Churchill walked slowly away from the station, seemingly somewhat at a loss how to dispose of his218 time. He might have gone back to London with Mr. Pergament, certainly, for he had no further business in the city of Eborsham. But for some sufficient reason of his own he had chosen to remain, although he was not a little anxious to see Madge Bellingham, whom he had not met since the change in his fortunes. He had written to her before he left London, to announce that fact—but briefly—feeling that any expression of pleasure in the altered circumstances of his life would show badly in black and white. He had expressed himself properly grieved at his cousin's sad death, but had affected3 no exaggerated affliction. Those clear dark eyes of Madge's seemed to be looking through him as he wrote.
'I wonder if it is possible to keep a secret from her?' he thought. 'She has a look that pierces my soul—such utter truthfulness5.'
He had ordered his dinner for eight, and it was not yet six, so he had ample leisure for loitering. He went back to Lowgate and out through the bar to the dull, quiet road where James met his death. Churchill Penwyn wanted to see the spot where the murder had been committed.
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He had heard it described so often that it was easy enough for him to find it. A few ragged6 bushes of elder and blackberry divided the low marshy7 ground from the road just at this point. From behind these bushes the murderer had taken his aim,—at least that was the theory of the police. Between the road and the river the herbage was sour and scant9, and the cattle that browsed10 thereon had a solitary11 and dejected look, as if they knew they were shut out from the good things of this life. They seemed to be the odds12 and ends of the animal creation, and to have come there accidentally. A misanthropical13 donkey, a lean cow or two, some gaunt, ragged-looking horses, a bony pig, scattered14 wide apart over the narrow tract15 of sward along the low bank of the river.
Mr. Penwyn contemplated16 the spot thoughtfully for a little while, as if he would fain have made out something which the police had failed to discover, and then strolled across the grass to the river-bank. The gloomy solitude18 of the scene seemed to please him, for he walked on for some distance, meditative19 and even moody20. Fortune brings its own responsibilities;220 and a man who finds himself suddenly exalted21 from poverty to wealth is not always gay.
He was strolling quietly along the bank, his eyes bent22 upon the river, with that dreaming gaze which sees not the thing it seems to contemplate17, when he was startled from his reverie by the sound of voices near at hand, and looking away from the water perceived that he had stumbled on a gipsy encampment. There were the low arched tents—mere kennels23 under canvas, where the dusky tribe burrowed24 at night or in foul25 weather—the wood fire—the ever-simmering pot—the litter of ashes, and dirty straw, and bones, and a broken bottle or two—the sinister-browed vagabond lying on his stomach like the serpent, smoking his grimy pipe, and scowling26 at any chance passer by—the half-naked children playing among the rubbish, the women sitting on the ground plaiting rushes into a door-mat. All these Churchill's eye took in at a glance—something more, too, perhaps, for he looked at one of the women curiously27 for a moment, and slackened his leisurely28 pace.
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She put down her mat, rose, and walked beside him.
'Let me tell your fortune, pretty gentleman,' she began, with the same professional sing-song in which she had addressed James Penwyn a few days before. It was the same woman who stopped the late Squire29 of Penwyn lower down the river bank.
'I don't want my fortune told, thank you. I know what it is pretty well,' replied Churchill, in his calm, cold voice.
'Don't say that, pretty gentleman. No one can look into the urn30 of fate.'
'And yet you and your tribe pretend to do it,' said Churchill.
'We study the stars more than others do, and learn to read 'em, my noble gentleman. I've read something in the stars about you since the night your cousin was murdered.'
'And pray what do the stars say of me?' inquired Churchill, with a scornful laugh.
'They say that you're a kind-hearted gentleman at bottom, and will befriend a poor gipsy.'
'I'm afraid they're out in their reckoning, for222 once in a way. Perhaps it was Mercury you got the information from. He's a notorious trickster. And now, pray, my good woman,' turning to see that they were beyond ken8 of the rest, 'what did you mean by sending me a letter to say you could tell me something about my cousin's death? If you really have any information to give, your wisest course is to carry it directly to the police; and if your information should lead to the discovery of the murderer, you may earn a reward that will provide for you for the rest of your life.'
His eyes were on the woman's face as he spoke31, with that intent look with which he was accustomed to read the human countenance32.
'I've thought of that,' answered the gipsy, 'and I was very near going and telling all I knew to the police the morning after the murder, but I changed my mind about it when I heard you were here; I thought it might be better for me to see you first.'
'I can't quite fathom33 your motive34. However as I am willing to give two hundred pounds reward for such information as may lead to the apprehension35 and conviction of the murderer, you may have223 come to the right person in coming to me; only, I tell you frankly36, that, deeply as I am interested in the punishment of my cousin's assassin, I had rather not be troubled about details. I won't even ask the nature of your information. Take my advice, my good soul, and carry it to the police. They are the people to profit by it; they are the people to act upon it.'
'Yes, and cheat me of the reward after all choke me off with a five-pound note, perhaps. I know too much of the police to be over-inclined to trust 'em.'
'Is your information conclusive37?' asked Churchill; 'certain to lead to the conviction of the murderer?'
'I won't say so much as that, but I know it's worth hearing, and worth paying for.'
'You may as well tell me all about it, if you don't like to tell the police.'
'What, without being paid for my secret? No, my pretty gentleman, I'm not such a fool as that.'
'Come,' said Churchill, with a laugh, 'what does your knowledge amount to? Nothing, I dare say,224 that every one else in Eborsham doesn't share. You know that my cousin has been murdered, and that I am anxious to find the murderer.'
'I know more than that, my noble gentleman.'
'What then?'
'I know who did it.'
Churchill turned his quick glance upon her again, searching, incredulous, derisive38.
'Come,' he said, 'you don't expect to make me believe that you know the criminal, and let him slip, and lost your chance of the reward? You are not that kind of woman.'
'I don't say that I've let him slip, or lost my chance of profiting by what I know. Suppose the criminal was some one I'm interested in—some one I shouldn't like to see come to harm?'
'In that case you shouldn't come to me about it. You don't imagine that I am going to condone39 my cousin's murder? But I believe your story is all a fable40.'
'It's as true as the planets. We have been encamped here for the last week, and on the night225 of the murder we'd all been at the races. Folks are always kind to gipsies upon a racecourse, and there was plenty to eat and drink for all of us—perhaps a little too much drink,—and when the races were over I fell asleep in one of the booths, among some straw in a corner where no one took any notice of me. My son Reuben—him, as you saw yonder just now—was in the town, up to very little good, I dare say, and left me to take care of myself; and when I woke it was late at night, and the place was all dark and quiet. I didn't know how late it was till I came through the town and found all the lights out, and the streets empty, and heard the cathedral clock strike two. I walked slow, and the clock had struck the half-hour before I got through the Bar. I was dead tired standing41 and walking about the racecourse all day, and as I came along this road I saw some one walking a little way ahead of me. He walked on, and I walked after him, keeping on the other side of the way, and in the shadow of the hedge about a hundred yards behind him, and all at once I heard a shot fired, and saw him drop down. There was no one to give the alarm to,226 and no good in giving it if he was dead. I kept on in the shadow till I came nearly opposite where he lay, and then I slipped down into the ditch. There was no water in it, nothing but mud and slime and duckweed, and such like; and I squatted42 there in the shadow and watched.'
'Like some toad43 in its hole,' said Churchill. 'Common humanity would have urged you to try to help the fallen man.'
'He was past help, kind gentleman. He dropped without a groan44, never so much as moaned as he lay there. And it was wiser for me to watch the murderer so as to be able to bear witness against him, when the right time came, than to scare him away by skreeking out like a raven45.'
'Well, woman, you watched and saw—what?'
'I saw a man stooping over the murdered gentleman; a tall man in a loose overcoat, with a scarf muffled46 round his neck. He put his hand in the other one's bosom47, to feel if his heart had left off beating, I suppose, and drew it out again bloody48. I could see that, even in the dim light betwixt night and morning, for I've something of a cat's eye, your227 honour, and am pretty well used to seeing in the dark. Candles ain't over plentiful49 with our people. He held up his hand dripping with blood, and pulled a white handkerchief out of his pocket with the other hand to wipe the blood off.'
Churchill turned and looked her in the face, for the first time since she had begun her narrative50.
'Come,' he said, 'you're overdoing51 the details. Your story would sound more like truth if it were less elaborate.'
'I can't help the sound of it, sir. There's not a word I'm saying that I wouldn't swear by, to-morrow, in a court of justice.'
'You've kept your evidence back too long, I'm afraid. You ought to have given this information at the inquest. A jury would hardly believe your story now.'
'What, not if I had proof of what I say?'
'What proof, woman?'
'The handkerchief with which the murderer wiped those blood-stains off his hands!'
'Pshaw!' exclaimed Churchill, contemptuously. 'There are a hundred ways in which you might come228 possessed52 of a man's handkerchief. Your tribe lives by such petty plunder53. Do you suppose that you, a gipsy and a vagabond, would ever persuade a British jury to believe your evidence, against a gentleman?'
'What!' cried the woman eagerly, 'then you know it was a gentleman who murdered your cousin?' 'Didn't you say so just this minute?'
'Not I, my noble gentleman. I told you he was tall, and wore an overcoat. That's all I told you about him.'
'Well, what next?'
'He wiped the blood off his hand, then put the handkerchief back in his pocket, as he thought; but I suppose he wasn't quite used to the work he was doing, for in his confusion he missed the pocket and let the handkerchief fall into the road. I didn't give him time to find out his mistake, for while he was stooping over the dead man, emptying his pockets, I crept across the road, got hold of the handkerchief, and slipped back to my hiding-place in the ditch again. I'm light of foot, you see, your honour, though an old woman.'
'What next?'
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'He opened the dead man's purse, emptied it, and put the contents in his own waistcoat pocket. Then he crammed54 watch and purse down into the ditch—the same ditch where I was hiding, but a little way off,—took a stick which he had broken off the hedge, and thrust it down into the mud under the weeds, making sure, I suppose, that no one could ever find it there. When he had done this, he pulled himself together, as you may say, and hurried off as fast as he could go, panting like a hunted deer, across the swampy55 ground and towards the river, where they found his footsteps afterwards. I think it would have been cleverer of him if he'd left his victim's pockets alone, and let those that found the body rob it, as they'd have been pretty sure to do. Yet it was artful of him to clean the pockets out, so as to make it seem a common case of highway robbery with violence.'
'What did you do with the handkerchief?'
'Took it home with me, to that tent yonder, that's what we call home, and lighted an end of candle, and smoothed out the handkerchief to see if there was any mark upon it. Gentlemen are so230 particular about their things, you see, and don't like to get 'em changed at the wash. Yes, there the mark was, sure enough. The name in full—Christian and surname. It was as much as I could do to read 'em, for the blood-stains.'
'What was the name?'
'That's my secret. Every secret has its price, and I've put a price on mine. If I was sure of getting the reward, and not having the police turn against me, I might be more ready to tell what I know.'
'You're a curious woman,' said Churchill, after a longish pause. 'But I suppose you've some plan of your own?'
'Yes, your honour, I have my views.'
'As to this story of yours, even supported by the evidence of this handkerchief which you pretend to have found, I doubt very much if it would have the smallest weight with a jury. I do not, therefore, press you to bring forward your information; though as my cousin's next of kin4, it is of course my duty to do my best to bring his assassin to justice.'
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'That's just what I thought, your honour.'
'Precisely56. And you did quite right in bringing the subject before me. It will be necessary for me to know when and where I can find you in future, so that when the right time comes you may be at hand to make your statement.'
'We are but wanderers on the face of the earth kind gentleman,' whined57 the gipsy. 'It isn't very easy to find us when you want us.'
'That's what I've been thinking,' returned Churchill, musingly58. 'If you had some settled home, now? You're getting old, and must be tired of roving, I fancy. Sleeping upon straw, under canvas, in a climate in which east winds are the rule rather than the exception. That sort of thing must be rather trying at your time of life, I should imagine.'
'Trying? I'm racked with the rheumatics every winter, your honour. My bones are not so much bones as gnawing59 wolves—they torment60 me so. Sometimes I feel as if I could chop off my limbs willingly, to be quit of the pain in 'em. A settled home—a warm bed—a fireside—that would be heaven to me.'
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'Well, I'll think about it, and see what can be done for you. In the meantime I'll give you a trifle to ward2 off the rheumatism61.'
He opened his purse, and gave the woman a bank note, part of an advance made him by Mr. Pergament that morning. The gipsy uttered her usual torrent62 of blessings—the gratitude63 wherewith she was wont64 to salute65 her benefactors66.
'Have you ever been in Cornwall?' asked Churchill.
'Lord love your honour! there isn't a nook or a corner in all England where I haven't been!'
'Good. If you happen to be in Cornwall any time during the next three months, you may look me up at Penwyn Manor67.'
'Bless you, my generous gentleman, it won't be very long before you see me.'
'Whenever you please,' returned Churchill, with that air of well-bred indifference68 which he wore as a badge of his class. 'Good afternoon.'
He turned to go back to the city, leaving the woman standing alone by the river brink69, looking after him; lost in thought, or lost in wonder.
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1
solicitor
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| n.初级律师，事务律师 | |
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ward
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| n.守卫，监护，病房，行政区，由监护人或法院保护的人（尤指儿童）；vt.守护，躲开 | |
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affected
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| adj.不自然的，假装的 | |
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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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5
truthfulness
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| n. 符合实际 | |
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ragged
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| adj.衣衫褴褛的，粗糙的，刺耳的 | |
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marshy
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| adj.沼泽的 | |
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ken
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| n.视野，知识领域 | |
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scant
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| adj.不充分的，不足的；v.减缩，限制，忽略 | |
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10
browsed
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| v.吃草( browse的过去式和过去分词 )；随意翻阅；（在商店里）随便看看；（在计算机上）浏览信息 | |
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11
solitary
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| adj.孤独的，独立的，荒凉的；n.隐士 | |
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odds
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| n.让步，机率，可能性，比率；胜败优劣之别 | |
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misanthropical
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14
scattered
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| adj.分散的，稀疏的；散步的；疏疏落落的 | |
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tract
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| n.传单，小册子，大片(土地或森林) | |
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16
contemplated
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| adj. 预期的 动词contemplate的过去分词形式 | |
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contemplate
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| vt.盘算，计议；周密考虑；注视，凝视 | |
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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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meditative
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| adj.沉思的，冥想的 | |
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moody
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| adj.心情不稳的，易怒的，喜怒无常的 | |
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exalted
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| adj.(地位等)高的，崇高的；尊贵的，高尚的 | |
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22
bent
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| n.爱好，癖好；adj.弯的；决心的，一心的 | |
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23
kennels
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| n.主人外出时的小动物寄养处，养狗场；狗窝( kennel的名词复数 )；养狗场 | |
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24
burrowed
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| v.挖掘（洞穴），挖洞( burrow的过去式和过去分词 )；翻寻 | |
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25
foul
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| adj.污秽的；邪恶的；v.弄脏；妨害；犯规；n.犯规 | |
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26
scowling
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| 怒视，生气地皱眉( scowl的现在分词 ) | |
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curiously
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| adv.有求知欲地；好问地；奇特地 | |
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leisurely
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| adj.悠闲的；从容的，慢慢的 | |
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squire
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| n.护卫, 侍从, 乡绅 | |
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30
urn
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| n.（有座脚的）瓮；坟墓；骨灰瓮 | |
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31
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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32
countenance
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| n.脸色，面容；面部表情；vt.支持，赞同 | |
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fathom
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| v.领悟，彻底了解 | |
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motive
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| n.动机，目的；adv.发动的，运动的 | |
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apprehension
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| n.理解，领悟；逮捕，拘捕；忧虑 | |
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frankly
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| adv.坦白地，直率地；坦率地说 | |
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conclusive
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| adj.最后的，结论的；确凿的，消除怀疑的 | |
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derisive
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| adj.嘲弄的 | |
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condone
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| v.宽恕；原谅 | |
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40
fable
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| n.寓言；童话；神话 | |
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41
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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42
squatted
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| v.像动物一样蹲下( squat的过去式和过去分词 )；非法擅自占用（土地或房屋）；为获得其所有权；而占用某片公共用地。 | |
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43
toad
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| n.蟾蜍，癞蛤蟆 | |
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44
groan
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| vi./n.呻吟，抱怨；(发出)呻吟般的声音 | |
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45
raven
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| n.渡鸟，乌鸦；adj.乌亮的 | |
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46
muffled
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| adj.（声音）被隔的；听不太清的；（衣服）裹严的；蒙住的v.压抑，捂住( muffle的过去式和过去分词 )；用厚厚的衣帽包着（自己） | |
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47
bosom
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| n.胸，胸部；胸怀；内心；adj.亲密的 | |
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48
bloody
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| adj.非常的的；流血的；残忍的；adv.很；vt.血染 | |
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49
plentiful
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| adj.富裕的，丰富的 | |
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50
narrative
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| n.叙述，故事；adj.叙事的，故事体的 | |
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51
overdoing
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| v.做得过分( overdo的现在分词 )；太夸张；把…煮得太久；（工作等）过度 | |
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52
possessed
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| adj.疯狂的；拥有的，占有的 | |
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53
plunder
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| vt.劫掠财物，掠夺；n.劫掠物，赃物；劫掠 | |
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54
crammed
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| adj.塞满的，挤满的；大口地吃；快速贪婪地吃v.把…塞满；填入；临时抱佛脚( cram的过去式) | |
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55
swampy
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| adj.沼泽的，湿地的 | |
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56
precisely
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| adv.恰好，正好，精确地，细致地 | |
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57
whined
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| v.哀号( whine的过去式和过去分词 )；哀诉，诉怨 | |
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58
musingly
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| adv.沉思地，冥想地 | |
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59
gnawing
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| a.痛苦的，折磨人的 | |
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60
torment
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| n.折磨；令人痛苦的东西(人)；vt.折磨；纠缠 | |
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61
rheumatism
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| n.风湿病 | |
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62
torrent
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| n.激流，洪流；爆发，(话语等的)连发 | |
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63
gratitude
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| adj.感激，感谢 | |
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64
wont
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| adj.习惯于；v.习惯；n.习惯 | |
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65
salute
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| vi.行礼，致意，问候，放礼炮；vt.向…致意，迎接，赞扬；n.招呼，敬礼，礼炮 | |
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66
benefactors
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| n.捐助者，施主( benefactor的名词复数 )；恩人 | |
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67
manor
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| n.庄园，领地 | |
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68
indifference
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| n.不感兴趣，不关心，冷淡，不在乎 | |
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69
brink
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| n.(悬崖、河流等的)边缘，边沿 | |
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