She set a hand upon her lover's arm. “What will you do, Justin?” she inquired in tones that seemed to plead for mercy for those others; for she had not paused to think—as another might have thought—that there was no mercy he could show them.
Rotherby and his mother stood hand in hand; it was the woman who had clutched at her son for comfort and support in this bitter hour of retribution, this hour of the recoil1 upon themselves of all the evil they had plotted.
Mr. Caryll considered them a moment, his face a mask, his mind entirely2 detached. They interested him profoundly. This subjugation3 of two natures that in themselves were arrogant4 and cruel was a process very engrossing5 to observe. He tried to conjecture6 what they felt, what thoughts they might be harboring. And it seemed to him that a sort of paralysis7 had fallen on their wits. They were stunned8 under the shock of the blow he had dealt them. Anon there would be railings and to spare—against him, against themselves, against the dead man above stairs, against Fate, and more besides. For the present there was this horrid9, almost vacuous10 calm.
Presently the woman stirred. Instinct—the instinct of the stricken beast to creep to hiding—moved her, while reason was still bound in lethargy. She moved to step, drawing at her son's hand. “Come, Charles,” she said, in a low, hoarse11 voice. “Come!”
The touch and the speech awakened12 him to life. “No!” he cried harshly, and shook his hand free of hers. “It ends not thus.”
He looked almost as he would fling himself upon his brother, his figure erect14 now, defiant15 and menacing; his face ashen16, his eyes wild. “It ends not thus!” he repeated, and his voice rang sinister17.
“No,” Mr. Caryll agreed quietly. “It ends not thus.”
He looked sadly from son to mother. “It had not even begun thus, but that you would have it so. You would have it. I sought to move you to mercy. I reminded you, my brother, of the tie that bound us, and I would have turned you from fratricide, I would have saved you from the crime you meditated—for it was a crime.”
“Fratricide!” exclaimed Rotherby, and laughed angrily. “Fratricide!” It was as if he threatened it.
But Mr. Caryll continued to regard him sorrowfully. From his soul he pitied him; pitied them both—not because of their condition, but because of the soullessness behind it all. To him it was truly tragic18, tragic beyond anything that he had ever known.
“You said some fine things, sir, to Mr. Templeton of your regard for your father's memory,” said Mr. Caryll. “You expressed some lofty sentiments of filial piety19, which almost sounded true—which sounded true, indeed, to Mr. Templeton. It was out of interest for your father that you pleaded for the suppression of his dealings with the South Sea Company; not for a moment did you consider yourself or the profit you should make from such suppression.”
“Why this?” demanded the mother fiercely. “Do you rally us? Do you turn the sword in the wound now that you have us at your mercy—now that we are fallen?”
“From what are you fallen?” Mr. Caryll inquired. “Ah, but let that pass. I do not rally, madam. Mockery is far indeed from my intention.” He turned again to Rotherby. “Lord Ostermore was a father to you, which he never was to me—knew not that he was. The sentiments you so beautifully expressed to Mr. Templeton are the sentiments that actuate me now, though I shall make no attempt to express them. It is not that my heart stirs much where my Lord Ostermore is concerned. And yet, for the sake of the name that is mine now, I shall leave England as I came—Mr. Justin Caryll, neither more nor less.
“In the eyes of the world there is no slur20 upon my mother's name, because her history—her supposed history—was unknown. See that none ever falls on it, else shall you find me pitiless indeed. See that none ever falls on it, or I shall return and drive home the lesson that, like Antinous, you've learnt—that 'twixt the cup and lip much ill may grow'—and turn you, naked upon a contemptuous world. Needs more be said? You understand, I think.”
Rotherby understood nothing. But his mother's keener wits began to perceive a glimmer21 of the truth. “Do you mean that—that we are to—to remain in the station that we believed our own?”
“What else?”
She stared at him. Here was a generosity22 so weak, it seemed to her, as almost to provoke her scorn. “You will leave your brother in possession of the title and what else there may be?”
“You think me generous, madam,” said he. “Do not misapprehend me. I am not. I covet23 neither the title nor estates of Ostermore. Their possession would be a thorn in my flesh, a thorn of bitter memory. That is one reason why you should not think me generous, though it is not the reason why I cede24 them. I would have you understand me on this, perhaps the last time, that we may meet.
“Lord Ostermore, my father, married you, madam, in good faith.”
She interrupted harshly. “What is't you say?” she almost screamed, quivering with rage at the very thought of what her dead lord had done.
“He married you in good faith,” Mr. Caryll repeated quietly, impressively. “I will make it plain to you. He married you believing that the girl-wife he had left in France was dead. For fear it should come to his father's knowledge, he kept that marriage secret from all. He durst not own his marriage to his father.”
“He was not—as you may have appreciated in the years you lived with him—a man of any profound feeling for others. For himself he had a prodigiously25 profound feeling, as you may also have gathered. That marriage in France was troublesome. He had come to look upon it as one of his youth's follies—as he, himself, described it to me in this house, little knowing to whom he spoke26. When he received the false news of her death—for he did receive such news from the very cousin who crossed from France to avenge27 her, believing her dead himself—he rejoiced at his near escape from the consequences of his folly28. Nor was he ever disabused29 of his error. For she had ceased to write to him by then. And so he married you, madam, in good faith. That is the argument I shall use with my Lord Carteret to make him understand that respect for my father's memory urges me to depart in silence—save for what I must have said to escape the impeachment30 with which you threatened me.”
“Lord Carteret is a man of the world. He will understand the far-reaching disturbance31 that must result from the disclosure of the truth of this affair. He will pledge Mr. Templeton to silence, and the truth, madam, will never be disclosed. That, I think, is all, madam.”
“By God, sir,” cried Rotherby, “that's damned handsome of you!”
His mother, however, had no words at all. She advanced a step towards Mr. Caryll, put out her hands, and then—portent of portents33!—two tears were seen to trickle34 down her cheeks, playing havoc35, ploughing furrows36 in the paint that overlaid them.
Mr. Caryll stepped forward quickly. The sight of those tears, springing from that dried-up heart—withered by God alone knew what blight—washing their way down those poor bedaubed cheeks, moved him to a keener pity than anything he had ever looked upon. He took her hands, and pressed them a moment, giving way for once to an impulse he could not master.
She would have kissed his own in the abasement37 and gratitude38 of the moment. But he restrained her.
“No more, your ladyship,” said he, and by thus giving her once more the title she had worn, he seemed to reinstate her in the station from which in self-defence he had pulled her down. “Promise that you'll bear no witness against me should so much be needed, and I'll cry quits with you. Without your testimony39, they cannot hurt me, even though they were disposed to do so, which is scarcely likely.”
“Indeed, no. So no more, ma'am. You do but harass41 yourself. Fare you well, my lady. If I may trespass42 for a few moments longer upon the hospitality of Stretton House, I'll be your debtor43.”
“The house—and all—is yours, sir,” she reminded him.
“There's but one thing in it that I'll carry off with me,” said he. He held the door for her.
She looked into his face a moment. “God keep you!” said she, with a surprising fervor44 in one not over-fluent at her prayers. “God reward you for showing this mercy to an old woman—who does not deserve so much.”
“Fare you well, madam,” he said again, bowing gravely. “And fare you well, Lord Ostermore,” he added to her son.
His brother looked at him a moment; seemed on the point of speaking, and then—taking his cue, no doubt, from his mother's attitude—he held out his hand.
Mr. Caryll took it, shook it, and let it go. After all, he bethought him, the man was his brother. And if his bearing was not altogether cordial, it was, at least, a clement45 imitation of cordiality.
He closed the door upon them, and sighed supreme46 relief. He turned to face Hortensia, and a smile broke like sunshine upon his face, and dispelled47 the serious gloom of his expression. She sprang towards him.
She checked in her approach. “'Tis not in such words that I'll be wooed,” said she.
“One thing, Hortensia,” he amended50. “One thing I want—I lack—to esteem myself greater than any king that rules.”
“I like that better,” she laughed, and suddenly she was in tears. “Oh, why do you mock, and make-believe that your heart is on your lips and nowhere else?” she asked him. “Is it your aim to be accounted trifling51 and shallow—you who can do such things as you have done but now? Oh, it was noble! You made me very proud.”
“Proud?” he echoed. “Ah! Then it must be that you are resolved to take this impudent52, fleering coxcomb53 for a husband,” he said, rallying her with the words she had flung at him that night in the moonlit Croydon garden.
“How I was mistook in you!” quoth she.
He made philosophy. “'Tis ever those in whom we are mistook that are best worth knowing,” he informed her. “The man or woman whom you can read at sight, is read and done with.”
“Yet you were not mistook in me,” said she.
“I was,” he answered, “for I deemed you woman.”
“What other have you found me?” she inquired.
He flung wide his arms, and bade her into them. “Here to my heart,” he cried, “and in your ear I'll whisper it.”
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1
recoil
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| vi.退却，退缩，畏缩 | |
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entirely
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| ad.全部地，完整地；完全地，彻底地 | |
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subjugation
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| n.镇压，平息，征服 | |
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arrogant
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| adj.傲慢的，自大的 | |
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engrossing
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| adj.使人全神贯注的，引人入胜的v.使全神贯注( engross的现在分词 ) | |
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conjecture
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| n./v.推测，猜测 | |
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paralysis
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| n.麻痹(症)；瘫痪(症) | |
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stunned
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| adj. 震惊的，惊讶的 动词stun的过去式和过去分词 | |
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9
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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vacuous
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| adj.空的，漫散的，无聊的，愚蠢的 | |
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hoarse
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| adj.嘶哑的，沙哑的 | |
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12
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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13
fig
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| n.无花果(树) | |
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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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defiant
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| adj.无礼的，挑战的 | |
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ashen
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| adj.灰的 | |
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sinister
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| adj.不吉利的，凶恶的，左边的 | |
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tragic
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| adj.悲剧的，悲剧性的，悲惨的 | |
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piety
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| n.虔诚，虔敬 | |
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slur
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| v.含糊地说；诋毁；连唱；n.诋毁；含糊的发音 | |
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glimmer
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| v.发出闪烁的微光；n.微光，微弱的闪光 | |
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generosity
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| n.大度，慷慨，慷慨的行为 | |
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covet
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| vt.垂涎；贪图(尤指属于他人的东西) | |
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cede
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| v.割让，放弃 | |
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prodigiously
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| adv.异常地，惊人地，巨大地 | |
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26
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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avenge
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| v.为...复仇，为...报仇 | |
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28
folly
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| n.愚笨，愚蠢，蠢事，蠢行，傻话 | |
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29
disabused
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| v.去除…的错误想法( disabuse的过去式和过去分词 )；使醒悟 | |
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impeachment
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| n.弹劾；控告；怀疑 | |
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disturbance
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| n.动乱，骚动；打扰，干扰；(身心)失调 | |
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32
habitual
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| adj.习惯性的；通常的，惯常的 | |
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portents
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| n.预兆( portent的名词复数 )；征兆；怪事；奇物 | |
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34
trickle
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| vi.淌，滴，流出，慢慢移动，逐渐消散 | |
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havoc
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| n.大破坏，浩劫，大混乱，大杂乱 | |
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furrows
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| n.犁沟( furrow的名词复数 )；（脸上的）皱纹v.犁田，开沟( furrow的第三人称单数 ) | |
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abasement
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| n.滥用 | |
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gratitude
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| adj.感激，感谢 | |
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39
testimony
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| n.证词；见证，证明 | |
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40
faltered
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| （嗓音）颤抖( falter的过去式和过去分词 )； 支吾其词； 蹒跚； 摇晃 | |
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41
harass
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| vt.使烦恼，折磨，骚扰 | |
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42
trespass
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| n./v.侵犯，闯入私人领地 | |
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43
debtor
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| n.借方，债务人 | |
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44
fervor
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| n.热诚；热心；炽热 | |
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clement
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| adj.仁慈的；温和的 | |
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46
supreme
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| adj.极度的，最重要的；至高的，最高的 | |
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47
dispelled
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| v.驱散，赶跑( dispel的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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48
chattel
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| n.动产；奴隶 | |
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49
esteem
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| n.尊敬，尊重；vt.尊重，敬重；把…看作 | |
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50
Amended
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| adj. 修正的 动词amend的过去式和过去分词 | |
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51
trifling
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| adj.微不足道的；没什么价值的 | |
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52
impudent
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| adj.鲁莽的，卑鄙的，厚颜无耻的 | |
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53
coxcomb
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| n.花花公子 | |
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