态 | |
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thither
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| adv.向那里；adj.在那边的，对岸的 | |
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28
quarry
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| n.采石场；v.采石；费力地找 | |
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harry
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| vt.掠夺，蹂躏，使苦恼 | |
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30
lame
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| adj.跛的，(辩解、论据等)无说服力的 | |
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31
pretence
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| n.假装，作假；借口，口实；虚伪；虚饰 | |
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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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33
gallantly
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| adv. 漂亮地，勇敢地，献殷勤地 | |
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34
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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35
manliness
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| 刚毅 | |
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36
esteem
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| n.尊敬，尊重；vt.尊重，敬重；把…看作 | |
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liar
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| n.说谎的人 | |
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38
ass
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| n.驴；傻瓜，蠢笨的人 | |
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39
intercourse
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| n.性交；交流，交往，交际 | |
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40
wedded
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| adj.正式结婚的；渴望…的，执著于…的v.嫁，娶，（与…）结婚( wed的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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41
pointed
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| adj.尖的，直截了当的 | |
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42
reticent
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| adj.沉默寡言的；言不如意的 | |
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43
outspoken
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| adj.直言无讳的，坦率的，坦白无隐的 | |
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44
utterly
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| adv.完全地，绝对地 | |
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45
unbearable
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| adj.不能容忍的；忍受不住的 | |
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46
bombast
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| n.高调，夸大之辞 | |
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47
mooted
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| adj.未决定的，有争议的，有疑问的v.提出…供讨论( moot的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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48
runaway
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| n.逃走的人，逃亡，亡命者；adj.逃亡的，逃走的 | |
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49
lessened
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| 减少的，减弱的 | |
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50
noted
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| adj.著名的，知名的 | |
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51
metropolitan
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| adj.大城市的，大都会的 | |
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52
tenants
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| n.房客( tenant的名词复数 )；佃户；占用者；占有者 | |
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