Well, no matter, now; all the better, perhaps. There was already an end of concealment4 between that enemy and himself, and soon would be of suspense5.
“God help me! at the eve of what an abyss I stand. That wretched woman, poor as she is, and nearly mad, in a place like London shell be certain to find lawyers only too glad to take up her case, and force me to a trial—first, a trial to prove a marriage and make costs of me, and then. Heaven knows what more; and the publicity6, and the miserable7 uncertainty8; and Alice, poor little Alice. Merciful Heaven! what had she done to merit this long agony and possible ruin?”
He peeped into the dining-room as he passed, but all was there as he had left it. Alice had not been in it. So at the kitchen door he knocked.
“Who’s there? Is anyone there?”
Encouraged by his voice old Dulcibella answered from within. The door was opened, and he entered.
A few moments’ silence, except for Alice’s murmured and sobbing9 welcome, a trembling, close embrace, and he said, with a gentle look, in a faint tone—
“Alice, darling, I have no good news to tell. Everything has gone wrong with me, and we must leave this. Let Dulcibella go up and get such things as are necessary to take with you; but, Dulcibella, mind you tell nobody your mistress is leaving this. And, Alice, you’ll come with me. We’ll go where they can neither follow nor trace us; and let fate do its worst. We may be happier yet in our exile than ever we were at home. And when they have banished11 me they have done their worst.”
His tenderness for Alice, frozen for a time, had returned. As she clung to him, her large, soft gray eyes looking up in his face so piteously moved him. He had intended a different sort of speech—colder, dryer—and under the spell of that look had come this sudden gush12 of a better feeling—the fond clasp of his arm, and the hurried kiss he pressed upon her cheek.
“I said, Alice, happier, happier, darling, a thousandfold. For the present I speak in riddles13. You have seen how miserable I am. I’ll tell you everything by-and-by. A conspiracy14, I do believe, an unnatural15 conspiracy, that has worn out my miserable brain and spirits, and harassed16 me to death. I’ll tell you all time enough, and you’ll say it is a miracle I have borne it as I do. Don’t look so frightened, you poor little thing. We are perfectly17 safe; I’m in no real danger, but harassed incessantly—only harassed, and that, thank God, shall end.”
He kissed her again very tenderly, and again; and he said—
“You and Dulcibella shall go on. Clinton will drive you to Hatherton, and there you’ll get horses and post on to Cranswell, and I will overtake you there. I must go now and give him his directions, and I may as well leave you this note. I wrote it yesterday. You must have some money—there is some in it, and the names of the places, and we’ll be there tonight. And what is it, darling?
You look as if you wished to ask me something.”
I—I was going to ask—but I thought perhaps I ought not until you can tell me everything—but you spoke18 of a conspiracy, and I was going to ask whether that dreadful woman who got into my room has anything to do with it.”
“Nonsense, child, that is a miserable mad woman; “he laughed dismally19. “Just wait a little, and you shall know all I know myself.”
“She’s not to stay here, I mean, of course, if anything should prevent our leaving this today.”
“Why should you fancy that?” he asked, a little enigmatically.
“Mrs. Tarnley said she was going to the madhouse.”
“We’ll see time enough, you shall see her no more,” he said, and away he went, and she saw him pass by the window and out of the yard. And now she had leisure to think how ill he was looking, or rather to remember how it had struck her when he had appeared at the door. Yes, indeed, worn out and harassed to death. Thank God, he was now to escape from that misery20, and to secure the repose21 which it was only too obvious he needed.
Dulcibella returned with such things as she thought indispensable, and she and her mistress were soon in more animated22 discussion than they had engaged in since the scenes of the past night.—
Charles Fairfield had to make a call at farmer Chubb’s to persuade him to lend his horse, about which he made a difficulty. It was not far up the glen towards Church Carwell, but when he came back he found the Grange again in a new confusion.
When Charles Fairfield, ascending23 the steep and narrow road which under tall trees darkly mounts from the Glen of Carwell to the plateau under the grey walls of the Grange, had reached that sylvan24 platform, he saw there, looking in the direction of Cressley Common, in that dim, religious light, Tom Clinton, in his fustian25 jacket, scratching his head and looking, it seemed, with interest, after some receding26 object. A little behind him, similarly engrossed27, stood old Mildred Tarnley, with her hand above her eyes, though there was little need of artificial shade in that solemn grove28, and again, a little to her rear, peeped broad-shouldered Lilly Dogger, standing29 close to the threshold of the yard door.
Tom Clinton was first to turn about, and sauntering slowly toward the house, he spoke something to Mrs. Tarnley, who, waiting till he reached her, turned about in the same direction, and talking gravely, and looking over their shoulders, as people sometimes do in the direction in which a runaway30 horse has disappeared, they came to a standstill at the door, under the great ash-tree, whose columnar stem is mantled31 with thick ivy32, and there again looking back, the little girl leaning and listening, unheeded, against the door-post, the group remained in conference.
Had Charles Fairfield been in his usual state of mind his curiosity would have been piqued33 by an appearance of activity so unusual in his drowsy34 household. As it was, he cared not, but approached, looking down upon the road with his hands in his pockets listlessly.
Mrs. Tarnley whispered something to Tom and jogged him in the ribs35, looking all the time at the approaching figure of Charles Fairfield.
The master of the Orange approached, looked up, and saw Tom standing near, with the air of one who had something to say. Mrs. Tarnley had drawn36 back, a little doubtful possibly, of the effect on his nerves.
“Well, Tom Chubbs will lend the horse,” said Charles. “We’ll go round to the stable, I’ve a word to say.”
Tom touched his hat, still looking in his face with an inquiring and ominous37 expression.
“Do you want to say anything particular, Tom?” asked his master, with a sudden foreboding of some new ill.
“Nothing, sir, but Squire38 Rodney of Wrydell, has come over from Wykeford.”
“He’s here—is he?” asked Charles, paler on a sudden.
“He’s gone, sir, please.”
“Gone, is he? Well, well, there’s not much in that.”
“’Twas only, sir, that he brought two men wi’ him.”
“Do you mean?—you don’t mean—what men did he bring?”
“Well, they was constable39 folk, I believe, they must a’ bin10, for they made an arrest.”
“A what? do you mean?”
“He made out a writin’, and he ’ad me in, and questioned me, but I’d nout to tell, sir, and he asked where you was, and I told him, as you ordered I was to say, you was gone. and he took the mistress’s her story, and made her make oath on’t, and the same wi’ the others—Mrs. Tarnley, and the little girl, and the blind woman, she be took up for murder, or I don’t know for what, only he said he could not take no bail40 for her, so they made her sure, and has took her off, I do suppose, to Wykeford pris’n.”
“Of course, that’s right, I suppose, all right, eh?” Charles looked as if he was going to drop to the earth, so leaden was his hue41, and so meaningless the stare with which he looked in Tom’s face.
“But—but—who sent for him? I didn’t. D—you, who sent for him? ’Twasn’t I. And—and who’s master here? Who the devil sent for that meddling42 rascal43 from Wykeford?”
Charles’s voice had risen to a roar as he shook Tom furiously by the collar.
Springing back a bit, Tom answered, with his hand grasping his collar where the squire had just clutched him.
“I don’t know, I didn’t, and I don’t believe no one did. It’s a smart run from here across the common. I don’t believe no one sent from the Grange—I’m sure no one went from this—not a bit, not a toe, not a soul, I’m sure and certain.”
“What’s this, what’s this, what the devil’s all this, Tom?” said the squire, stamping, and shaking his fist in the air, like a man distracted.
“Why did you let her go—why did you let them take her—damn you? I’ve a mind to pitch you over that cliff and smash you.”
“Well, sir,” said Tom, making another step or two back, and himself pale and stern now, with his open hand raised, partly in deprecation, “where’s the good o’ blamin’ me? what could I do wi’ the law again me, and how could I tell what you’d think, and ’twarn’t no one from this sent for him, not one, but news travels a-pace, and who’s he can stop it?—not me, nor yaw,” said Tom, sturdily, “and he just come over of his own head, and nabbed her.”
“My God! It’s done. I thought you would not have allowed me to be trampled44 on, and the place insulted; I took ye for a man, Tom. Where’s my horse—by heaven, I’ll have him. I’ll make it a day’s work he’ll remember. That damn Rodney, coming down to my house with his catchpoles, to pay off old scores, and insult me.”
With his fist clenched45 and raised, Charles Fairfield ran furiously round to the stable yard, followed cautiously by Tom Clinton.
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1
resolute
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| adj.坚决的，果敢的 | |
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harry
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| vt.掠夺，蹂躏，使苦恼 | |
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inflaming
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| v.（使）变红，发怒，过热( inflame的现在分词 ) | |
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concealment
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| n.隐藏, 掩盖，隐瞒 | |
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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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publicity
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| n.众所周知，闻名；宣传，广告 | |
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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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uncertainty
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| n.易变，靠不住，不确知，不确定的事物 | |
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sobbing
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| <主方>Ⅰ adj.湿透的 | |
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bin
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| n.箱柜；vt.放入箱内；[计算机] DOS文件名:二进制目标文件 | |
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11
banished
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| v.放逐，驱逐( banish的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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gush
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| v.喷，涌；滔滔不绝(说话)；n.喷，涌流；迸发 | |
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13
riddles
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| n.谜（语）( riddle的名词复数 )；猜不透的难题，难解之谜 | |
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conspiracy
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| n.阴谋，密谋，共谋 | |
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15
unnatural
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| adj.不自然的；反常的 | |
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harassed
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| adj. 疲倦的，厌烦的 动词harass的过去式和过去分词 | |
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17
perfectly
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| adv.完美地，无可非议地，彻底地 | |
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18
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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dismally
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| adv.阴暗地，沉闷地 | |
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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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repose
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| v.(使)休息；n.安息 | |
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animated
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| adj.生气勃勃的，活跃的，愉快的 | |
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ascending
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| adj.上升的，向上的 | |
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sylvan
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| adj.森林的 | |
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fustian
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| n.浮夸的；厚粗棉布 | |
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receding
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| v.逐渐远离( recede的现在分词 )；向后倾斜；自原处后退或避开别人的注视；尤指问题 | |
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engrossed
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| adj.全神贯注的 | |
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grove
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| n.林子，小树林，园林 | |
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29
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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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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31
mantled
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| 披着斗篷的，覆盖着的 | |
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32
ivy
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| n.常青藤，常春藤 | |
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piqued
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| v.伤害…的自尊心( pique的过去式和过去分词 )；激起（好奇心） | |
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34
drowsy
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| adj.昏昏欲睡的，令人发困的 | |
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35
ribs
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| n.肋骨( rib的名词复数 )；（船或屋顶等的）肋拱；肋骨状的东西；（织物的）凸条花纹 | |
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36
drawn
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| v.拖，拉，拔出；adj.憔悴的，紧张的 | |
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ominous
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| adj.不祥的，不吉的，预兆的，预示的 | |
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38
squire
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| n.护卫, 侍从, 乡绅 | |
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39
constable
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| n.(英国)警察，警官 | |
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40
bail
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| v.舀（水），保释；n.保证金，保释，保释人 | |
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41
hue
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| n.色度；色调；样子 | |
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42
meddling
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| v.干涉，干预（他人事务）( meddle的现在分词 ) | |
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43
rascal
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| n.流氓；不诚实的人 | |
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44
trampled
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| 踩( trample的过去式和过去分词 )； 践踏； 无视； 侵犯 | |
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45
clenched
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| v.紧握，抓紧，咬紧( clench的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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