Instinctively7 Jim placed the man who stood before him. Even though he had never seen him before, the resemblance to his brother, Johnston Petrie, was unmistakable. The light began to deepen into crimson8 shadows, and a stillness hung over the ranch. All the men were away in their quarters, with Big Bill guarding them so that the boss should not be disturbed in what he supposed was a possible chance to sell the place.
Diplomatically, Malcolm Petrie began, "This is Mr. Carston?"
"And you?" Jim questioned.
Petrie handed him a card as he said, "Malcolm Petrie, of the firm of Crooks9, Petrie & Petrie, solicitors11, London, and at your lordship's service."
Before Jim could speak, Petrie continued: "Pardon my abruptness12 in coming on you unawares. Most of the time I allowed myself has been given to locating you."
"Well, Mr. Petrie, go on," was all Jim said, as he turned the card in his hand. He hardly knew what course to pursue. Should he deny or acknowledge to this trustworthy man, who was regarding him with such sympathetic interest, that he was Jim Wynnegate? A hunger to learn something of the world he had left, to be allowed to listen longer to the cultivated speech that fell with such beauty on his starved ears, assailed13 him.
"Crooks, Petrie & Petrie have been your family solicitors for so many years that I had hoped to be remembered by your lordship." Petrie was determined14 not to allow this man to escape for a moment from acknowledging his identity, so he pressed him close with his knowledge.
"Mr. Petrie," Jim said, "we are plain people out here, where every man is as good as every other man—and a good deal better," he added, as he remembered the democratic status of the boys. "So please address me as Mr. Carston. Won't you be seated?" As he spoke15 he pointed16 to the bench near the hut.
Petrie adjusted his glasses, the better to observe the man, as he said: "Since you desire it. Only I have come a very long way to inform you that you have a right to the title."
The cause of Mr. Petrie's presence flashed through Jim's mind. "Then my cousin—"
"Is dead, my lord—Mr. Carston."
Monotonously17 Jim repeated: "Dead. Henry should have outlived me."
"I am sorry to be the bearer of distressing18 news, your lordship—"
But Jim interrupted. "Don't humbug19, Petrie. There was no love lost between Henry and me, as you know, though I've tried to forget that."
When he had recovered from the first surprise of this meeting, and had more fully20 grasped the significance of Petrie's news, he inquired, "I suppose Henry left a statement at his death."
"Statement?" the lawyer inquired.
Jim further explained. "Something in the nature of a confession21."
"Confession?"
"By Jove! he might have done that."
"His late lordship died very suddenly."
But Jim waited for no further details. "So he died without a word. He died leaving me a fugitive22 from justice. So they still think me—" Then quickly the real facts of the case began to straighten themselves in Jim's mind. If Henry had not spoken—had left no confession—how and why had Petrie sought him? Then he asked:
"Why have you come here?"
Petrie, who was constantly watching the effect of his every word on the man who more and more confused and interested him, slowly answered, "I am here because your cousin, Lady Kerhill—"
"Diana?" Jim softly breathed the name, but said no more.
Petrie continued: "Believes that if you will speak—if you will break the silence of years, you can return to England and assume your proper place at the head of your house, and in the world."
So it was to Diana he owed this. "Then there is one who still believes in me. God bless her!" All restraint fell from Jim as he sat himself beside the solicitor10 and said, simply, "I did it for her sake, Petrie." Then, as though unconscious of the other man's presence, he sat staring ahead of him.
His surmise23 had been right, Petrie thought. This man was not guilty. The case began to assume new interest and new complications. He must hear more. Jim roused himself. From an inside pocket of his shirt he drew a small bag which held a sheet of faded paper.
"You are familiar with the late Kerhill's writing. You are also familiar with his character and life. I have never allowed this paper to leave my body." As he spoke he handed the paper to Petrie. "But death has cancelled this agreement."
Petrie read the document. Jim sat motionless. As the sun dropped lower and lower towards the west, bolts of scarlet25 and purple seemed to be hurled26 from its blazing brilliance27 down on the cabin and the yard. Petrie broke the silence.
"So you took upon your shoulders his guilt24?" In his tone there was no great surprise.
"Not for him, Petrie—for her. It was too late for her to find out—well, what he was." The rebellion against the dead man seemed to choke him. Then he added, "I did it for her sake, Petrie."
A restlessness took possession of Jim. All the old memories and sorrows began to lay their withering28 hands upon him. He crossed to the hitching-post and leaned against it as he watched with unseeing eyes the purple-and-red rays tipping the Uinta peaks.
Petrie read the document again, and as he did so he wondered how much of this Lady Elizabeth had known—how much Diana suspected. He could see now why she had decided29 to come with him to America. He thought of her as he had seen her a few days ago at Fort Duchesne, of her eyes as she had asked him not to fail in his search, and of her disappointment when her cousin, Sir John Applegate, who accompanied her, had protested against her riding out with Petrie on a venture which might take days, to end only in disappointment.
He went to Jim's side. "Lady Kerhill," he said, "will be more grateful than you know, for I am here as her ambassador to beg you to come back home."
Into the face of Jim came a wistful longing30, so tender and yet so tragic31 that Petrie turned away from this glimpse into a hurt soul. He only dimly saw the man as he heard Jim's whispered words:
"Home, eh? Go back home! By Jove! what that would mean!" Then, as though a panorama32 were passing before him of his life on the ranch, he went on: "And I've been away all those awful years in this God-forsaken place." There was a break in the low voice and the echo of a sob33 as Jim turned his back on Petrie.
Again the unlovely surroundings, with their evidences of pinched means, their stamp of neglect through want, impressed the solicitor. Very quietly he said, "It does look a bit desolate34, Mr. Carston."
Jim, now master of himself, turned, and as he looked at the dusty plains, the sun-baked cabin, the parched35, feverish36 land about him, cried: "Desolate! It doesn't look much like Maudsley Towers, with its parks and turrets37, and oaks that go back to William the Conqueror38, does it?" Before his eyes there came a picture of the home of his youth, of the place of his manhood's joy. The word seemed to burn and tear at him with its possibilities. "Home, eh? I love old England as only an exile can—"
He forgot the West, with its disappointments, its scars, and its days of pain, when memories of the past would not be stilled. He came over to Petrie, and in a burst of almost boyish confidence poured out his inmost feelings. "I love the English ways of doing things"—laughingly he looked at Petrie, and added—"even when they're wrong. The little ceremonies—the respectful servants—the hundred little customs that pad your comfort and nurse your self-respect. Home, eh?" The word was like a minor39 chord that he wished to dwell upon, so lovingly did he repeat it. "Home, eh? And I love old London. I think I am even prepared to like the fogs."
Amazed at the change in the man before him, Petrie sat spellbound as Jim jumped to his feet.
"Do you know what I'll do when I get back? I'll ride a week at a time on top of the 'buses, up and down the Strand40, Piccadilly Circus, Regent Street, Oxford41 Street. And the crowds!" Before his excited eyes came the rush, the very smell of the smoky city with its out-pouring of humanity. "How I love the crowds—the endless crowds! And, Petrie, I'll go every night to the music-halls, and what's left of the nights to the clubs—and, by Jove, I'll come into my own at last!"
Carried away with the enthusiasm that was inspiring Jim, Petrie entered into the spirit of his joy as he cried, "The king is dead—long live the king!"
"Into my own at last! And I'm still young enough to enjoy life—life—life!" Into Jim's slender figure, with its arms out-stretched to the past, which was to be his future, there leaped the fire of immortal42 youth. It was his moment of supreme43 exaltation.
Suddenly from the stable door opposite came a glad cry of "Daddy! daddy!" as Hal, attracted by the loud voice of Jim, peered from behind the door. Then the child darted44 across to his father, who still stood with his arms out-stretched to his dream, and clasped his knees. Frightened at the stranger's presence, Hal quickly buried his face against his father's body.
The ecstasy45 faded from Jim's eyes as the cry of the child brought him back from his dreams to the affairs of earth. Slowly and with infinite tenderness his eyes rested on the bent46 head of the child. The twilight47, which is short in the Green River country, had slipped away, and the angry sun disappeared behind the mountains. Petrie noticed the chill in the air that comes at evening on the plains.
The cry of the child revealed a new phase of the situation. Silently he watched Jim, whose glance went towards the stable. He saw the figure of a beautiful Indian girl emerge, carrying a pail of milk. He saw the shudder48 that passed over Jim as Nat-u-ritch, unconscious that she was the central figure in a tragic moment, moved slowly before them to the cabin opposite. Her master was busy with the white man, so her eyes were lowered; she did not even call to the child to follow her. Jim's glance never left her until the door had closed. Then his eyes rested again tenderly on the little head which nestled against him, and a sigh broke from his lips. He stooped and drew the little hand in his as he turned the child towards Malcolm Petrie. The words of his glad dream seemed still filling the air as Jim said: "Petrie, you've come too late. That's what would have happened; it can never happen now."
Gently he urged the child forward as he said; "Hal, shake hands with Mr. Petrie. This is my son, Petrie."
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1
disappearance
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| n.消失，消散，失踪 | |
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embezzlement
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| n.盗用，贪污 | |
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adviser
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| n.劝告者，顾问 | |
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flannel
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| n.法兰绒；法兰绒衣服 | |
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5
labor
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| n.劳动，努力，工作，劳工；分娩；vi.劳动，努力，苦干；vt.详细分析；麻烦 | |
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ranch
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| n.大牧场，大农场 | |
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instinctively
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| adv.本能地 | |
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8
crimson
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| n./adj.深(绯)红色(的)；vi.脸变绯红色 | |
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9
crooks
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| n.骗子( crook的名词复数 )；罪犯；弯曲部分；（牧羊人或主教用的）弯拐杖v.弯成钩形( crook的第三人称单数 ) | |
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10
solicitor
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| n.初级律师，事务律师 | |
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solicitors
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| 初级律师( solicitor的名词复数 ) | |
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12
abruptness
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| n. 突然，唐突 | |
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assailed
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| v.攻击( assail的过去式和过去分词 )；困扰；质问；毅然应对 | |
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14
determined
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| adj.坚定的；有决心的 | |
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15
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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pointed
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| adj.尖的，直截了当的 | |
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monotonously
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| adv.单调地，无变化地 | |
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18
distressing
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| a.使人痛苦的 | |
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humbug
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| n.花招，谎话，欺骗 | |
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fully
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| adv.完全地，全部地，彻底地；充分地 | |
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confession
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| n.自白，供认，承认 | |
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fugitive
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| adj.逃亡的，易逝的；n.逃犯，逃亡者 | |
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surmise
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| v./n.猜想，推测 | |
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24
guilt
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| n.犯罪；内疚；过失，罪责 | |
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scarlet
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| n.深红色，绯红色，红衣；adj.绯红色的 | |
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hurled
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| v.猛投，用力掷( hurl的过去式和过去分词 )；大声叫骂 | |
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brilliance
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| n.光辉，辉煌，壮丽，（卓越的）才华，才智 | |
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withering
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| 使人畏缩的，使人害羞的，使人难堪的 | |
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decided
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| adj.决定了的，坚决的；明显的，明确的 | |
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longing
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| n.（for）渴望 | |
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tragic
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| adj.悲剧的，悲剧性的，悲惨的 | |
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32
panorama
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| n.全景，全景画，全景摄影，全景照片[装置] | |
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33
sob
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| n.空间轨道的轰炸机；呜咽，哭泣 | |
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34
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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35
parched
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| adj.焦干的；极渴的；v.（使）焦干 | |
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feverish
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| adj.发烧的，狂热的，兴奋的 | |
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37
turrets
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| （六角）转台( turret的名词复数 )； （战舰和坦克等上的）转动炮塔； （摄影机等上的）镜头转台； （旧时攻城用的）塔车 | |
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conqueror
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| n.征服者，胜利者 | |
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39
minor
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| adj.较小(少)的，较次要的；n.辅修学科；vi.辅修 | |
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40
strand
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| vt.使（船）搁浅，使（某人）困于（某地） | |
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41
Oxford
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| n.牛津（英国城市） | |
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42
immortal
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| adj.不朽的；永生的，不死的；神的 | |
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43
supreme
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| adj.极度的，最重要的；至高的，最高的 | |
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44
darted
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| v.投掷，投射( dart的过去式和过去分词 )；向前冲，飞奔 | |
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45
ecstasy
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| n.狂喜，心醉神怡，入迷 | |
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46
bent
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| n.爱好，癖好；adj.弯的；决心的，一心的 | |
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47
twilight
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| n.暮光，黄昏；暮年，晚期，衰落时期 | |
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48
shudder
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| v.战粟，震动，剧烈地摇晃；n.战粟，抖动 | |
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