‘I don’t say but what the present gentleman is better for trade, and has done more good to the neighbourhood in two years than the old Squire would have done in ten,’ said Mrs. Chadwick. ‘But the old Squire was more one of ourselves, as you may say. He’d take his glass of cider—a very temperate9 man was the Squire—in my bar parlour, and chat with me as friendly and familiar as you could do, and it was quite a pleasant thing to see him, in his Lincoln green coat and brass10 basket buttons, and mahogany tops.’
Of George Penwyn Mrs. Chadwick said nothing that was not praise. He had been everybody’s favourite, she told Maurice, and his death had been felt like a personal loss throughout the neighbourhood.
Was this a man to betray an innocent girl, and bring disgrace upon an honest yeoman’s household?
Before leaving Seacomb next morning Mr. Clissold went to the parish church, looked once more at the register in which he had seen the baptism of Matthew Elgood’s daughter; and afterwards referred to the register of burials to assure himself of the child’s death. There was the entry: ‘Emily Jane, daughter of Matthew Elgood, comedian11, and Jane Elgood, his wife, aged12 five weeks. January 4th, 1849.’ Just six days before the closing of the Seacomb Theatre.
Maurice distinctly remembered Justina having told him once, in the course of their somewhat discursive13 talk, that her birthday was in March, and that she had completed her nineteenth year on her last anniversary. Now, if Mrs. Elgood had had a daughter born in the December of 1848, it was not possible for her to have been the mother of Justina, if Justina was born in the March of 1849.
He had now no shadow of doubt that Matthew Elgood, who had left Seacomb in February in the midst of frost and snow, was the same man who had sought shelter at Borcel End, and who had called himself Eden. A false pride had doubtless induced the penniless stroller to hide his poverty under an assumed name.
‘The plainest, most straightforward14 way of doing things will be to tax Elgood himself with the fact,’ thought Maurice. ‘Once sure of my darling’s identity with Muriel’s daughter, my next duty shall be to discover the evidence of her mother’s marriage. And if I succeed in doing that——? Well, I suppose the next thing will be for some clever lawyers to prove her right to the Penwyn estate, and Churchill Penwyn and his wife will be ruined, and Justina will be a great heiress, and I shall retire into the background. Hardly a pleasant picture of the future, that. Perhaps it would have been wiser, from a purely15 selfish point of view, to have left my dear girl Justina Elgood to the end of the chapter—or at least till I persuaded her to exchange that spurious surname for the good old name of Clissold. But now having gone so far, won the confidence of a dying woman, sworn to set right an old wrong, I am in honour bound to go on, not to the ultimate issue, perhaps, but at any rate to the assertion of my darling girl’s legitimacy16.’
He rejoiced in the swiftness of the express which carried him homewards, by stubble fields, and yellowing woods, rejoiced at the thought that he should be in time to see Justina, were it only one half-hour before she went to the theatre. He took a hansom and drove straight to Hudspeth Street, told the man to wait, and left his portmanteau and travelling bag in the cab while he ran upstairs to the second floor sitting-room17.
Matthew Elgood was enjoying his afternoon siesta18, his amiable19 countenance20 shrouded21 from the autumnal fly by a crimson22 silk handkerchief. Justina was sitting at a little table by the window, reading.
She looked a shade paler than when he had seen her last, the lover thought, fondly hoping that she had missed him, but as she started up from her chair, recognising him with a little cry of gladness, the warm blood rushed to cheek and brow, and he had no ground for compassionating23 her pallor.
For a moment she tried to speak, but could not, and in that moment Maurice knew that he was beloved.
He would have given worlds to take her to his heart, then and there, to have kissed the blushes into a deeper glow, to have told her how supremely24 dear she was to him, how infinitely25 deeper, and holier, and sweeter than his first foolish passion this second love of his had become. But he put the curb26 on impulse, remembering the task he had to accomplish. To woo her now, to win her promise now, knowing what he knew, would have seemed to him a meanness.
‘To-day I am her superior in fortune,’ he said to himself, ‘a year hence I may be her inferior—a very pauper27 compared with the mistress of Penwyn Manor. I will not win her unawares. If change of fortune does come to pass I shall not be too proud to share her wealth, so long as I have all her heart; but if she should change with change of fortune, she shall be free to follow where her fancy leads, and no old promise, made in her day of obscurity, shall bind28 her to me. Free and unfettered she shall enter upon her new life.’
So instead of taking her to his heart of hearts, and pouring out his tale of love in a tender whisper—too low to penetrate29 the crimson handkerchief which veiled the ears of the sleeper30, Maurice greeted Justina with hearty31 loudness, talked about his journey—asked how the new piece at the Albert worked out at rehearsal—inquired about his friend Flittergilt, the dramatist—and behaved altogether in a commonplace fashion. There was just time for a cup of tea before Justina started for the theatre—and a very pleasant tea-drinking it was. Maurice was touched by Justina’s pretty joyous32 ways this evening, her bright looks, the silvery little laugh gushing33 out at the slightest provocation,—laughter which told of a soul that was gladdened by his presence.
‘I think I shall come to the theatre to-night,’ he said, as they parted.
‘What, to see “No Cards”? You must be dreadfully tired of it.’
‘No. I believe I have seen it seven times, but I could see it seven more,’ answered Maurice, and this was the only compliment he paid Justina that evening. Before parting with Mr. Elgood, he asked that gentleman to dine with him the next evening, at eight, en gar?on.
‘We can go to the theatre afterwards to escort Miss Elgood home,’ he added.
‘My dear Clissold,’ exclaimed the comedian, with effusion, ‘after the bottle of port you gave me that Sunday evening, Justina and I enjoyed your hospitality, I should be an ass4 to refuse such an invitation.’
点击收听单词发音
1 confidential | |
adj.秘(机)密的,表示信任的,担任机密工作的 | |
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2 manor | |
n.庄园,领地 | |
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3 squire | |
n.护卫, 侍从, 乡绅 | |
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4 ass | |
n.驴;傻瓜,蠢笨的人 | |
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5 ivies | |
常春藤( ivy的名词复数 ) | |
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6 lichens | |
n.地衣( lichen的名词复数 ) | |
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7 crumbling | |
adj.摇摇欲坠的 | |
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8 reigning | |
adj.统治的,起支配作用的 | |
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9 temperate | |
adj.温和的,温带的,自我克制的,不过分的 | |
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10 brass | |
n.黄铜;黄铜器,铜管乐器 | |
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11 comedian | |
n.喜剧演员;滑稽演员 | |
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12 aged | |
adj.年老的,陈年的 | |
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13 discursive | |
adj.离题的,无层次的 | |
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14 straightforward | |
adj.正直的,坦率的;易懂的,简单的 | |
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15 purely | |
adv.纯粹地,完全地 | |
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16 legitimacy | |
n.合法,正当 | |
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17 sitting-room | |
n.(BrE)客厅,起居室 | |
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18 siesta | |
n.午睡 | |
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19 amiable | |
adj.和蔼可亲的,友善的,亲切的 | |
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20 countenance | |
n.脸色,面容;面部表情;vt.支持,赞同 | |
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21 shrouded | |
v.隐瞒( shroud的过去式和过去分词 );保密 | |
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22 crimson | |
n./adj.深(绯)红色(的);vi.脸变绯红色 | |
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23 compassionating | |
v.同情(compassionate的现在分词形式) | |
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24 supremely | |
adv.无上地,崇高地 | |
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25 infinitely | |
adv.无限地,无穷地 | |
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26 curb | |
n.场外证券市场,场外交易;vt.制止,抑制 | |
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27 pauper | |
n.贫民,被救济者,穷人 | |
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28 bind | |
vt.捆,包扎;装订;约束;使凝固;vi.变硬 | |
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29 penetrate | |
v.透(渗)入;刺入,刺穿;洞察,了解 | |
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30 sleeper | |
n.睡眠者,卧车,卧铺 | |
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31 hearty | |
adj.热情友好的;衷心的;尽情的,纵情的 | |
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32 joyous | |
adj.充满快乐的;令人高兴的 | |
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33 gushing | |
adj.迸出的;涌出的;喷出的;过分热情的v.喷,涌( gush的现在分词 );滔滔不绝地说话 | |
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