Churchill was waiting at the inn door to receive his wife. He had ridden across on his favourite horse Tarpan—a long-necked, raking bay, over sixteen hands, and a great jumper—a horse with a tremendous stride, just such a brute1 as Lenore’s lover might have bestridden in that awful nightride.
‘Is the man here, Churchill?’ Madge asked, anxiously.
‘Yes, love. There is nothing to be uneasy about,’ answered her husband, replying to her looks rather than to her words.
‘Yet you seem anxious, Churchill.’
‘Only in my magisterial2 capacity. Tresillian is here. We shall commit this fellow in no time. It will only need a few words from Viola and Sir Lewis.’
Not a syllable3 about the diamond necklace had Mr. Penwyn said to his wife. He had replaced the gems4 in her dressing-case while she slept peacefully in the adjoining room, and no one but himself and the burglar knew how far the attempted robbery had gone.
They all went up the narrow little staircase, Mr. Penwyn leading his wife up the steep stairs, Viola and Sir Lewis following. The justice-room was full of people—or at least that end of it devoted5 to the public. The other end of it was fenced off, and here at a table sat Mr. Tresillian, J. P., and his clerk—ready for action.
‘Look, Churchill,’ whispered Madge, as her husband put her hand through his arm and led her towards this end of the room, ‘there is the woman at the lodge6. What can have brought her here?’
Mr. Penwyn’s glance followed his wife’s for a moment. Yes, there stood Rebecca, of the North Lodge, sullen7, even threatening of aspect, or seeming so to the eye that looked at her now. What a horrible likeness8 she bore to that ruffian he had dealt with last night!
Mr. Tresillian shook hands with the two ladies. He was a tall, stout9 man, with a florid countenance10, who rode to hounds all the season, and devoted himself to the pleasures of the table for the rest of the year. It was something awful to the crowd to see him shake hands, and smile, and talk about the weather, just like a common mortal; to see him pretend to be so good-natured too, when it was his function—the very rule of his being—to inflict11 summary punishment upon his fellow-men, to have no compassion12 for pleasant social vices13, and to be as hard on a drunkard as upon a thief.
There was only one case to be heard this morning, and the thrilling interest of that one case held the spectators breathless. Women stood on tiptoe peering over the shoulders of the men—women who ought to have been at their washtubs, or baking homely14 satisfying pasties for the family supper.
The ruffian was brought in closely guarded by a couple of rural policemen, and looking considerably15 the worse for last night’s recapture. He had fought like a wild cat for his freedom, had given and taken a couple of black eyes, had furthermore received a formidable cut across his forehead, and had had his clothes torn in the scuffle.
The two Tyrrels, father and son, also in a damaged condition, were there to relate proudly how they had pounced16 upon the offender17 just as he was clambering over a fence. They had told their story already so many times, in an informal manner, to curious friends and acquaintances, that they were prepared to give it with effect presently when they should be put upon oath.
Mr. Tresillian, who went to work in a very slow and ponderous18 way, was still conferring with his clerk in a bass19 undertone, which sounded like distant organ music, when Rebecca Mason pushed her way through the crowd, and came to that privileged portion of the room where Mr. Penwyn and his wife were sitting.
‘I want to know if you’re going to press this charge, Mr. Penwyn,’ she asked, quietly enough, but hardily21.
‘Of course he is,’ answered Madge, with a flash of anger. ‘Do you suppose we are going to overlook such an attempt—a man breaking into our house after midnight, and frightening my sister nearly out of her wits? We should never feel secure at the Manor22 if this man were not made an example of. Pray what interest have you in pleading for him?’
‘I’ll tell you that by and by, ma’am. I did not ask the question of you, but of my master.’
‘Your master and I have but one thought in the matter.’
‘Do you mean to prosecute23 that man, Mr. Penwyn,’ asked Rebecca, looking steadfastly24 at the Squire25. Even while addressing Madge she had kept her eyes on Churchill’s face. The brief dialogue had been carried on in an undertone, while Mr. Tresillian and the clerk were still muttering to each other.
‘The case is out of my hands. I have no power to prevent the man’s committal.’
‘Yes, you have,’ answered Rebecca, doggedly26. ‘You have power to do anything here. What is law or justice against a great landowner, in a place like this? You are lord and master here.’
‘Why do you bother me about this burglar?’
‘He is my son.’
‘I am sorry any servant of mine should be related to such a scoundrel.’
‘I am not proud of the relationship,’ answered the lodge-keeper, coolly. ‘Yet there are men capable of worse crimes than entering another man’s house—criminals who wear smooth faces and fine broadcloth—and stand high in the world. I’d rather have that vagabond for my son than some of them.’
Churchill glanced at his wife, as if to consult her feelings. But Madge, so tender and pitying to the destitute27 and afflicted28, had an inflexible29 look just now. Rebecca was her particular antipathy30, a blot31 upon the fair face of Penwyn manor, which she was most anxious to see removed; and now this Rebecca appeared in a new and still more disagreeable light as the mother of a burglar. It was hardly strange, therefore, that Mrs. Penwyn should be indisposed to see the law outraged32 in the cause of mercy.
‘I regret that my wish to serve you will not allow me to condone33 a felony on behalf of your son, said Churchill, with slow distinctness, and meeting that piercing gaze of the gipsy’s with as steady a look in his own grey eyes. ‘The attempt was too daring to be overlooked. A man breaks into my house at midnight, naturally with some evil intent.’
Still not a word about the diamonds which he had recovered from the burglar’s person.
‘He did not break into your house,’ argued Rebecca, ‘you left your windows open, and he walked in. He had been drinking, I know, and hardly knew where he was going, or what he was doing. If he had had his wits about him, he wouldn’t have allowed himself to be caught by a girl,’ she added, contemptuously.
‘He may have been drunk,’ said Churchill, with a thoughtful look, ‘but that hardly mends the matter. It isn’t pleasant to have a drunken vagabond prowling about one’s house. What do you say, my queen?’ he asked, turning to Madge, with a smile, but not quite the smile which was wont34 to brighten his face when he looked at her. ‘Will you exercise your prerogative35 of mercy? Shall I try what I can do to get this vagabond off with a few days in Penwyn lock-up, instead of having him committed for trial?’
‘I have no compassion for a man who lifted his hand against my sister,’ answered Madge, warmly. ‘Sir Lewis told me all about it, Churchill. He saw that villain36 raise his clenched37 fist to strike Viola’s face. He would have disfigured her for life, or killed her perhaps, if Sir Lewis had not caught his arm. So you suppose I am going to plead for such a scoundrel as that?’
‘Come, Mrs. Penwyn, you are a woman and a mother,’ pleaded Rebecca, ‘you ought to be merciful.’
‘Not at the expense of society. Justice and order would, indeed, be outraged if the law were stretched in favour of such a ruffian as your son.’
‘You’re hard, lady,’ said the gipsy, ‘but I think I can say a word that will soften38 you. Let me speak to you in the next room,’ looking towards a half-open door that communicated with a small parlour adjoining. ‘Let me speak with you alone for five minutes—you’d better not say no, for his sake,’ she urged, with a glance at Churchill.
Mr. Penwyn rose suddenly with darkening brow, and seized Madge by the arm, as if he would hold her away from the woman.
‘I will not suffer any communication between you and my wife,’ he exclaimed. ‘You have said your say and have been answered. I will do anything I can for you, grant anything you choose to ask for yourself,’ with emphasis, ‘but your son must take his chance.—Tresillian, we are ready.’
‘Lady, you’d better hear me,’ pleaded the gipsy.
That plea weighed lightly enough with Madge Penwyn. She was watching her husband’s face, and it was a look in that which alone influenced her decision.
‘I will hear you,’ she said to the gipsy. ‘Ask Mr. Tresillian to wait for a few minutes, Churchill.’
‘Madge, what are you thinking of?’ cried her husband. ‘She can have nothing to say that has not been said already. She has had her answer.’
‘I will hear her, Churchill, and alone.’
That ‘I will’ was accompanied by an imperious look not often seen in Madge Penwyn’s face—never before seen by him she looked at now.
‘As you will, love,’ he answered, very quietly, and made way for her to pass into the adjoining room.
Rebecca followed, and shut the door between the two rooms. There was a faint stir, and then the low hum of the little crowd sank into silence. Every eye turned to that closed door; every mind was curious to know what those two women were saying on the other side of it.
There was a pause of about ten minutes. Churchill sat by the official table, silent and thoughtful. Mr. Tresillian fidgeted with the stationery39, and yawned once or twice. The ruffian stood in his place, dogged and imperturbable40, looking as if he were the individual least concerned in the day’s proceedings41.
At last the door opened, and Madge appeared. She came slowly into the room,—slowly, and like a person who only walked steadily42 by an effort. So white and wan20 was the face turned appealingly towards Churchill, that she looked like one newly risen from some sickness unto death. Churchill rose to go to her, but hesitatingly, as if he were doubtful whether to approach her—almost as if they had been strangers.
‘Churchill,’ she said faintly, looking at him with pathetic eyes—a gaze in which deepest love and despair were mingled43. At that look and word he went to her, put his arm round her, and led her gently back to her seat.
‘You must get this man off, Churchill,’ she whispered faintly. ‘You must.’
He bent44 his head, but spoke45 not a word, only pressed her hand with a grip strong as pain or death. And then he went to Mr. Tresillian, who was growing tired of the whole business, and was at all times plastic as wax in the hands of his brother magistrate46, not being troubled with ideas of his own in a general way. Indeed, he had expended47 so much brain-power in the endeavour to out-man?uvre the manifold artifices48 of certain veteran dog foxes in the district, that he could hardly be supposed to have much intellectual force left for the Bench.
‘I find there has been a good deal of muddle49 in this business,’ said Churchill to him confidentially50. ‘The man is the son of my lodge-keeper, and a decent hard-working fellow enough, it seems. He had been drinking, and strayed into the Manor House in an obfuscated51 condition last night—my servants are most to blame for leaving doors open—and Viola saw him, and was frightened, and made a good deal of unnecessary fuss. And then my keepers knocked the fellow about more than they need have done. So I really think if you were to let him off with a day or two in the lock-up, or even a severe reprimand——’
‘Yes—yes—yes—yes—yes,’ said Mr. Tresillian, keeping up a running fire of muttered affirmatives throughout Churchill’s speech. ‘Certainly. Let the fellow off, by all means, if he had no felonious intention, and Mrs. Penwyn wishes it. Ladies are so compassionate52. Yes, yes, yes, yes.’
Mr. Tresillian was thinking rather more about a certain fifteen-acre wheat-field now ready for the sickle53 than of the business in hand. Reapers54 were scarce in the land just now, and he was not clear in his mind about getting in that corn.
So, instead of swearing in witnesses and holding a ceremonious examination, Mr. Tresillian disappointed the assembled audience by merely addressing a few sharpish words to the delinquent55, and sending him about his business, with a warning never more to create trouble in that particular neighbourhood, lest it should be worse for him. The offender was further enjoined56 to be grateful to Mr. and Mrs. Penwyn for their kindness in not pressing the charge. And thus the business was over, and the court rose. The crowd dispersed57 slowly, grumbling58 not a little about Justice’s justice, and deeply disappointed at not having seen the strange offender committed for trial.
‘If it had been one of us,’ a man remarked to a neighbour, ‘we shouldn’t have got off so easy.’
‘No,’ growled59 another. ‘If it had been some poor devil had up for licking his wife, he’d have got it hot.’
All was over. Viola and Sir Lewis Dallas, who had been indulging in a little quiet flirtation60 by an open window, and not attending to the progress of events, were beyond measure surprised at the abrupt61 close of the proceedings, and not a little disappointed, for Viola had quite looked forward to appearing in the witness-box at Bodmin Assize Court, and being cross-examined by an impertinent barrister, and then complimented upon her heroism62 by the judge, and perhaps cheered by the multitude. Nothing could be flatter than this ending.
‘It’s just like Madge,’ exclaimed Viola. ‘She may make believe to be angry for half an hour or so, but that soft heart of hers is melted at the first piteous appeal. That horrid63 woman at the lodge has begged off her horrid son.’
Madge, whiter than summer lilies, did not look in a condition to be questioned just now.
‘See how ill she looks,’ said Viola to Sir Lewis. ‘They have worried her into a nervous state with their goings on. Let us get her away.’
There was no need for Sir Lewis’s intervention64. Churchill led his wife out of the room. Erect65, and facing the crowd firmly enough both of them, but one pale as death.
‘Are you going to ride home, Churchill?’ asked Madge, as her husband handed her into the carriage.
‘Yes, love, I may as well go back as I came on Tarpan.’
‘I had rather you came with us,’ she said, with an appealing look.
‘As you like, dear. Lewis, will you ride Tarpan?’
Sir Lewis looked at Viola and then at his boots. It was an honour to ride Tarpan, but hardly a pleasant thing to ride him without straps66; and then Sir Lewis would have liked that homeward drive, with Viola for his vis-à-vis.
‘By all means, if Mrs. Penwyn would rather you went back in the carriage,’ he said good-naturedly, but with a look at Viola which meant ‘You know what a sacrifice I am making.’
That drive home was a very silent one. Viola was suffering from reaction after excitement, and leaned back with a listless air. Madge looked straight before her, with grave fixed67 eyes, gazing into space. And still there was not a cloud in the blue bright sky, and the reapers standing68 amongst the tawny69 corn turned their swart faces towards the Squire’s carriage, and pulled their moistened forelocks, and thought what a fine thing it was for the gentry70 to be driving swiftly through the clear warm air, lolling back upon soft cushions, and with no more exertion71 than was involved in holding a silk umbrella.
‘But how white Madam Penwyn looks!’ said one of the men, a native of the place, to his mate. ‘She doant look as if the good things of this life agreed with her. She looks paler and more tired like than you nor me.’
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1
brute
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| n.野兽，兽性 | |
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magisterial
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| adj.威风的，有权威的；adv.威严地 | |
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syllable
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| n.音节；vt.分音节 | |
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gems
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| growth； economy； management； and customer satisfaction 增长 | |
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devoted
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| adj.忠诚的，忠实的，热心的，献身于...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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sullen
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| adj.愠怒的，闷闷不乐的，(天气等)阴沉的 | |
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likeness
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| n.相像，相似（之处） | |
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countenance
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| n.脸色，面容；面部表情；vt.支持，赞同 | |
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inflict
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| vt.(on)把…强加给，使遭受，使承担 | |
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compassion
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| n.同情，怜悯 | |
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vices
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| 缺陷( vice的名词复数 )； 恶习； 不道德行为； 台钳 | |
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homely
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| adj.家常的，简朴的；不漂亮的 | |
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considerably
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| adv.极大地；相当大地；在很大程度上 | |
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pounced
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| v.突然袭击( pounce的过去式和过去分词 )；猛扑；一眼看出；抓住机会（进行抨击） | |
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offender
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| n.冒犯者，违反者，犯罪者 | |
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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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bass
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| n.男低音(歌手)；低音乐器；低音大提琴 | |
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wan
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| (wide area network)广域网 | |
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hardily
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| 耐劳地，大胆地，蛮勇地 | |
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manor
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| n.庄园，领地 | |
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prosecute
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| vt.告发；进行；vi.告发，起诉，作检察官 | |
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steadfastly
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| adv.踏实地，不变地；岿然；坚定不渝 | |
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squire
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| n.护卫, 侍从, 乡绅 | |
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doggedly
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| adv.顽强地，固执地 | |
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destitute
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| adj.缺乏的；穷困的 | |
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afflicted
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| 使受痛苦，折磨( afflict的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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inflexible
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| adj.不可改变的，不受影响的，不屈服的 | |
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antipathy
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| n.憎恶；反感，引起反感的人或事物 | |
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blot
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| vt.弄脏（用吸墨纸）吸干；n.污点，污渍 | |
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outraged
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| a.震惊的，义愤填膺的 | |
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condone
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| v.宽恕；原谅 | |
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wont
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| adj.习惯于；v.习惯；n.习惯 | |
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prerogative
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| n.特权 | |
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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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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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38
soften
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| v.(使)变柔软；(使)变柔和 | |
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stationery
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| n.文具；(配套的)信笺信封 | |
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imperturbable
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| adj.镇静的 | |
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proceedings
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| n.进程，过程，议程；诉讼(程序)；公报 | |
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steadily
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| adv.稳定地；不变地；持续地 | |
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43
mingled
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| 混合，混入( mingle的过去式和过去分词 )； 混进，与…交往[联系] | |
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bent
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| n.爱好，癖好；adj.弯的；决心的，一心的 | |
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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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magistrate
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| n.地方行政官，地方法官，治安官 | |
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47
expended
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| v.花费( expend的过去式和过去分词 )；使用（钱等）做某事；用光；耗尽 | |
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artifices
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| n.灵巧( artifice的名词复数 )；诡计；巧妙办法；虚伪行为 | |
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49
muddle
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| n.困惑，混浊状态；vt.使混乱，使糊涂，使惊呆；vi.胡乱应付，混乱 | |
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50
confidentially
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| ad.秘密地，悄悄地 | |
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51
obfuscated
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| v.使模糊，使混乱( obfuscate的过去式和过去分词 )；使糊涂 | |
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52
compassionate
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| adj.有同情心的，表示同情的 | |
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53
sickle
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| n.镰刀 | |
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54
reapers
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| n.收割者，收获者( reaper的名词复数 )；收割机 | |
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55
delinquent
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| adj.犯法的，有过失的；n.违法者 | |
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56
enjoined
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| v.命令( enjoin的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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57
dispersed
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| adj. 被驱散的, 被分散的, 散布的 | |
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58
grumbling
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| adj. 喃喃鸣不平的, 出怨言的 | |
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59
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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60
flirtation
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| n.调情，调戏，挑逗 | |
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abrupt
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| adj.突然的，意外的；唐突的，鲁莽的 | |
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heroism
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| n.大无畏精神，英勇 | |
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horrid
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| adj.可怕的；令人惊恐的；恐怖的；极讨厌的 | |
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intervention
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| n.介入，干涉，干预 | |
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erect
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| n./v.树立，建立，使竖立；adj.直立的，垂直的 | |
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66
straps
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| n.带子( strap的名词复数 )；挎带；肩带；背带v.用皮带捆扎( strap的第三人称单数 )；用皮带抽打；包扎；给…打绷带 | |
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67
fixed
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| adj.固定的，不变的，准备好的；(计算机)固定的 | |
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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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tawny
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| adj.茶色的，黄褐色的；n.黄褐色 | |
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70
gentry
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| n.绅士阶级，上层阶级 | |
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exertion
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| n.尽力，努力 | |
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