Waiting just at present was about as congenial an occupation as being racked. He walked up and down with a dragging, restless step, and tried unsuccessfully to shut off his torturing thoughts behind a safety curtain. The time dragged intolerably. Presently he left the platform and went up on to the bridge which ran from one side of the station to the other. Here he began his pacing again, stopping every now and then to watch a train come in or a train go out. From the bridge one could see all the platforms.
When an express rushed through, the whole structure shook and clouds of white steam blotted3 out everything. It was when the steam was clearing away, and the roar of the receding4 train was dying down, that Anthony noticed another local running in to the Withstead platform. He bent5 over the rail and watched the passengers get out—just a handful. There was a young woman with two children, two farmers, three or four nondescript women, and a big man with a suit-case. Anthony looked at the big man and went on looking at him. Something about him seemed vaguely6 familiar. The man came along the platform and began to mount the steps that led up to the bridge. Half-way up he put down his suit-case, took off his hat for a moment as if to cool himself, and stood there looking up. Then he replaced his hat, shifted the suit-case to the other hand, and came up the rest of the steps. He seemed hot.
He passed Anthony and went down the steps on to the London platform. Anthony followed him.
When the big man stood still and looked up, eight years were suddenly wiped out. Memory is a queer thing, and plays queer tricks. What Anthony’s memory did was to set him down in the year 1912, in the gallery of a hall in Chicago. There was a packed and rather vociferous7 audience. There was a big man on the platform, a big man who seemed hot. His speech was, in fact, of a sufficiently8 inflammatory nature to make any one feel hot. It breathed fire and fury. Its rolling eloquence9 must have involved a good deal of physical exertion10. Suddenly, after a period, the speaker stopped and looked up at the gallery for applause. It came like a veritable cyclone11. The meeting was subsequently broken up by the police.
Anthony remembered that the speaker’s name was Molloy. If Mr. Molloy had come from Withstead, it occurred to Anthony that his destination would probably be of interest.
The London train was due in ten minutes. When it came in, Molloy got into a third-class carriage, and Anthony followed his example.
It was at seven-thirty on Sunday morning that Mrs. March’s cook, who was sweeping12 the hall, was given what she afterwards described as a turn by the arrival of an odd-looking man who would give no name and insisted on seeing her master.
“Awful he looked with that ’orrid scar and his ’air that wild, and not giving me a chance to shut the door in his face, for he pushes in the moment I got it open—that’s what give me the worst turn of all—and walks into the dining-room as bold as brass13, and says, ‘I want to see Captain March—and be quick, please.’”
When Henry came into the dining-room he shut the door behind him very quickly and looked as if he also had had a turn.
“Good Lord, Tony, what’s happened?” he said.
“Nothing,” said Anthony, with nonchalance14.
“Then in Heaven’s name, why are you here?”
“I’m through, that’s all. You can’t say I didn’t give notice.”
“It’s not a question of what I say, it’s what Piggy’ll say.”
“Oh, I’ve got a sop15 for Piggy. I’ve been doing the faithful sleuth. I’ve trailed a man from Withstead to a highly genteel boarding-house in South Kensington; and as I last saw the gentleman addressing an I. W. W. meeting in Chicago, I imagine Piggy might be interested.”
“Who was it?” said Henry quickly.
“Molloy.”
“You’re sure?”
“Absolutely.”
“Good man. You’re in luck. Molloy, under the interesting alias16 of Bernier, has just been selling the Government Formula ‘A.’ He was trailed over here with the swag and then lost sight of. For a dead cert he’s been to Luttrell Marches by the back way and seen Ember.”
Anthony turned away.
“There’s the devil to pay down there,” he said.... “No, no, the girl’s all right.... This is something I ought to have told you when you were down. I ought to have told you the whole thing. I couldn’t bring myself to.”
“Sit down, Tony. What is it?”
“No, I can’t sit.” He walked to the window and stood there, looking out. His hands made restless movements. He spoke17, keeping his back to Henry:
“You didn’t go through all the passages?”
“No, I was going to to-night.”
“I ought to have told you. The big place under the terrace, you know—they’ve turned it into a laboratory. Molloy may have been working there, for all I know; he had the name of an expert chemist.”
“Yes, go on.”
“You’d have found it yourself to-night, but I couldn’t let you go blundering in unwarned. Ember might be there—any one might be there. It’s damnable, Henry, but I believe she’s up to her neck in it.”
Henry was silent. There seemed to be nothing to say. He also believed that Raymond Heritage was up to her neck in whatever secret enterprise was being developed at Luttrell Marches. He remembered the passion in her voice when she said, “I should like to smash it all,” and he remembered how she had sung, “Would we not shatter it to bits, and then re-mould it nearer to the heart’s desire?” Whatever the thing was, he believed she was in it up to her neck. So he was silent, and Anthony was grateful for his silence.
The silence was broken by a tapping, and a rustling18, and the turning of a handle. The door opened very abruptly20, and Mrs. de Luttrelle March made a precipitous entrance. She wore a pink silk négligé and a boudoir cap embroidered21 in forget-me-nots, also an expression of extreme terror—the cook’s description of their early visitor having prepared her to find Henry’s corpse22 stretched upon the hearth-rug. When a living and annoyed Henry confronted her, she clung to his arm and gazed round-eyed at the long, thin man who had swung round at her entrance. Uncertainty23 succeeded fear. Henry was saying, “Do go back to your room, Mother,” but it is doubtful whether she heard him.
Gradually her grasp of his arm relaxed. She walked slowly across the room, and stared with horrified24 amazement25 at Anthony.
He looked over her head at Henry, shrugged27 his shoulders just perceptibly, and made as if to turn back to the window again. Either that shrug26, or the faintly sarcastic28 lift of the eyebrows29 that accompanied it, brought a sort of broken gasp30 to Mrs. March’s lips. She put out her hand, touched his coat sleeve with her finger-tips, and said:
“Anthony—it’s Anthony—oh, Henry, it’s Anthony!”
She backed a little at each repetition of the name, looked wildly round, and sinking on to the nearest chair, burst into tears.
“It’s all right, Aunt Rosa. I’m not a ghost,” said Anthony in his driest voice.
Henry experienced a cold dread32 of what his mother would say next. She had talked so much and thought so incessantly33 of Luttrell Marches. Latterly she had been so sure of Henry’s ownership, and so proud of it. What would she say now—as she dropped her hands from her face and gazed with streaming eyes at Anthony, who regarded her quizzically?
“Tony, you’re so dreadfully changed. That fearful scar—oh, my dear, where have you been all this time? We thought you were dead. I don’t know how I recognised you. And you were such a pretty little boy, my dear. I used to be jealous because you had longer eyelashes than Henry, but you haven’t now.”
“Haven’t I?” said Anthony, with perfect gravity. He took his aunt’s plump white hand and gave it a squeeze and a pat. “It’s very nice of you to welcome me, Aunt Rosa. The scar isn’t as bad as it looks, and Henry’s going to lend me a razor and some clothes.”
It was later, when Anthony could be heard splashing in the bathroom, that Mrs. March beckoned34 Henry into her room, flung her arms round his neck, and burst into tears all over again.
“My poor boy,” she sobbed, “it’s so hard on you—about Luttrell Marches, I mean—do you mind dreadfully?”
“Not an atom. Besides, I knew Tony was alive; I always told you he would turn up.”
“I couldn’t think of any one but him at first,” said Mrs. March, sniffing35 gently. “Then afterwards it came over me Henry won’t have the place—and I couldn’t help crying because, of course, one does get to count on a thing, with every one saying to me as they did, ‘Of course your son comes into Luttrell Marches, such a beautiful place,’—and so it is, and I did think it was yours, and what I felt about it was, if I feel badly about it, what must Henry feel? You see, don’t you?”
Henry endeavoured to disengage himself.
“Yes, Mother, but you needn’t worry—you really needn’t. Look here, you dress and don’t cry any more. I’ve got to telephone.”
Mrs. March clasped her hands about his arm.
“Henry, wait, just a minute,” she said. “That Miss Smith—you’re not still thinking about her, are you?”
Henry laughed.
“I am,” he said.
“Well——” said Mrs. March. She fidgeted with Henry’s coat sleeve, bridled36 a little, and looked down at her mauve satin slippers37. “Well—you know, my dear boy, I didn’t want to be unkind, but I simply couldn’t picture her at Luttrell Marches—as its mistress, I mean—and I’m sure you did think me unkind about it; but now that it’s all different—Tony coming back like this does make a difference, of course, and what I was going to say about it is this. If you really do care for her and it would make up to you for the disappointment, I wouldn’t hold out about it, not if you really wanted it, my dear, and really cared for her, only of course you’d have to be quite sure, because once you’re married you’re married, and there’s no way out of it except divorce, and, whether it’s the fashion now or not, I always have said and always will say, that it’s not respectable, it really isn’t, and it’s not a thing we’ve ever had in our family—not on either side,” added Mrs. March thoughtfully, after a slight pause for breath.
“I really do care for her, and I really am sure,” said Henry. He kissed his mother affectionately, and once more attempted to detach himself from her hold.
Mrs. March let go with one hand in order to dab38 her eyes with a scrap39 of pink-and-white chiffon. Then she looked up at her son fondly.
“Your eyelashes are much the longest,” she said.
“Piggy’ll see you as soon as you can get there,” he told Anthony five minutes later—“at his house. I’m off to Luttrell Marches. I was going down anyhow to-night, but, things being as they are, I think I’ll get a move on. Piggy’s sending some one to the address you gave, to keep an eye on Molloy. He doesn’t want him arrested yet, as he’s in hopes that Belcovitch will roll up—that’s the other man concerned in the actual sale of the formula. He went to Vienna, but was in Paris yesterday. Good Lord, Tony, I’m glad you’ve got rid of that beastly beard!”
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1
dawdled
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| v.混（时间）( dawdle的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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thereby
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| adv.因此，从而 | |
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blotted
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| 涂污( blot的过去式和过去分词 )； （用吸墨纸）吸干 | |
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4
receding
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| v.逐渐远离( recede的现在分词 )；向后倾斜；自原处后退或避开别人的注视；尤指问题 | |
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5
bent
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| n.爱好，癖好；adj.弯的；决心的，一心的 | |
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6
vaguely
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| adv.含糊地，暖昧地 | |
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7
vociferous
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| adj.喧哗的，大叫大嚷的 | |
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8
sufficiently
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| adv.足够地，充分地 | |
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eloquence
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| n.雄辩；口才，修辞 | |
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10
exertion
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| n.尽力，努力 | |
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cyclone
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| n.旋风，龙卷风 | |
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12
sweeping
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| adj.范围广大的，一扫无遗的 | |
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13
brass
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| n.黄铜；黄铜器，铜管乐器 | |
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nonchalance
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| n.冷淡，漠不关心 | |
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15
sop
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| n.湿透的东西，懦夫；v.浸，泡，浸湿 | |
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16
alias
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| n.化名；别名；adv.又名 | |
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17
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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18
rustling
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| n. 瑟瑟声，沙沙声 adj. 发沙沙声的 | |
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19
abrupt
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| adj.突然的，意外的；唐突的，鲁莽的 | |
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20
abruptly
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| adv.突然地，出其不意地 | |
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21
embroidered
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| adj．绣花的 | |
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corpse
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| n.尸体，死尸 | |
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uncertainty
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| n.易变，靠不住，不确知，不确定的事物 | |
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24
horrified
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| a.(表现出)恐惧的 | |
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amazement
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| n.惊奇，惊讶 | |
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26
shrug
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| v.耸肩(表示怀疑、冷漠、不知等) | |
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shrugged
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| vt.耸肩（shrug的过去式与过去分词形式） | |
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sarcastic
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| adj.讥讽的，讽刺的，嘲弄的 | |
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29
eyebrows
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| 眉毛( eyebrow的名词复数 ) | |
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30
gasp
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| n.喘息，气喘；v.喘息；气吁吁他说 | |
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31
sobbed
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| 哭泣，啜泣( sob的过去式和过去分词 )； 哭诉，呜咽地说 | |
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32
dread
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| vt.担忧，忧虑；惧怕，不敢；n.担忧，畏惧 | |
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33
incessantly
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| ad.不停地 | |
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34
beckoned
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| v.（用头或手的动作）示意，召唤( beckon的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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35
sniffing
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| n.探查法v.以鼻吸气，嗅，闻( sniff的现在分词 )；抽鼻子（尤指哭泣、患感冒等时出声地用鼻子吸气）；抱怨，不以为然地说 | |
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36
bridled
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| 给…套龙头( bridle的过去式和过去分词 )； 控制； 昂首表示轻蔑（或怨忿等）； 动怒，生气 | |
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37
slippers
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| n. 拖鞋 | |
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38
dab
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| v.轻触，轻拍，轻涂；n.(颜料等的)轻涂 | |
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39
scrap
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| n.碎片；废料；v.废弃，报废 | |
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