Let me try to take them in something like their proper order.
To begin with, Sydney has behaved very badly. So badly that it seems likely that I shall have to re-cast my whole conception of his character. It was nearly nine o’clock this morning when I,—I cannot say woke up, because I do not believe that I had really been asleep—but when I returned to consciousness. I found myself sitting up in bed, trembling like some frightened child. What had actually happened to me I did not know,—could not guess. I was conscious of an overwhelming sense of nausea1, and, generally, I was feeling very far from well. I endeavoured to arrange my thoughts, and to decide upon some plan of action. Finally, I decided2 to go for advice and help where I had so often gone before,—to Sydney Atherton.
I went to him. I told him the whole gruesome story. He saw, he could not help but see what a deep impress the events of the night had made on me. He heard me to the end with every appearance of sympathy,—and then all at once I discovered that all the time papa had been concealed3 behind a large screen which was in the room, listening to every word I had been uttering. That I was dumfoundered, goes without saying. It was bad enough in papa, but in Sydney it seemed, and it was, such treachery. He and I have told each other secrets all our lives; it has never entered my imagination, as he very well knows, to play him false, in one jot5 or tittle; and I have always understood that, in this sort of matter, men pride themselves on their sense of honour being so much keener than women’s. I told them some plain truths; and I fancy that I left them both feeling heartily6 ashamed of themselves.
One result the experience had on me,—it wound me up. It had on me the revivifying effect of a cold douche. I realised that mine was a situation in which I should have to help myself.
When I returned home I learned that the man whom I had found in the street was himself again, and was as conscious as he was ever likely to be. Burning with curiosity to learn the nature of the connection which existed between Paul and him, and what was the meaning of his oracular apostrophes, I merely paused to remove my hat before hastening into his apartment.
When he saw me, and heard who I was, the expressions of his gratitude7 were painful in their intensity8. The tears streamed down his cheeks. He looked to me like a man who had very little life left in him. He looked weak, and white, and worn to a shadow. Probably he never had been robust9, and it was only too plain that privation had robbed him of what little strength he had ever had. He was nothing else but skin and bone. Physical and mental debility was written large all over him.
He was not bad-looking,—in a milk and watery10 sort of way. He had pale blue eyes and very fair hair, and, I daresay, at one time, had been a spruce enough clerk. It was difficult to guess his age, one ages so rapidly under the stress of misfortune, but I should have set him down as being about forty. His voice, though faint enough at first, was that of an educated man, and as he went on, and gathered courage, and became more and more in earnest, he spoke11 with a simple directness which was close akin12 to eloquence13. It was a curious story which he had to tell.
So curious, so astounding14 indeed, that, by the time it was finished, I was in such a state of mind, that I could perceive no alternative but to forgive Sydney, and, in spite of his recent, and scandalous misbehaviour, again appeal to him for assistance. It seemed, if the story told by the man whom I had found in the street was true,—and incredible though it sounded, he spoke like a truthful15 man!—that Paul was threatened by some dreadful, and, to me, wholly incomprehensible danger; that it was a case in which even moments were precious; and I felt that, with the best will in the world, it was a position in which I could not move alone. The shadow of the terror of the night was with me still, and with that fresh in my recollection how could I hope, single-handed, to act effectually against the mysterious being of whom this amazing tale was told? No! I believed that Sydney did care for me, in his own peculiar16 way; I knew that he was quick, and cool, and fertile in resource, and that he showed to most advantage in a difficult situation; it was possible that he had a conscience, of a sort, and that, this time, I might not appeal to it in vain.
So I sent a servant off to fetch him, helter skelter.
As luck would have it, the servant returned with him within five minutes. It appeared that he had been lunching with Dora Grayling, who lives just at the end of the street, and the footman had met him coming down the steps. I had him shown into my own room.
‘I want you to go to the man whom I found in the street, and listen to what he has to say.’
‘With pleasure.’
‘Can I trust you?’
‘To listen to what he has to say?—I believe so.’
‘Can I trust you to respect my confidence?’
He was not at all abashed17,—I never saw Sydney Atherton when he was abashed. Whatever the offence of which he has been guilty, he always seems completely at his ease. His eyes twinkled.
‘In that case, come! But, you understand, I am going to put to the test the affirmations which you have made during all these years, and to prove if you have any of the feeling for me which you pretend.’
Directly we were in the stranger’s room, Sydney marched straight up to the bed, stared at the man who was lying in it, crammed19 his hands into his trouser pockets, and whistled. I was amazed.
‘So!’ he exclaimed. ‘It’s you!’
‘Do you know this man?’ I asked.
‘I am hardly prepared to go so far as to say that I know him, but, I chance to have a memory for faces, and it happens that I have met this gentleman on at least one previous occasion. Perhaps he remembers me.—Do you?’
The stranger seemed uneasy,—as if he found Sydney’s tone and manner disconcerting.
‘I do. You are the man in the street.’
‘Precisely20. I am that—individual. And you are the man who came through the window. And in a much more comfortable condition you appear to be than when first I saw you.’ Sydney turned to me. ‘It is just possible, Miss Lindon, that I may have a few remarks to make to this gentleman which would be better made in private,—if you don’t mind.’
‘But I do mind,—I mind very much. What do you suppose I sent for you here for?’
Sydney smiled that absurd, provoking smile of his,—as if the occasion were not sufficiently21 serious.
‘Don’t talk nonsense. This man has told me a most extraordinary story, and I have sent for you—as you may believe, not too willingly’—Sydney bowed—‘in order that he may repeat it in your presence, and in mine.’
‘Is that so?—Well!—Permit me to offer you a chair,—this tale may turn out to be a trifle long.’
To humour him I accepted the chair he offered, though I should have preferred to stand;—he seated himself on the side of the bed, fixing on the stranger those keen, quizzical, not too merciful, eyes of his.
‘Well, sir, we are at your service,—if you will be so good as to favour us with a second edition of that pleasant yarn24 you have been spinning. But—let us begin at the right end!—what’s your name?’
‘My name is Robert Holt.’
‘That so?—Then, Mr Robert Holt,—let her go!’
Thus encouraged, Mr Holt repeated the tale which he had told me, only in more connected fashion than before. I fancy that Sydney’s glances exercised on him a sort of hypnotic effect, and this kept him to the point,—he scarcely needed a word of prompting from the first syllable to the last.
He told how, tired, wet, hungry, desperate, despairing, he had been refused admittance to the casual ward,—that unfailing resource, as one would have supposed, of those who had abandoned even hope. How he had come upon an open window in an apparently25 empty house, and, thinking of nothing but shelter from the inclement26 night, he had clambered through it. How he had found himself in the presence of an extraordinary being, who, in his debilitated27 and nervous state, had seemed to him to be only half human. How this dreadful creature had given utterance28 to wild sentiments of hatred29 towards Paul Lessingham,—my Paul! How he had taken advantage of Holt’s enfeebled state to gain over him the most complete, horrible, and, indeed, almost incredible ascendency. How he actually had sent Holt, practically naked, into the storm-driven streets, to commit burglary at Paul’s house,—and how he,—Holt,—had actually gone without being able to offer even a shadow of opposition30. How Paul, suddenly returning home, had come upon Holt engaged in the very act of committing burglary, and how, on his hearing Holt make a cabalistic reference to some mysterious beetle31, the manhood had gone out of him, and he had suffered the intruder to make good his escape without an effort to detain him.
The story had seemed sufficiently astonishing the first time, it seemed still more astonishing the second,—but, as I watched Sydney listening, what struck me chiefly was the conviction that he had heard it all before. I charged him with it directly Holt had finished.
‘This is not the first time you have been told this tale.’
‘Pardon me,—but it is. Do you suppose I live in an atmosphere of fairy tales?’
Something in his manner made me feel sure he was deceiving me.
‘Sydney!—Don’t tell me a story!—Paul has told you!’
‘I am not telling you a story,—at least, on this occasion; and Mr Lessingham has not told me. Suppose we postpone32 these details to a little later. And perhaps, in the interim33, you will permit me to put a question or two to Mr Holt.’
I let him have his way,—though I knew he was concealing34 something from me; that he had a more intimate acquaintance with Mr Holt’s strange tale than he chose to confess. And, for some cause, his reticence35 annoyed me.
He looked at Mr Holt in silence for a second or two. Then he said, with the quizzical little air of bland36 impertinence which is peculiarly his own,
‘I presume, Mr Holt, you have been entertaining us with a novelty in fables37, and that we are not expected to believe this pleasant little yarn of yours.’
‘I expect nothing. But I have told you the truth. And you know it.’
This seemed to take Sydney aback.
‘I protest that, like Miss Lindon, you credit me with a more extensive knowledge than I possess. However, we will let that pass.—I take it that you paid particular attention to this mysterious habitant of this mysterious dwelling38.’
‘I am not likely ever to forget him.’
‘Then, in that case, you will be able to describe him to us.’
‘To do so adequately would be beyond my powers. But I will do my best.’
If the original was more remarkable40 than the description which he gave of him, then he must have been remarkable indeed. The impression conveyed to my mind was rather of a monster than a human being. I watched Sydney attentively41 as he followed Mr Holt’s somewhat lurid42 language, and there was something in his demeanour which made me more and more persuaded that he was more behind the scenes in this strange business than he pretended, or than the speaker suspected. He put a question which seemed uncalled for by anything which Mr Holt had said.
‘You are sure this thing of beauty was a man?’
‘No, sir, that is exactly what I am not sure.’
There was a note in Sydney’s voice which suggested that he had received precisely the answer which he had expected.
‘Did you think it was a woman?’
‘I did think so, more than once. Though I can hardly explain what made me think so. There was certainly nothing womanly about the face.’ He paused, as if to reflect. Then added, ‘I suppose it was a question of instinct.’
‘I see.—Just so.—It occurs to me, Mr Holt, that you are rather strong on questions of instinct.’ Sydney got off the bed. He stretched himself, as if fatigued,—which is a way he has. ‘I will not do you the injustice43 to hint that I do not believe a word of your charming, and simple, narrative44. On the contrary, I will demonstrate my perfect credence45 by remarking that I have not the slightest doubt that you will be able to point out to me, for my particular satisfaction, the delightful46 residence on which the whole is founded.’
Mr Holt coloured,—Sydney’s tone could scarcely have been more significant.
‘You must remember, sir, that it was a dark night, that I had never been in that neighbourhood before, and that I was not in a condition to pay much attention to locality.’
‘All of which is granted, but—how far was it from Hammersmith Workhouse?’
‘Possibly under half a mile.’
‘Then, in that case, surely you can remember which turning you took on leaving Hammersmith Workhouse,—I suppose there are not many turnings you could have taken.’
‘I think I could remember.’
‘Then you shall have an opportunity to try. It isn’t a very far cry to Hammersmith,—don’t you think you are well enough to drive there now, just you and I together in a cab?’
‘I should say so. I wished to get up this morning. It is by the doctor’s orders I have stayed in bed.’
‘Then, for once in a while, the doctor’s orders shall be ignored,—I prescribe fresh air.’ Sydney turned to me. ‘Since Mr Holt’s wardrobe seems rather to seek, don’t you think a suit of one of the men might fit him,—if Mr Holt wouldn’t mind making shift for the moment?—Then, by the time you’ve finished dressing47, Mr Holt, I shall be ready.’
While they were ascertaining48 which suit of clothes would be best adapted to his figure, I went with Sydney to my room. So soon as we were in, I let him know that this was not a matter in which I intended to be trifled with.
‘Of course you understand, Sydney, that I am coming with you.’
He pretended not to know what I meant.
‘Coming with me?—I am delighted to hear it,—but where?’
‘To the house of which Mr Holt has been speaking.’
‘Nothing could give me greater pleasure, but—might I point out?—Mr Holt has to find it yet?’
‘I will come to help you to help him find it.’
‘Three in a hansom?’
‘There is such a thing as a four-wheeled cab,—or I could order a carriage if you’d like one.’
Sydney looked at me out of the corners of his eyes; then began to walk up and down the room, with his hands in his trouser pockets. Presently he began to talk nonsense.
‘I need not say with what a sensation of joy I should anticipate the delights of a drive with you,—even in a four-wheeled cab; but, were I in your place, I fancy that I should allow Holt and your humble50 servant to go hunting out this house of his alone. It may prove a more tedious business than you imagine. I promise that, after the hunt is over, I will describe the proceedings51 to you with the most literal accuracy.’
‘I daresay.—Do you think I don’t know you’ve been deceiving me all the time?’
‘Deceiving you?—I!’
‘Yes,—you! Do you think I’m quite an idiot?’
‘My dear Marjorie!’
‘Do you think I can’t see that you know all about what Mr Holt has been telling us,—perhaps more about it than he knows himself?’
‘On my word!—With what an amount of knowledge you do credit me.’
‘Yes, I do,—or discredit52 you, rather. If I were to trust you, you would tell me just as much as you chose,—which would be nothing. I’m coming with you,—so there’s an end.’
‘Very well.—Do you happen to know if there are any revolvers in the house?’
‘Revolvers?—whatever for?’
‘Because I should like to borrow one. I will not conceal4 from you—since you press me—that this is a case in which a revolver is quite likely to be required.’
‘You are trying to frighten me.’
‘I am doing nothing of the kind, only, under the circumstances, I am bound to point out to you what it is you may expect.’
‘Oh, you think that you’re bound to point that out, do you,—then now your bounden duty’s done. As for there being any revolvers in the house, papa has a perfect arsenal53,—would you like to take them all?’
‘Thanks, but I daresay I shall be able to manage with one,—unless you would like one too. You may find yourself in need of it.’
‘I am obliged to you, but, on this occasion, I don’t think I’ll trouble. I’ll run the risk.—Oh, Sydney, what a hypocrite you are!’
‘It’s for your sake, if I seem to be. I tell you most seriously, that I earnestly advise you to allow Mr Holt and I to manage this affair alone. I don’t mind going so far as to say that this is a matter with which, in days to come, you will wish that you had not allowed yourself to be associated.’
‘I insinuate nothing. What I mean, I say right out; and, my dear Marjorie, what I actually do mean is this,—that if, in spite of my urgent solicitations, you will persist in accompanying us, the expedition, so far as I am concerned, will be postponed55.’
‘That is what you do mean, is it? Then that’s settled.’ I rang the bell. The servant came. ‘Order a four-wheeled cab at once. And let me know the moment Mr Holt is ready.’ The servant went. I turned to Sydney. ‘If you will excuse me, I will go and put my hat on. You are, of course, at liberty to please yourself as to whether you will or will not go, but, if you don’t, then I shall go with Mr Holt alone.’
I moved to the door. He stopped me.
‘My dear Marjorie, why will you persist in treating me with such injustice? Believe me, you have no idea what sort of adventure this is which you are setting out upon,—or you would hear reason. I assure you that you are gratuitously56 proposing to thrust yourself into imminent57 peril58.’
‘What sort of peril? Why do you beat about the bush,—why don’t you speak right out?’
‘I can’t speak right out, there are circumstances which render it practically impossible—and that’s the plain truth,—but the danger is none the less real on that account. I am not jesting,—I am in earnest; won’t you take my word for it?’
‘It is not a question of taking your word only,—it is a question of something else beside. I have not forgotten my adventures of last night,—and Mr Holt’s story is mysterious enough in itself; but there is something more mysterious still at the back of it,—something which you appear to suggest points unpleasantly at Paul. My duty is clear, and nothing you can say will turn me from it. Paul, as you are very well aware, is already overweighted with affairs of state, pretty nearly borne down by them,—or I would take the tale to him, and he would talk to you after a fashion of his own. Things being as they are, I propose to show you that, although I am not yet Paul’s wife, I can make his interests my own as completely as though I were. I can, therefore, only repeat that it is for you to decide what you intend to do; but, if you prefer to stay, I shall go with Mr Holt,—alone.’
‘Understand that, when the time for regret comes—as it will come!—you are not to blame me for having done what I advised you not to do.’
‘My dear Mr Atherton, I will undertake to do my utmost to guard your spotless reputation; I should be sorry that anyone should hold you responsible for anything I either said or did.’
‘Very well!—Your blood be on your own head!’
‘My blood?’
‘Yes,—your blood. I shouldn’t be surprised if it comes to blood before we’re through.—Perhaps you’ll oblige me with the loan of one of that arsenal of revolvers of which you spoke.’
I let him have his old revolver,—or, rather, I let him have one of papa’s new ones. He put it in the hip59 pocket in his trousers. And the expedition started,—in a four-wheeled car.
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1
nausea
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| n.作呕，恶心；极端的憎恶(或厌恶) | |
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decided
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| adj.决定了的，坚决的；明显的，明确的 | |
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concealed
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| a.隐藏的，隐蔽的 | |
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conceal
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| v.隐藏，隐瞒，隐蔽 | |
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jot
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| n.少量；vi.草草记下；vt.匆匆写下 | |
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heartily
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| adv.衷心地，诚恳地，十分，很 | |
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7
gratitude
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| adj.感激，感谢 | |
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intensity
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| n.强烈，剧烈；强度；烈度 | |
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robust
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| adj.强壮的，强健的，粗野的，需要体力的，浓的 | |
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10
watery
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| adj.有水的，水汪汪的；湿的，湿润的 | |
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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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akin
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| adj.同族的，类似的 | |
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eloquence
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| n.雄辩；口才，修辞 | |
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14
astounding
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| adj.使人震惊的vt.使震惊，使大吃一惊astound的现在分词) | |
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truthful
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| adj.真实的，说实话的，诚实的 | |
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peculiar
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| adj.古怪的，异常的；特殊的，特有的 | |
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abashed
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| adj.窘迫的，尴尬的v.使羞愧，使局促，使窘迫( abash的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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syllable
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| n.音节；vt.分音节 | |
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crammed
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| adj.塞满的，挤满的；大口地吃；快速贪婪地吃v.把…塞满；填入；临时抱佛脚( cram的过去式) | |
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precisely
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| adv.恰好，正好，精确地，细致地 | |
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sufficiently
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| adv.足够地，充分地 | |
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repose
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| v.(使)休息；n.安息 | |
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vestige
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| n.痕迹，遗迹，残余 | |
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yarn
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| n.纱，纱线，纺线；奇闻漫谈，旅行轶事 | |
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apparently
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| adv.显然地；表面上，似乎 | |
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inclement
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| adj.严酷的，严厉的，恶劣的 | |
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debilitated
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| adj.疲惫不堪的，操劳过度的v.使（人或人的身体）非常虚弱( debilitate的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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utterance
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| n.用言语表达，话语，言语 | |
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hatred
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| n.憎恶，憎恨，仇恨 | |
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opposition
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| n.反对，敌对 | |
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beetle
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| n.甲虫，近视眼的人 | |
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postpone
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| v.延期，推迟 | |
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interim
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| adj.暂时的，临时的；n.间歇，过渡期间 | |
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concealing
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| v.隐藏，隐瞒，遮住( conceal的现在分词 ) | |
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reticence
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| n.沉默，含蓄 | |
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bland
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| adj.淡而无味的，温和的，无刺激性的 | |
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fables
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| n.寓言( fable的名词复数 )；神话，传说 | |
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dwelling
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| n.住宅，住所，寓所 | |
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shuddered
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| v.战栗( shudder的过去式和过去分词 )；发抖；（机器、车辆等）突然震动；颤动 | |
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remarkable
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| adj.显著的，异常的，非凡的，值得注意的 | |
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attentively
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| adv.聚精会神地；周到地；谛；凝神 | |
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42
lurid
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| adj.可怕的；血红的；苍白的 | |
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injustice
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| n.非正义，不公正，不公平，侵犯（别人的）权利 | |
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narrative
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| n.叙述，故事；adj.叙事的，故事体的 | |
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credence
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| n.信用，祭器台，供桌，凭证 | |
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delightful
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| adj.令人高兴的，使人快乐的 | |
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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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48
ascertaining
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| v.弄清，确定，查明( ascertain的现在分词 ) | |
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relish
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| n.滋味，享受，爱好，调味品；vt.加调味料，享受，品味；vi.有滋味 | |
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50
humble
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| adj.谦卑的，恭顺的；地位低下的；v.降低，贬低 | |
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51
proceedings
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| n.进程，过程，议程；诉讼(程序)；公报 | |
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52
discredit
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| vt.使不可置信；n.丧失信义；不信，怀疑 | |
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53
arsenal
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| n.兵工厂，军械库 | |
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54
insinuate
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| vt.含沙射影地说，暗示 | |
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55
postponed
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| vt.& vi.延期，缓办，（使）延迟vt.把…放在次要地位；[语]把…放在后面（或句尾）vi.（疟疾等）延缓发作（或复发） | |
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56
gratuitously
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| 平白 | |
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57
imminent
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| adj.即将发生的，临近的，逼近的 | |
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58
peril
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| n.(严重的)危险；危险的事物 | |
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59
hip
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| n.臀部，髋；屋脊 | |
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