And in spite of his odd behaviour, she had one great consolation4 in knowing that he was innocent. His denial of guilt6 had been so strong; the alibi7 he set forth8 was so easy of proof, and so impossible of invention, that she blamed herself sincerely for ever having doubted the young man. Nevertheless, considering the weird9 circumstances, and the fact of the likeness10 of the double—whomsoever he might be—to her lover, she could scarcely regard herself as having been foolish. Nine people out of ten would have made the same mistake, and would have harboured similar doubts. Certainly, seeing that she loved Cyril devotedly11, she should have been the tenth; but in the hour of trial her faith had proved very weak. She tried to remind herself that she had never really believed him to be guilty. All the same, recalling the late conversation, she had to recognise that her words could have left very little doubt in Lister's mind as to the fact that she believed him to be a robber and an assassin. Well, if she had, surely she had been severely12 punished, as was only fair.
Mrs. Coppersley returned from the funeral in a very chastened frame of mind, and in the company of Henry Vand, whom she had bidden to tea. The table was furnished forth with funeral baked meats, after the fashion of Hamlet's mother's wedding, and Mr. Vand did full justice to them—wonderful justice, considering his apparently delicate constitution. He was not very tall, and remarkably13 handsome, with his young, clean-shaven face, his large, blue eyes, and his curly, golden hair. His body was well-shaped all save the right foot, which was twisted and the leg of which was shorter than the other. Like Talleyrand and Lord Byron, the young man was club-footed, but otherwise had a very attractive personality. From his delicate fingers, it could be seen that he was a musician, and he had an air of refinement14 astonishing in one of his breeding and birth. Bella did not like him much. Not that she had any fault to find with him; but his eyes were shallow, like those of a bird, and his conversation was dull, to say the least of it. The sole way in which he could converse15 was through his violin, and as he had not that with him on this occasion, Bella preferred to remain absent from the lavish16 tea-table. Mrs. Coppersley did not object, as she wanted her darling all to herself.
However, Mrs. Coppersley was very severe on her niece for not attending the funeral, and had many sweet things to say regarding virtues17 of the deceased which she had just discovered after his death. "He meant well, did poor, dear Jabez," sighed Mrs. Coppersley, over a cup of tea; "and if he did swear it was his calling that made him profane18. Bella!"—her niece was standing19 at the door as she spoke20—"to-morrow I'm going up to see the lawyer about the property."
"Oh, don't trouble about that," said Bella wearily; "no, thank you, Mr. Vand, I don't care to eat. I feel too miserable21."
"Not trouble about the property!" cried Mrs. Coppersley, paying no attention to the latter part of this speech; "but I do care. Things must be settled somehow. I must arrange my future life," and she cast a tender glance on the handsome musician. "Your future must be settled also."
"You had better be sharp, then," said Mrs. Coppersley, in a dictatorial23 manner, "for the sooner things are settled the better. I'm not young, and"—she cast a second tender glance on her swain, who was eating largely—"ah, well, its useless to talk of weddings when funerals are in the air. To-morrow evening, Bella, after I have seen the lawyer—and he lives in Cade Lane, London—I'll tell you what I have arranged."
Bella looked in astonishment24 at her aunt, who suddenly seemed to have acquired the late captain's tyrannical manner. Apparently Mrs. Coppersley forgot—as Bella thought—that she would not inherit the solitary25 farm, and needed to be reminded of the fact that her niece was the mistress of Bleacres. In fact, Bella was on the point of saying as much, when she remembered that Vand was present. Not being anxious to discuss family matters in his presence—even though he was about to enter the family as Mrs. Coppersley's husband—she abruptly left the room. Mrs. Coppersley poured herself out a second cup of tea, and remarked in a high tone of satisfaction, that some people's noses were about to be brought to the grindstone.
Bella heard the remark as she put on her hat and walked out of the front door. It accentuated26 her lonely feeling, for she saw plainly now what she had long guessed,—that Aunt Rosamund had very little affection for her. The late captain also had never cared much for his daughter, and now that Cyril had vanished in an enigmatic manner, the poor girl felt more wretched than ever. Listlessly she walked down the narrow path as far as the boundary channel, and wondered how it would all end. Had she been a religious girl she might have sought comfort in prayer, but she knew very little about true religion, and did not care for the sort preached by Mr. Silas Pence in the Little Bethel at Marshely. As his name flashed into her mind, she looked up and saw him standing on the opposite side of the channel, so it was apparent—although she knew nothing about such things—that some telepathic communication had made her think of him. The preacher was in his usual dismal28 garb29, and had accentuated the same by wearing black gloves and a black tie in place of his usual white one. Patience on a monument might have been taken as a type of Mr. Pence on this occasion, but he was not smiling on grief in the person of Miss Huxham. In fact he did not smile at all, being shocked to see her out of doors.
"Why are you not weeping in your chamber30?" reproved Silas, in his most clerical manner; "the loss of so good a father——"
"You have doubtless said all you had to say on that subject at the funeral, Mr. Pence," retorted Bella, whose nerves were worn thin with worry; "spare me a repetition of such stale remarks."
It was a horribly rude speech, as she well knew. But Pence had a way of irritating her beyond all endurance, and the mere31 sight of him was sufficient to set her teeth on edge for the day. It was intolerable that he should intrude32 on her privacy now, when she particularly wished to be alone. She intimated as much by turning away with a displeased33 air, and walked for a short distance along the bank path leading to Mrs. Tunks' hut. But Silas, absolutely ignorant of the feminine nature, and entirely34 devoid35 of diplomacy36, persisted in thrusting his company upon her. Bella turned sharply, when she heard Silas breathing hard behind her, and spoke with marked indignation.
"I wish to be alone, if you please," she declared, flushing.
"Ah, no; ah, no," remonstrated37 Pence, stupidly. "Allow me to comfort you."
"Allow me to try. I was on the point of calling at the house to——"
Bella interrupted him cruelly. "You can call there still, Mr. Pence, and my aunt will be glad to see you. She has Mr. Vand to tea, so you will find yourself in congenial company."
"Your company is congenial enough for me."
"That is very flattering, but I prefer to be alone."
Silas, however, declined to be shaken off, and his reproachful looks so exasperated40 Bella that she felt inclined to thrust him into the water. And his speech was even more irritating than his manner. "Let me soothe41 you, my dear, broken-hearted sister," he pleaded in a sheep-like bleat42.
Pence sighed. "This is very, very painful."
"It is," Bella admitted readily, "to me. Surely you are man enough, Mr. Pence, to take a plain telling if you won't accept a hint. I want you to leave me at once, as I am not disposed to talk."
"If I had my way I would never, never leave you again."
"Perhaps; but, so far as I am concerned, you will not get your way."
"Why do you dislike me, Miss Huxham?"
"I neither like nor dislike you," she retorted, suppressing a violent inclination44 to scream, so annoying was this persecution45. "You are nothing to me."
"I want to be something. I wish you to be my sealed fountain. Your late lamented46 father desired you to be my spouse47."
"I am aware of that, Mr. Pence. But perhaps you will remember that I refused to marry you, the other day."
"You broke my heart then."
"Go and mend it then," cried Bella, furiously angry, and only too anxious to drive him away by behaving with aggressive rudeness.
"You alone can mend it." Pence dropped on his knees. "Oh, I implore48 you to mend it, my Hephzibah! You are to me a Rose of Sharon, a Lily of the Vale."
"Get up, sir, and don't make a fool of yourself."
"Oh, angel of my life, listen to me. Lately I was poor in this world's goods, but now I have gold. Marry me, and let us fly to far lands, and——"
"I thought you were desperately49 poor," said Bella, suspiciously; "where did you get the money?"
"An aged1 and God-fearing Christian50 aunt left it to me," said Pence, dropping his eyes. "It is a small sum, but——"
"One hundred pounds in gold, perhaps?"
Pence rose, as though moved by springs, and his thin white cheeks flushed a deep scarlet51. "What do you mean?"
Bella could not have told herself what she meant at the moment. But it had suddenly occurred to her to try and rid herself of this burr by hinting that he had something to do with the robbery, if not with the murder. Under ordinary circumstances she would never have ventured to do this, being a kind-hearted girl; but Pence exasperated her so greatly that she was, on the impulse of the moment, prepared to go to any length to see the last of him. "I mean," she said, in reply to his last question, "that my father had one hundred pounds in gold in his safe."
"You accuse me of——"
"I accuse you of nothing," cried Bella, cutting him short and flaming up into a royal rage. "I am tired of your company and of your silly talk. I only wish that Mr. Lister would come along and throw you into the channel."
The red faded from Pence's face, and he looked wickedly white. His eyes flashed with sinister52 lights. "I dare say you do," he said venomously, "but Mr. Lister had better keep out of my way, and out of the way of the police."
The girl felt her heart almost stop beating. "Now it is my turn to ask you what you mean?" she said slowly and preserving her coolness.
But the preacher saw that she was shaken, and followed up his advantage. "I think you had better make terms with me. Accept me as your husband, or——"
"Or what?"
"I shall tell the police what I saw," he finished spitefully.
"What did you see?" she asked in a shaking voice.
"On the evening of the murder I came here at a quarter to eight," said Silas slowly, his glittering eyes on her pale face. "I wished to adore the shrine53 wherein was my jewel; that is, I desired to gaze on the house, beneath whose roof you slept."
"Oh, stop talking like this, and speak plainly," she interrupted wearily.
"I shall speak plainly enough now," said the young man calmly. "While watching by the entrance through the bushes, on the other side of the channel, I was suddenly brushed aside by that Lister person. It was growing dark, but I recognised his figure, his insolent54 face, his lordly air of prosperity. He walked up to the house and I turned away, sick at heart, knowing that he had gone to see you. When I looked again, on my way back to Marshely, he had disappeared. So you see——" He paused.
"That the Lister person must know somewhat of this crime, if, indeed, he did not strike the blow himself."
"How can you say that, when you lately intimated that Mr. Lister—if it was Mr. Lister, which I doubt—had come to see me?"
"I remember the evidence given by yourself and your aunt at the inquest," retorted Pence sharply. "You were locked in your room, and were in a drugged sleep. Mrs. Coppersley had gone to my lodgings56 to deliver the note from your late father, which I found on my return. That Lister person must have seen your father, and, as they were not on good terms—"
"How do you know that they were not?"
"Because your late father hated the very name of Lister, and said that he would rather see you dead than married to him. Also in the note left at my lodgings, your father said that he had quarrelled seriously with this Lister person, and had locked you in your room. Now, if I showed that note to the police, and related how the Lister person had brushed me aside so that he could cross the channel, he would be arrested."
"Yes, he would. He hated your late father; he was alone in the house with him, and I believe that he killed him so that he might marry you."
"As if I would marry any man who murdered my father," said Bella angrily. "You are talking a lot of nonsense, Mr. Pence. Mr. Lister was in London on that evening, and afterwards went to Paris."
"I don't believe it. Who told you?"
"He told me so himself."
"Naturally he has to make the best of things. But I know the Lister person well by sight, and I am prepared to take my oath that he entered the Manor-house about eight o'clock on the night of the murder."
"Mr. Lister has a good alibi," said Bella, with a carelessness which she was far from feeling, and gathering58 up her skirts to go. "You can tell the police what you like, Mr. Pence. I am not afraid for Mr. Lister's good name."
"No," she said abruptly; "do what you like."
"I'll give you three days to think over the matter," cried Pence as she turned away; "if by that time you do not agree to become my wife, I shall denounce that Lister person to the police."
Bella took no notice of the threat, but walked swiftly away in the direction of Mrs. Tunks' hut. Hearing no footsteps she concluded that Mr. Pence had not followed, and a cautious look round revealed him crossing the planks60 on his way home. Bella felt sick with apprehension61, and when she reached the hut had to lean against the door for support. But she had no time to consider matters, for unexpectedly the door opened and she fell into the bony arms of Mrs. Tunks.
"A glance along the path told you," retorted Bella, recovering her balance and entering the hut. "Why do you talk to me of the crystal, Mrs. Tunks? You know I don't believe in such things."
"Well I know your blind eyes and stubborn heart, lovey. Only trouble will make you see truths, and you ain't had enough yet. There's more coming."
"How do you know?" asked Bella, sitting down on a broken-backed chair with a sudden sinking of the heart.
"I know, I know," mumbled63 Mrs. Tunks, squatting64 on a stool near the fire. "Who should know but I, who am of the gentle Romany? Hold your peace, dearie and let me think," and she lighted a dingy65 black clay pipe. "Luke ain't here," added Mrs. Tunks, blowing a cloud of smoke, "so we've the whole place to ourselves, lovey, and the crystal's ready."
She nodded towards a bright spark of light, and Bella saw a round crystal the size of an apple, standing in a cheap china egg-cup. There was no light in the bare room, but the ruddy flare66 of the smouldering fire, and what with the semi-darkness, the fumes67 of Mrs. Tunks' pipe, and that bright unwinking spot, Bella felt as though she were being hypnotised.
The hut, built of turf, was square, and was divided by a wooden partition into two equal parts. One of these parts was again sub-divided into two sleeping dens—they could not be called bedrooms—for Mrs. Tunks and her grandson. The day apartment, which did for sitting-room68, dining-room, drawing-room, and general living-room, was small, and dirty, and dingy. The ceiling of rough thatch69, black with smoke, could almost be touched by Bella without rising. The floor was of beaten earth, the chimney a wide gaping70 hollow of turf, and there was one small window, usually tightly closed, beside the crazy door. The furniture consisted of a deal table, of home manufacture, with its legs sunken in the earthen floor, and a few stools together with the broken-backed chair on which the visitor sat. There also was a rough wooden dresser, on which were ranged a few platters of wood and some china. The whole abode71 was miserable in the extreme, and in wet weather must have been extremely uncomfortable. Granny Tunks, as she was usually called, housed like an Early Briton or a Saxon serf; but she seemed to be happy enough in her den5, perhaps because it was better than the rough life of the road, which had been her lot in life before she had married a Gorgio.
She was a lean, grim old creature with very bright black eyes and plentiful72 white hair escaping from under a red handkerchief. Her dress was of a brown colour, but tagged with bright patches of yellow and blue and crimson73, and she wore also various coins and beads74 and charms, which kept up a continuous jingle75. On the whole Granny Tunks was a picturesque76 figure of the Oriental type, and this, added to her sinister reputation as one acquainted with the unseen world, gained her considerable respect. The marsh27 folk, still superstitious77 in spite of steam and electricity, called her "The Wise Woman," but Granny dubbed78 herself "A Witch-Wife," quite like a Norse warrior79 would have done.
Bella stared at the crystal until she felt quite dreamy, while Granny watched her with a bright and cunning eye. Suddenly she rose and took the gleaming globe in her skinny hand. "You've put your life-power into it," mumbled the witch-wife; "now I'll read what's coming."
"No, no!" cried Bella, suddenly startled into wakefulness. "I don't want to know anything, Mrs. Tunks."
Granny took no notice, but peered into the crystal by the red light of the fire. "You've trouble yet, before you, dearie," she said in a sing-song voice, "but peace in the end. You'll marry the gentleman you love, when a black man comes to aid your fortunes."
"A black man! What do you mean?"
"There's no more," said Mrs. Tunks; "the vision has faded. A black man, remember."
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1
aged
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| adj.年老的，陈年的 | |
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apparently
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| adv.显然地；表面上，似乎 | |
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abruptly
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| adv.突然地，出其不意地 | |
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consolation
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| n.安慰，慰问 | |
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den
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| n.兽穴；秘密地方；安静的小房间，私室 | |
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guilt
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| n.犯罪；内疚；过失，罪责 | |
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alibi
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| n.某人当时不在犯罪现场的申辩或证明；借口 | |
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forth
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| adv.向前；向外，往外 | |
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weird
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| adj.古怪的，离奇的；怪诞的，神秘而可怕的 | |
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likeness
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| n.相像，相似（之处） | |
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devotedly
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| 专心地； 恩爱地； 忠实地； 一心一意地 | |
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severely
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| adv.严格地；严厉地；非常恶劣地 | |
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remarkably
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| ad.不同寻常地，相当地 | |
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refinement
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| n.文雅；高尚；精美；精制；精炼 | |
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converse
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| vi.谈话，谈天，闲聊；adv.相反的，相反 | |
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16
lavish
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| adj.无节制的；浪费的；vt.慷慨地给予，挥霍 | |
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virtues
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| 美德( virtue的名词复数 )； 德行； 优点； 长处 | |
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profane
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| adj.亵神的，亵渎的；vt.亵渎，玷污 | |
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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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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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miserable
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| adj.悲惨的，痛苦的；可怜的，糟糕的 | |
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liking
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| n.爱好；嗜好；喜欢 | |
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dictatorial
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| adj. 独裁的，专断的 | |
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astonishment
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| n.惊奇，惊异 | |
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solitary
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| adj.孤独的，独立的，荒凉的；n.隐士 | |
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accentuated
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| v.重读( accentuate的过去式和过去分词 )；使突出；使恶化；加重音符号于 | |
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marsh
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| n.沼泽，湿地 | |
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dismal
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| adj.阴沉的，凄凉的，令人忧郁的，差劲的 | |
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garb
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| n.服装，装束 | |
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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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mere
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| adj.纯粹的；仅仅，只不过 | |
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intrude
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| vi.闯入；侵入；打扰，侵扰 | |
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displeased
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| a.不快的 | |
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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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devoid
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| adj.全无的，缺乏的 | |
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diplomacy
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| n.外交；外交手腕，交际手腕 | |
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remonstrated
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| v.抗议( remonstrate的过去式和过去分词 )；告诫 | |
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marvelling
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| v.惊奇，对…感到惊奇( marvel的现在分词 ) | |
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density
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| n.密集，密度，浓度 | |
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exasperated
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| adj.恼怒的 | |
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soothe
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| v.安慰；使平静；使减轻；缓和；奉承 | |
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42
bleat
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| v.咩咩叫，(讲)废话，哭诉；n.咩咩叫，废话，哭诉 | |
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soothing
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| adj.慰藉的；使人宽心的；镇静的 | |
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inclination
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| n.倾斜；点头；弯腰；斜坡；倾度；倾向；爱好 | |
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persecution
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| n. 迫害,烦扰 | |
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46
lamented
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| adj.被哀悼的，令人遗憾的v.（为…）哀悼，痛哭，悲伤( lament的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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spouse
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| n.配偶(指夫或妻) | |
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48
implore
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| vt.乞求，恳求，哀求 | |
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desperately
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| adv.极度渴望地，绝望地，孤注一掷地 | |
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50
Christian
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| adj.基督教徒的；n.基督教徒 | |
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51
scarlet
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| n.深红色，绯红色，红衣；adj.绯红色的 | |
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sinister
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| adj.不吉利的，凶恶的，左边的 | |
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53
shrine
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| n.圣地，神龛，庙；v.将...置于神龛内，把...奉为神圣 | |
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insolent
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| adj.傲慢的，无理的 | |
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nervously
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| adv.神情激动地，不安地 | |
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56
lodgings
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| n. 出租的房舍, 寄宿舍 | |
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doggedly
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| adv.顽强地，固执地 | |
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58
gathering
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| n.集会，聚会，聚集 | |
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59
feigned
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| a.假装的，不真诚的 | |
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60
planks
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| （厚）木板( plank的名词复数 )； 政纲条目，政策要点 | |
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61
apprehension
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| n.理解，领悟；逮捕，拘捕；忧虑 | |
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62
croaked
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| v.呱呱地叫( croak的过去式和过去分词 )；用粗的声音说 | |
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63
mumbled
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| 含糊地说某事，叽咕，咕哝( mumble的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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64
squatting
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| v.像动物一样蹲下( squat的现在分词 )；非法擅自占用（土地或房屋）；为获得其所有权；而占用某片公共用地。 | |
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65
dingy
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| adj.昏暗的，肮脏的 | |
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66
flare
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| v.闪耀，闪烁；n.潮红；突发 | |
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67
fumes
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| n.(强烈而刺激的)气味，气体 | |
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68
sitting-room
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| n.（BrE）客厅，起居室 | |
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69
thatch
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| vt.用茅草覆盖…的顶部；n.茅草(屋) | |
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70
gaping
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| adj.口的；张口的；敞口的；多洞穴的v.目瞪口呆地凝视( gape的现在分词 )；张开，张大 | |
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71
abode
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| n.住处，住所 | |
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72
plentiful
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| adj.富裕的，丰富的 | |
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73
crimson
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| n./adj.深(绯)红色(的)；vi.脸变绯红色 | |
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74
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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75
jingle
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| n.叮当声，韵律简单的诗句；v.使叮当作响，叮当响，押韵 | |
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76
picturesque
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| adj.美丽如画的，（语言）生动的，绘声绘色的 | |
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77
superstitious
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| adj.迷信的 | |
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78
dubbed
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| v.给…起绰号( dub的过去式和过去分词 )；把…称为；配音；复制 | |
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79
warrior
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| n.勇士，武士，斗士 | |
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