The dinner party is over, the county families have retired1 to their several abodes2. They are dispersed3, like the soft summer mist which has melted from the moorland with the broadening light of the harvest moon.
Madge, Viola, and Lady Cheshunt are assembled in Mrs. Penwyn’s dressing4-room, a long, low room, with a wide and deep bow-window at one end, and three other old-fashioned windows, with broad cushioned seats therein—a room made for lounging and pleasant idleness, and half-hours with the best authors. Every variety of the genus easy chair is there, chintz-covered, and blossoming with all the flowers of the garden, as they only bloom upon chintz, large, gorgeous, and unaffected by aphides or blight5 of any kind. There are tables here and there—gipsy tables, loaded with new books and other trumpery6. There is a large Duchesse dressing table in one of the windows, and an antique ebony wardrobe, with richly carved doors, in a convenient recess7; but baths, and all the paraphernalia8 of the toilet, are in a small chamber9 adjoining; this large apartment being rather a morning-room, or boudoir, than dressing-room proper.
There are water-colour landscapes and little bits of genre11 on the walls, by famous modern masters; a portrait of Churchill Penwyn, in crayon, hangs over the velvet12-covered mantel-board; there are dwarf13 bookcases containing Madge’s own particular library, the poets, old and new, Scott, Bulwer, Dickens, Thackeray, Carlyle; altogether the room has just those homely14 lovable characteristics which make rooms dear to their owners.
To-night the windows are all open to the soft summer air. The day has been oppressively warm, and the breath of night brings welcome refreshment15 to jaded16 humanity. Madge sits before her dressing-table, slowly unclasping her jewels as she talks. Her maid has been dismissed, Mrs. Penwyn being in no wise dependent on her Abigail’s help; and the jewel-case, with its dark velvet lining17, stands open on the wide marble slab18. Lady Cheshunt lies back in the deepest and softest of the easy chairs, fanning herself with a big black and gold fan, a large and splendid figure in amber10 satin and hereditary19 rose-point lace, which one of the queens of Spain had presented to the dowager’s mother when her husband was ambassador at Madrid. She looks like a picture by Rubens, large and fair, and full of colour.
‘Well, my love, all dinner parties are more or less heavy, but upon the whole your county people were better than I expected,’ remarked the dowager, with her authoritative20 air. ‘I have seen duller parties in the home counties. Your people seemed to enjoy themselves, and that is a point gained, however dull their talk of the births, marriages, and deaths of their belongings21 might be to nous autres. They have a placid22 belief that their conversation is entertaining which is really the next best thing to being really amusing. In a word, my dear Madge, I was not nearly so much bored as I expected to be.—Those diamonds are positively24 lovely, child; where did you get them?’
Madge had just taken her necklace—a string of large single stones—from her neck, and was laying it in its velvet nest.
‘They are heirlooms; some of them, at least,’ she answered, ‘and came to Churchill with the estate. They had been locked up in an old tin cashbox at the county bank for a quarter of a century, I believe, and nobody seemed to know anything about them. They were described in the old Squire25’s will as “sundry jewels in a tin box at the bank.” Churchill had the stones reset26, and bought a good many more to complete the set.’
‘I don’t think it is in Madge’s nature to be careful of anything now she is rich,’ said Viola. ‘She was thoughtful and saving enough when we lived with poor papa, and when it was such a hard struggle to keep out of debt. But now she has plenty of money she scatters28 it right and left, and is perpetually enjoying the luxury of giving.’
‘But I am not careless about my diamonds, Viola. Mills will come presently, and carry off this box to the iron safe in the plate-room.’
‘I never believed much in plate-rooms,’ said Lady Cheshunt. ‘A plate-room with its iron door is a kind of invitation to burglars. It tells them where the riches of the house are concentrated. When I am in other people’s houses I generally keep my jewel-case on my dressing-table, but I take care to have it labelled “Gloves,” and that it looks as little like a jewel-case as possible. I wouldn’t trust it in anybody’s plate-room. There, child, you are yawning, I see, in spite of your efforts to conceal29 the operation.—Come, Viola, your sister is tired after the mental strain she has undergone, in pretending to be interested in all those people’s innumerable relations.’
The ladies kissed and parted with much affection, and Madge was left alone, to sit by her dressing-table in a dreamy attitude, forgetful of the lateness of the hour.
It was a sad thought which kept her musing23 there while the night deepened, and the harvest moon sank lower in the placid sky. She thought that all was not well with the husband of her love. She could not forget that look and gesture of his when she had questioned him about his faith as a Christian30—nothing fearing his answer to that solemn inquiry31 when she asked it. That darkening brow, those gloomy eyes turned upon her for a moment in anger or in pain, had haunted her ever since. Not a Christian! Her beloved, her idol32, the dearer half of soul, and heart, and mind. Death assumed new terrors in the thought that in worlds beyond they two must be parted.
‘Rather let us endure a mutual33 purgation,’ she thought, with a wish that was half a prayer. ‘Let me bear half the burden of his sins.’
He had gone to church with her, he had assisted in the service with grave attention—nay, sometimes even with a touch of fervour, but he had never taken the sacrament. That had troubled her not a little; but when she had ventured to speak to him upon the subject, he had replied with the common argument, ‘I do not feel my faith strong enough to share in so exalted34 a mystery.’
She had been content to accept this reason, believing that time would strengthen his faith in holy things. But now he had told her in hardest, plainest words, that he had no right to the name of Christian.
She sat brooding upon this bitter thought for some time, then rose, changed her dinner dress for a loose white muslin dressing-gown, and went into her bedroom, which opened out of the dressing-room. She had not once thought of those earthly jewels in the open box on the table, or even wondered why Mills had not come to fetch them. The truth being that—distracted by the abnormal gaiety which prevailed below stairs, where the servants regaled themselves with a festive35 supper after the patrician36 banquet—Miss Mills had forgotten her duties so far as to become, for the time being, unconscious of the existence of Mrs. Penwyn’s diamonds. At this moment she was sleeping comfortably in her chamber in the upper storey, and the diamonds were left to their fate.
Lady Cheshunt was accustomed to late hours, and considered midnight the most agreeable part of her day, so on leaving Madge’s dressing-room she took Viola to her own apartment at the other end of the corridor, for another half-hour or so of friendly chat, to which Viola, who was an inveterate37 gossip, had not the slightest objection. They talked over everybody’s dress and appearance, the discussion generally ending in a verdict of ‘guy,’ or ‘fright.’ They talked over Churchill, Viola praising him enthusiastically, Lady Cheshunt good-naturedly allowing that she had been mistaken in him.
‘He used to remind me of Mephistopheles, my dear,’ said the vivacious38 matron. ‘I don’t mean that he had a hooked nose or diagonal eyebrows39, or a cock’s feather in his hat; but he had a look of repressed power that almost frightened me. I fancied he was a man who could do anything—whether great or wicked—by the sovereign force of his intellect and will: but that was before his cousin died. Wealth has improved him wonderfully.’
At last a clock in the corridor struck one. Viola gave a little scream of surprise, kissed her dear Lady Cheshunt for the twentieth time that night, and tripped away. She had gone half way down the corridor when she stopped, startled by a sight that moved her to scream louder than she had done just now at the striking of the clock, had not some instinctive40 feeling of caution checked her.
A man—a man of the vagabond or burglar species—that very man who a few hours earlier had presented himself to Rebecca at the lodge41—was in the act of leaving Mrs. Penwyn’s dressing-room. His back was turned to Viola, he looked neither to the right nor the left, but crept along the corridor with stealthy yet rapid footsteps. Viola paused not a moment ere she pursued him. Her footfall hardly sounded on the carpeted floor, but the flutter of her dress startled the intruder. He looked at her, and then dashed onward42 to the head of the staircase, almost throwing himself down the shallow oak stairs, the flying figure in its airy white robe closely pursuing him.
At the head of the stairs Viola gave the alarm, with a cry which rang through the silent house. She was gaining upon the thief. At the bottom of the stairs she had him in her grasp, the two small hands clutching his greasy43 velveteen collar.
He turned upon her with a fierce oath, would have struck her to the ground, perhaps, and marred44 her delicate beauty for ever with one blow of his iron fist, had not the billiard-room door opened suddenly and Mr. Penwyn appeared, Sir Lewis Dallas, a visitor staying in the house, at his elbow.
‘What is the matter? Who is this man?’ cried Churchill, while he and Sir Lewis hastened to Viola’s side, and drew her away from the ruffian.
‘A thief, a burglar!’ gasped45 the excited girl. ‘I saw him coming out of my sister’s dressing-room. He has murdered her, perhaps. Oh, do go and see if she is safe, Churchill!’
‘Hold him, Lewis,’ cried Churchill, and ran upstairs without another word.
Sir Lewis was tall and muscular, an athlete by nature and art. In his grip the marauder waited submissively enough till Churchill returned, breathless but relieved in his mind. Madge was safe—Madge did not even know that there was anything amiss.
‘Thanks, Lewis,’ he said, quietly, taking the intruder from his friend’s hand as coolly as if he had been some piece of lumber46.
‘Go upstairs to your room, Vio, and sleep soundly for the rest of the night,’ added Churchill to his sister-in-law. ‘I’ll compliment you on your prowess to-morrow morning.’
‘I don’t think I could go to bed,’ said Viola, shuddering47. ‘There may be more burglars about the house. I feel as if it was swarming48 with them, like the beetles49 Mills talks about in the kitchen.’
‘Nonsense, child! The fellow has no companions. Perhaps you’d be kind enough to see my sister as far as the end of the corridor, Lewis?’
‘Oh no,’ cried Viola, quickly. ‘Indeed, I’m not frightened. I don’t want any escort;’ and she ran upstairs so fast that Sir Lewis lost his opportunity of saying something sweet at the end of the corridor. His devotion to the pretty Miss Bellingham was notorious, and Viola apprehended50 some soft speech, perhaps a gentle pressure of her hand, a fervid51 assurance that no peril52 should come near her while he watched beneath that roof. And the portionless daughter of Sir Nugent Bellingham was not wise enough in her generation to encourage this wealthy young baronet.
‘Now, you sir, go in there!’ said Churchill, pushing the gipsy into his study. ‘You needn’t wait, Lewis. I can tackle this fellow single-handed.’
‘No! I can’t let you do that. He may have a knife about him.’
‘If he has I don’t think he’ll try it upon me. I brought this from my dressing-room just now.’
‘Well, I’ll smoke a cigar in the billiard-room while you hold your parley55 with him. I shall be within call.’
Sir Lewis retired to enjoy his cigar, and Churchill went into his study. He found that the burglar had availed himself of this momentary56 delay, and was beginning to unfasten the shutters57.
‘What? You’d like to get out that way,’ said the Squire. ‘Not till you and I have had our talk together. Let go that shutter58, if you please, while I light the lamp.’
He struck a wax match and lighted a shaded reading lamp that stood on the table.
‘Isn’t there? Then you can’t object to have them emptied. You’d better not be needlessly objective. I’ve an argument here that you’ll hardly resist,’ showing the pistol, ‘and my friend who grappled you just now is ready to stand by me.’
The man made no further resistance. Churchill turned out the greasy linings61 of his pockets, but produced nothing except loose shreds62 of tobacco and various scraps63 of rubbish. He felt inside the vagabond’s loose shirt, thinking that he might have hidden his booty in his bosom64, but with no result. A cunning smile curled the corners of the scoundrel’s lips, a smile that told Churchill to persist in his search.
‘Come,’ he said, ‘you’ve some of my wife’s diamonds about you. I saw the case open, and half empty. You were not in that room for nothing. You shall strip to your skin, my man. But first, off with that neckerchief of yours.’
The man looked at him vengefully, eyed the pistol in his captor’s hand, weighed the forces against him, and then slowly and sullenly65 untied66 the rusty67 black silk handkerchief which encircled his brawny68 throat, and threw it on the table. Something inside the handkerchief struck sharply on the wood.
‘I thought as much,’ said Churchill.
He untwisted the greasy wisp of silk, whereupon his wife’s collet necklace and the large single stones she wore in her ears fell upon the table. Churchill put the gems69 into his pocket without a word.
‘Is that all?’ he asked.
‘Yes,’ the man answered, with an oath.
Churchill looked at him keenly. ‘You will go straight from here to jail,’ he said, ‘so concealment70 wouldn’t serve you much. You are a gipsy, I think?’
‘I am.’
‘What brought you here to-night?’
‘I came to see a relation.’
‘At the lodge. The woman you’ve chosen for your lodge-keeper is my mother.’
‘Rebecca Mason?’
‘Yes.’
Churchill took a turn or two up and down the room thoughtfully.
‘Since you’ve been so uncommonly72 kind to her, perhaps you’ll strain a point in my favour,’ said the gipsy. ‘I shouldn’t have tried to rob you if I hadn’t been driven to it by starvation. It goes hard with a man when he has a wolf gnawing73 his vitals, and stands outside an open window and sees a lot of women with thousands of pounds on their neck, in the shape of blessed gems that do no more real good to any one than the beads74 our women bedizen themselves with. And then he sees the old ivy75 roots are thick enough to serve for a ladder, and the windows upstairs left open and handy for him to walk inside. That’s what I call temptation. Perhaps you were outside the good things of this world at some time of your life, and can feel for a poor wretch76 like me.’
‘I have known poverty,’ answered Churchill, wondrously77 forbearing towards this vagrant78, ‘and endured it?’
‘Yes, but you hadn’t to endure it for ever. Fortune was kind to you. It isn’t often a man drops into such a berth79 as this by a fluke. You’ve got your property, and you may as well let me off easily, for my mother’s sake?’
‘You don’t suppose your mother is more to me than any other servant in my employ,’ said Churchill, turning upon him sharply.
‘Yes, I do. You wouldn’t go to the gipsy tents for a servant unless you had your reasons. What should have brought you to Eborsham to hunt for a lodge-keeper?’
The mention of that fatal city startled Churchill. Seldom was that name uttered in his hearing. It was among things tabooed.
‘I’m sorry I can’t oblige you by condoning80 a felony,’ he said, in his most tranquil81 manner. ‘As a justice of the peace any sentimentality on my part would be somewhat out of character. The utmost I can do for you is to get the case heard without delay. You may anticipate the privilege of being committed for trial, to-morrow at noon, at the petty sessions.’
He left the room without another word, and locked the door on his prisoner. The lock was good and in excellent order, the door one of those ponderous82 portals only to be found in old manor83 houses and their like.
But Mr. Penwyn seemed to have forgotten the window, which was only guarded on the inside. He had shut one side of a trap, ignoring the possibility of escape on the other.
He looked into the billiard-room before he went up stairs. Sir Lewis Dallas had finished his cigar and was slumbering84 peacefully, stretched at full length on one of the divans85, like an uninterested member of the House of Commons.
‘He’s nearly as well off there as in his room, so I won’t interrupt his dreams,’ thought Churchill, as he retired.
That shriek86 of Viola’s had awakened87 several of the household. Mills had heard it, and had descended88 half dressed to the corridor, in time to meet Miss Bellingham on her way upstairs, and to hear the history of the gipsy’s attempt from that young lady. Mills had taken the news back to the drowsy89 housemaids—had further communicated it to the startled footman, who looked out of his half-opened door to ask what was the row. Thus by the time the household began to be astir again, between five and six next morning, everybody knew more or less about the attempted robbery.
‘What have they done with the robber?’ asked the maids and the odd man and boot-cleaner, who alone among the masculine retainers condescended90 to rise at this early hour.
‘I think he must be shut up in master’s study,’ answered one of the women, whose duty it was to open the house, ‘for the door’s locked and I couldn’t get in.’
‘Did you hear anybody inside?’ asked the cook, with keen interest.
‘Not a sound. He must be asleep, I suppose.’
‘The hardened villain91. To think that he can sleep with such a conscience as his, and the likelihood of being sent to Botany Bay in a week or two.’
‘Botany Bay has been done away with,’ said the odd man, who read the newspapers. ‘They’ll send him no further than Dartmoor.’
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收听单词发音
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1
retired
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| adj.隐退的，退休的，退役的 | |
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abodes
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| 住所( abode的名词复数 )； 公寓； （在某地的）暂住； 逗留 | |
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dispersed
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| adj. 被驱散的, 被分散的, 散布的 | |
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dressing
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| n.(食物)调料；包扎伤口的用品，敷料 | |
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blight
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| n.枯萎病；造成破坏的因素；vt.破坏，摧残 | |
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trumpery
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| n.无价值的杂物；adj.（物品）中看不中用的 | |
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recess
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| n.短期休息，壁凹（墙上装架子，柜子等凹处） | |
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paraphernalia
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| n.装备；随身用品 | |
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chamber
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| n.房间，寝室；会议厅；议院；会所 | |
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amber
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| n.琥珀；琥珀色；adj.琥珀制的 | |
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genre
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| n.(文学、艺术等的)类型，体裁，风格 | |
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velvet
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| n.丝绒，天鹅绒；adj.丝绒制的，柔软的 | |
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dwarf
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| n.矮子，侏儒，矮小的动植物；vt.使…矮小 | |
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homely
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| adj.家常的，简朴的；不漂亮的 | |
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refreshment
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| n.恢复，精神爽快，提神之事物；（复数）refreshments:点心，茶点 | |
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jaded
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| adj.精疲力竭的；厌倦的；（因过饱或过多而）腻烦的；迟钝的 | |
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lining
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| n.衬里，衬料 | |
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slab
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| n.平板，厚的切片；v.切成厚板，以平板盖上 | |
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hereditary
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| adj.遗传的，遗传性的，可继承的，世袭的 | |
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authoritative
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| adj.有权威的，可相信的；命令式的；官方的 | |
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belongings
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| n.私人物品，私人财物 | |
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placid
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| adj.安静的，平和的 | |
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musing
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| n. 沉思，冥想 adj. 沉思的, 冥想的 动词muse的现在分词形式 | |
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positively
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| adv.明确地，断然，坚决地；实在，确实 | |
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squire
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| n.护卫, 侍从, 乡绅 | |
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reset
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| v.重新安排，复位；n.重新放置；重放之物 | |
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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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scatters
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| v.（使）散开， （使）分散，驱散( scatter的第三人称单数 )；撒 | |
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conceal
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| v.隐藏，隐瞒，隐蔽 | |
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Christian
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| adj.基督教徒的；n.基督教徒 | |
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inquiry
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| n.打听，询问，调查，查问 | |
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idol
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| n.偶像，红人，宠儿 | |
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mutual
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| adj.相互的，彼此的；共同的，共有的 | |
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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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festive
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| adj.欢宴的，节日的 | |
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patrician
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| adj.贵族的，显贵的；n.贵族；有教养的人；罗马帝国的地方官 | |
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inveterate
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| adj.积习已深的，根深蒂固的 | |
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vivacious
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| adj.活泼的，快活的 | |
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eyebrows
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| 眉毛( eyebrow的名词复数 ) | |
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instinctive
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| adj.(出于)本能的；直觉的；(出于)天性的 | |
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lodge
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| v.临时住宿，寄宿，寄存，容纳；n.传达室，小旅馆 | |
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onward
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| adj.向前的，前进的；adv.向前，前进，在先 | |
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greasy
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| adj. 多脂的，油脂的 | |
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marred
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| adj. 被损毁, 污损的 | |
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gasped
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| v.喘气( gasp的过去式和过去分词 )；喘息；倒抽气；很想要 | |
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46
lumber
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| n.木材，木料；v.以破旧东西堆满；伐木；笨重移动 | |
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47
shuddering
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| v.战栗( shudder的现在分词 )；发抖；（机器、车辆等）突然震动；颤动 | |
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48
swarming
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| 密集( swarm的现在分词 )； 云集； 成群地移动； 蜜蜂或其他飞行昆虫成群地飞来飞去 | |
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49
beetles
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| n.甲虫( beetle的名词复数 ) | |
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50
apprehended
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| 逮捕，拘押( apprehend的过去式和过去分词 )； 理解 | |
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51
fervid
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| adj.热情的；炽热的 | |
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52
peril
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| n.(严重的)危险；危险的事物 | |
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pointed
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| adj.尖的，直截了当的 | |
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lurking
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| 潜在 | |
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55
parley
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| n.谈判 | |
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momentary
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| adj.片刻的，瞬息的；短暂的 | |
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57
shutters
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| 百叶窗( shutter的名词复数 )； （照相机的）快门 | |
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shutter
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| n.百叶窗；(照相机)快门；关闭装置 | |
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overhaul
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| v./n.大修，仔细检查 | |
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60
growled
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| v.（动物）发狺狺声， （雷）作隆隆声( growl的过去式和过去分词 )；低声咆哮着说 | |
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linings
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| n.衬里( lining的名词复数 )；里子；衬料；组织 | |
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shreds
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| v.撕碎，切碎( shred的第三人称单数 )；用撕毁机撕毁（文件） | |
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scraps
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| 油渣 | |
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bosom
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| n.胸，胸部；胸怀；内心；adj.亲密的 | |
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sullenly
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| 不高兴地，绷着脸，忧郁地 | |
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untied
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| 松开，解开( untie的过去式和过去分词 )； 解除，使自由； 解决 | |
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rusty
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| adj.生锈的；锈色的；荒废了的 | |
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brawny
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| adj.强壮的 | |
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gems
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| growth； economy； management； and customer satisfaction 增长 | |
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concealment
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| n.隐藏, 掩盖，隐瞒 | |
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premises
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| n.建筑物，房屋 | |
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uncommonly
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| adv. 稀罕(极，非常) | |
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gnawing
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| a.痛苦的，折磨人的 | |
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beads
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| n.（空心）小珠子( bead的名词复数 )；水珠；珠子项链 | |
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ivy
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| n.常青藤，常春藤 | |
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wretch
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| n.可怜的人，不幸的人；卑鄙的人 | |
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wondrously
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| adv.惊奇地，非常，极其 | |
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vagrant
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| n.流浪者，游民；adj.流浪的，漂泊不定的 | |
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berth
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| n.卧铺，停泊地，锚位；v.使停泊 | |
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condoning
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| v.容忍，宽恕，原谅( condone的现在分词 ) | |
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tranquil
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| adj. 安静的, 宁静的, 稳定的, 不变的 | |
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ponderous
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| adj.沉重的，笨重的，(文章)冗长的 | |
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manor
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| n.庄园，领地 | |
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slumbering
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| 微睡，睡眠（slumber的现在分词形式） | |
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85
divans
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| n.（可作床用的）矮沙发( divan的名词复数 )；（波斯或其他东方诗人的）诗集 | |
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shriek
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| v./n.尖叫，叫喊 | |
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awakened
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| v.（使）醒( awaken的过去式和过去分词 )；（使）觉醒；弄醒；（使）意识到 | |
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88
descended
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| a.为...后裔的，出身于...的 | |
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drowsy
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| adj.昏昏欲睡的，令人发困的 | |
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condescended
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| 屈尊，俯就( condescend的过去式和过去分词 )； 故意表示和蔼可亲 | |
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villain
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| n.反派演员，反面人物；恶棍；问题的起因 | |
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