The Berridges of Berylstow—a house near my office in the Witching Hill Road—were perhaps the very worthiest1 family on the whole Estate.
Old Mr. Berridge, by a lifetime of faithful service, had risen to a fine position in one of the oldest and most substantial assurance societies in the City of London. Mrs. Berridge, herself a woman of energetic character, devoted2 every minute that she could spare from household duties, punctiliously3 fulfilled, to the glorification4 of the local Vicar and the denunciation of modern ideas. There was a daughter, whose name of Beryl had inspired that of the house; she was her mother's miniature and echo, and had no desire to ride a bicycle or do anything else that Mrs. Berridge had not done before her. An only son, Guy, completed the partie carrée, and already made an admirable accountant under his father's eagle eye. He was about thirty years of age, had a mild face but a fierce moustache, was engaged to be married, and already picking up books and pictures for the new home.
As a bookman Guy Berridge stood alone.
"There's nothing like them for furnishing a house," said he; "and nowadays they're so cheap. There's that new series of Victorian Classics—one-and-tenpence-halfpenny! And those Eighteenth Century Masterpieces—I don't know when I shall get time to read them, but they're worth the money for the binding5 alone—especially with everything peculiar7 taken out!"
Peculiar was a family epithet9 of the widest possible significance. It was peculiar of Guy, in the eyes of the other three, to be in such a hurry to leave their comfortable home for one of his own on a necessarily much smaller scale. Miss Hemming10, the future Mrs. Guy, was by no means deficient11 in peculiarity12 from his people's point of view. She affected13 flowing fabrics14 of peculiar shades, and she had still more peculiar ideas of furnishing. On Saturday afternoons she would drag poor Guy into all the second-hand15 furniture shops in the neighbourhood—not even to save money, as Mrs. Berridge complained to her more intimate friends—but just to be peculiar. It seemed like a judgment16 when Guy fell so ill with influenza17, obviously contracted in one of those highly peculiar shops, that he had to mortgage his summer holiday by going away for a complete change early in the New Year.
He went to country cousins of the suburban18 Hemmings; his own Miss Hemming went with him, and it was on their return that a difference was first noticed in the young couple. They no longer looked radiant together, much less when apart. The good young accountant would pass my window with a quite tragic19 face. And one morning, when we met outside, he told me that he had not slept a wink20.
That evening I went to smoke a pipe with Uvo Delavoye, who happened to have brought me into these people's ken8. And we were actually talking about Guy Berridge and his affairs when the maid showed him up into Uvo's room.
I never saw a man look quite so wretched. The mild face seemed to cower21 behind the truculent22 moustache; the eyes, bright and bloodshot, winced23 when one met them. I got up to go, feeling instinctively24 that he had come to confide25 in Uvo. But Berridge read me as quickly as I read him.
"Don't you go on my account," said he gloomily. "I've nothing to tell Delavoye that I can't tell you, especially after giving myself away to you once already to-day. I daresay three heads will be better than two, and I know I can trust you both."
"Is anything wrong?" asked Uvo, when preliminary solicitations had reminded me that his visitor neither smoked nor drank.
"Everything!" was the reply.
"Not with your engagement, I hope?"
"That's it," said Berridge, with his eyes on the carpet.
"It isn't—off?"
"Not yet."
"I don't want to ask more than I ought," said Uvo, after a pause, "but I always imagine that, between people who're engaged, the least little thing——"
"It isn't a little thing."
And the accountant shook his downcast head.
"I only meant, my dear chap, if you'd had some disagreement——"
"We've never had the least little word!"
"Has she changed?" asked Uvo Delavoye.
"Not that I know of," replied Berridge; but he looked up as though it were a new idea; and there was more life in his voice.
"She'd tell you," said Uvo, "if I know her."
"Do people tell each other?" eagerly inquired our friend.
"They certainly ought, and I think Miss Hemming would."
"Ah! it's easy enough for them!" cried the miserable27 young man. "Women are not liars28 and traitors29 because they happen to change their minds. Nobody thinks the worse of them for that; it's their privilege, isn't it? They can break off as many engagements as they like; but if I did such a thing I should never hold up my head again!"
He buried his hot face in his hands, and Delavoye looked at me for the first time. It was a sympathetic look enough; and yet there was something in it, a lift of the eyebrow30, a light in the eye, that reminded me of the one point on which we always differed.
"Better hide your head than spoil her life," said he briskly. "But how long have you felt like doing either? I used to look on you as an ideal pair."
"So we were," said poor Berridge, readily. "It's most peculiar!"
I saw a twitch31 at the corners of Uvo's mouth; but he was not the man for sly glances over a bowed head.
"How long have you been engaged?" he asked.
"Ever since last September."
"You were here then, if I remember?"
"Yes; it was just after my holiday."
"In fact you've been here all the time?"
"Up to these last few weeks."
Delavoye looked round his room as a cross-examining counsel surveys the court to mark a point. I felt it about time to intervene on the other side.
"So I was, God knows!"
"Everything was all right until you went away?"
"Everything."
But that was not the sense of the glance I could not help shooting at Delavoye. And my explanation was no comfort to Guy Berridge; he had thought of it before; but then he had never felt better than the last few days in the country, yet never had he been in such despair.
"I can't go through with it," he groaned35 in abject36 unreserve. "It's making my life a hell—a living lie. I don't know how to bear it—from one meeting to the next—I dread37 them so! Yet I've always a sort of hope that next time everything will suddenly become as it was before Christmas. Talk of forlorn hopes! Each time's worse than the last. I've come straight from her now. I don't know what you must think of me! It's not ten minutes since we said good-night." The big moustache trembled. "I felt a Judas," he whispered—"an absolute Judas!"
"I believe it's all nerves," said Delavoye, but with so little conviction that I loudly echoed the belief.
"But I don't go in for nerves," protested Berridge; "none of us do, in our family. We don't believe in them. We think they're a modern excuse for anything you like to do or say; that's what we think about nerves. I'm not going to start them just to make myself out better than I am. It's my heart that's rotten, not my nerves."
"I admire your attitude," said Delavoye, "but I don't agree with you. It'll all come back to you in the end—everything you think you've lost—and then you'll feel as though you'd awakened38 from a bad dream."
"But sometimes I do wake up, as it is!" cried Berridge, catching39 at the idea. "Nearly every morning, when I'm dressing40, things look different. I feel my old self again—the luckiest fellow alive—engaged to the sweetest girl! She's always that, you know; don't imagine for one moment that I ever think less of Edith; she always was and would be a million times too good for me. If only she'd see it for herself, and chuck me up of her own accord! I've even tried to tell her what I feel; but she won't meet me half-way; the real truth never seems to enter her head. How to tell her outright41 I don't know. It would have been easy enough last year, when her people wouldn't let us be properly engaged. But they gave in at Christmas when I had my rise in screw; and now she's got her ring, and given me this one—how on earth can I go and give it her back?"
"May I see?" asked Delavoye, holding out his hand; and I for one was grateful to him for the diversion of the few seconds we spent inspecting an old enamelled ring with a white peacock on a crimson42 ground. Berridge asked us if we thought it a very peculiar ring, as they all did at Berylstow, and he babbled43 on about the circumstances of its purchase by his dear, sweet, open-handed Edith. It did him good to talk. A tinge44 of health returned to his cadaverous cheeks, and for a time his moustache looked less out of keeping and proportion.
But it was the mere reactionary45 surcease of prolonged pain, and the fit came on again in uglier guise46 before he left.
"It isn't so much that I don't want to marry her," declared the accountant with startling abruptness47, "as the awful thoughts I have as to what may happen if I do. They're too awful to describe, even to you two fellows. Of course nothing could make you think worse of me than you must already, but you'd say I was mad if you could see inside my horrible mind. I don't think she'd be safe; honestly I don't! I feel as if I might do her some injury—or—or violence!"
He was swaying about the room with wild eyes staring from one to the other of us and twitching48 fingers feeling in his pockets. I got up myself and stood within reach of him, for now I felt certain that love or illness had turned his brain. But it was only a very small scrap49 of paper that he fished out of his waistcoat pocket, and handed first to Delavoye and then to me.
"I cut it out of a review of such a peculiar poem in my evening paper," said Berridge. "I never read reviews, or poems, but those lines hit me hard."
And I read:
"Yet each man kills the thing he loves,
By each let this be heard,
Some do it with a bitter look,
Some with a flattering word,
The coward does it with a kiss,
The brave man with a sword!"
"But you don't feel like that!" said Delavoye, laughing at him; and the laughter rang as false as his earlier consolation50; but this time I had not the presence of mind to supplement it.
Guy Berridge nodded violently as he held out his hand for the verse. I could see that his eyes had filled with tears. But Uvo rolled the scrap of paper into a pellet, which he flung among the lumps of asbestos glowing in his grate, and took the outstretched hand in his. I never saw man so gentle with another. Hardly a word more passed. But the poor devil squeezed my fingers before Uvo led him out to see him home. And it was many minutes before he returned.
"I have had a time of it!" said he, putting his feet to the gas fire. "Not with that poor old thing, but his people, all three of them! I got him up straight to bed, and then they kept me when he thought I'd gone. Of course they know there's something wrong, and of course they blame the girl; one knew they would. It seems they've never really approved of her; she's a shocking instance of all-round peculiarity. They little know the apple of their own blind eyes—eh, Gilly?"
"I hardly knew him myself," said I. "He must be daft! I never thought to hear a grown man go on like that."
"And such a man!" cried Uvo. "It's not the talk so much as the talker that surprises me; and by the way, how well he talked, for him! He was less of a bore than I've ever known him; there was passion in the fellow, confound him! Red blood in that lump of road metal! He's not only sorry for himself. He's simply heartbroken about the girl. But this maggot of morbid51 introspection has got into his brain and——how did it get there, Gilly? It's no place for the little brute52. What brain is there to feed it? What has he ever done, in all his dull days, to make that harmless mind a breeding-ground for every sort of degenerate53 idea? In mine they'd grow like mustard and cress. I'd feel just like that if I were engaged to the very nicest girl; the nicer she was, the worse I'd get; but then I'm a degenerate dog in any case. Oh, yes, I am, Gilly. But here's as faithful a hound as ever licked his lady's hand. Where's he got it from? Who's the poisoner?"
"I'm glad you ask," said I. "I was afraid you'd say you knew."
"Meaning my old man of the soil?"
"I made sure you'd put it on him."
"You don't know as much about him as I do, Gilly! He was the last old scoundrel to worry because he didn't love a woman as much as she deserved. It was quite the other way about, I can assure you."
"Yes; but what about those almost murderous inclinations55?"
"I thought of them. But they only came on after our good friend had shaken this demoralising dust off his feet. As long as he stuck to Witching Hill he was as sound as a marriage bell! It's dead against my doctrine56, Gillon, but I'm delighted to find that you share my disappointment."
"And I to hear you own it is one, Uvo!"
"There's another thing, now we're on the subject," he continued, for we had not been on it for weeks and months. "It seems that over at Hampton Court there's a portrait of my ignoble57 kinsman58, by one Kneller. I only heard of it the other day, and I was rather wondering if you could get away to spin over with me and look him up. It needn't necessarily involve contentious59 topics, and we might lunch at the Mitre in that window looking down stream. But it ought to be to-morrow, if you could manage it, because the galleries don't open on Friday, and on Saturdays they're always crowded."
I could not manage it very well. I was supposed to spend my day on the Estate, and, though there was little doing thus early in the year, it might be the end of me if my Mr. Muskett came back before his usual time and did not find me at my post. And I was no longer indifferent as to the length of my days at Witching Hill. But I resolved to risk them for the man who had made the place what it was to me—a garden of friends—however otherwise he might people and spoil it for himself.
We started at my luncheon60 hour, which could not in any case count against me, and quite early in the afternoon we reckoned to be back. It was a very keen bright day, worthier61 of General January than his chief-of-staff. Ruts and puddles62 were firmly frozen; our bicycle bells rang out with a pleasing brilliance63. In Bushey Park the black chestnuts64 stamped their filigree65 tops against a windless radiance. Under the trees a russet carpet still waited for March winds to take it up. The Diana pond was skinned with ice; goddess and golden nymphs caught every scintillation of cold sunlight as we trundled past. In a fine glow we entered the palace and climbed to the grim old galleries.
"Talk about haunted houses!" said Uvo Delavoye. "If our patron sinner takes such a fatherly interest in the humble66 material at his disposal, what about that gay dog Henry and the good ladies in these apartments? I should be sorry to trust living neck to what's left of the old lady-killer." It was the famous Holbein which had set him off. "But I say, Gilly, here's a far worse face than his. It may be my rude forefather67; by Jove, and so it is!"
And he took off his cap with unction to a handsome, sinister68 creature, in a brown flowing wig69 and raiment as fine as any on the walls. There was a staggering peacock-blue surtout, lined with silk of an orange scarlet70, the wide sleeves turned up with the same; and a creamy cascade71 of lace fell from the throat over a long cinnamon waistcoat piped with silk; for you could swear to the material at sight, and the colours might have been laid on that week. They lit up the gloomy chamber72, and the eyes in the periwigged head lit them up. The dark eyes at my side were not more live and liquid than the painted pair. Not that Uvo's were cynical73, voluptuous74, or sly; but like these they reminded me of deep waters hidden from the sun. I refrained from comment on a resemblance that went no further. I was glad I alone had seen how far it went.
"Thank goodness those lips and nostrils75 don't sprout76 on our branch!" Uvo had put up his eyebrows77 in a humorous way of his. "We must keep a weather eye open for the evil that they did living after them on Witching Hill! You may well stare at his hands; they probably weren't his at all, but done from a model. I hope the old Turk hadn't quite such a ladylike——"
He stopped short, as I knew he would when he saw what I was pointing out to him; for I had not been staring at the effeminate hand affectedly78 composed on the corner of a table, but at the enamelled ring painted like a miniature on the little finger.
"Good Lord!" cried Delavoye. "That's the very ring we saw last night!"
It was at least a perfect counterfeit79; the narrow stem, the high, projecting, oval bezel—the white peacock enamelled on a crimson ground—one and all were there, as the painters of that period loved to put such things in.
"It must be the same, Gilly! There couldn't be two such utter oddities!"
"It looks like it, certainly; but how did Miss Hemming get hold of it?"
"Easily enough; she ferrets out all the old curiosity shops in the district, and didn't Berridge tell us she bought his ring in one? Obviously it's been lying there for the last century and a bit. Bear in mind that this bad old lot wasn't worth a bob towards the end; then you must see the whole thing's so plain, there's only one thing plainer."
"What's that?"
"The entire cause and origin of Guy Berridge's pangs80 and fears about his engagement. He never had one or the other before Christmas—when he got his ring. They've made his life a Hades ever since, every day of it and every hour of every day, except sometimes in the morning when he was getting up. Why not then? Because he took off his ring when he went to his bath! I'll go so far as to remind you that his only calm and rational moments last night were while you and I were looking at this ring and it was off his finger!"
Delavoye's strong excitement was attracting the attention of the old soldierly attendant near the window, and in a vague way that veteran attracted mine. I glanced past him, out and down into the formal grounds. Yew82 and cedar83 seemed unreal to me in the wintry sunlight; almost I wondered whether I was dreaming in my turn, and where on earth I was. It was as though a touch of the fantastic had rested for a moment even on my hard head. But I very soon shook it off, and mocked the vanquished84 weakness with a laugh.
"Yes, my dear fellow, that's all very well. But——"
"None of your blooming 'buts'!" cried Uvo, with almost delirious85 levity86. "I should have thought this instance was concrete enough even for you. But we'll talk about it at the Mitre and consider what to do."
In that talk I joined, into those considerations I entered, without arguing at all. It did not commit me to a single article of a repugnant creed87, but neither on the other hand did it impair88 the excellence89 of Delavoye's company at a hurried feast which still stands out in my recollection. I remember the long red wall of Hampton Court as the one warm feature of the hard-bitten landscape. I remember red wine in our glasses, a tinge of colour in the dusky face that leant toward mine, and a wondrous91 flow of eager talk, delightful92 as long as one did not take it too seriously. My own attitude I recapture most securely in Uvo's accusation93 that I smiled and smiled and was a sceptic. It was one of those characteristic remarks that stick for no other reason. Uvo Delavoye was not in those days at all widely read; but he had a large circle of quotations94 which were not altogether unfamiliar95 to me, and I eventually realised that he knew his Hamlet almost off by heart.
But as yet poor Berridge's "pangs and fears" was original Delavoye to my ruder culture; and the next time I saw him, on the Friday night, the pangs seemed keener and the fears even more enervating96 than before. Again he sat with us in Uvo's room; but he was oftener on his legs, striding up and down, muttering and gesticulating as he strode. In the end Uvo took a strong line with him. I was waiting for it. He had conceived the scheme at Hampton Court, and I was curious to see how it would be received.
"This can't go on, Berridge! I'll see you through—to the bitter end!"
Uvo was not an actor, yet here was a magnificent piece of acting81, because it was more than half sincere.
"Will you really, Delavoye?" cried the accountant, shrinking a little from his luck.
"My—her—ring?"
"Of course; it's your engagement ring, isn't it? And it's your duty, to yourself and her and everybody else, to break off that engagement with as little further delay as possible."
"But are you sure, Delavoye?"
"Certain. Give it to me."
"We'll see about that. Thank you; now you're your own man again."
And now I really did begin to open my eyes; for no sooner had the unfortunate accountant parted with his ring, than his ebbing99 affections rushed back in a miraculous100 flood, and he was begging for it again in five minutes, vowing101 that he had been mad but now was sane102, and looking more himself into the bargain. But Delavoye was adamant103 to these hysterical104 entreaties105. He plied26 Berridge with his own previous arguments against the marriage, and once at least he struck a responsive chord from those frayed106 nerves.
"Nobody but yourself," he pointed107 out, "ever said you didn't love her; but see what love makes of you! Can you dream of marriage in such a state? Is it fair to the girl, until you've really reconsidered the whole matter and learnt your own mind once for all? Could she be happy? Would she be—it was your own suggestion—but are you sure she would be even safe?"
Berridge wrung108 his hands in new despair; yes, he had forgotten that! Those awful instincts were the one unalterably awful feature. Not that he felt them still; but to recollect90 them as genuine impulses, or at best as irresistible109 thoughts, was to freeze his self-distrust into a cureless cancer.
"I was forgetting all that," he moaned. "And yet here in my pocket is the very book those hopeless lines are from. I bought it at Stoneham's this morning. It's the most peculiar poem I ever read. I can't quite make it out. But that bit was clear enough. Only hear how it goes on!"
And in a school-childish singsong, with no expression but that involuntarily imparted by his quavering voice, he read twelve lines aloud—
"Some kill their love when they are young,
And some when they are old;
Some with the hands of Gold:
The kindest use a knife, because——"
"The dead so soon grow cold.
"Some love too little, some too long,
Some sell, and others buy;
Some do the deed with many tears,
And some without a sigh:
For each man kills the thing he loves,
Yet each man does not die."
"It's all I'm fit for, death!" groaned Guy Berridge, trying to tug112 the fierce moustache out of his mild face. "The sooner the better, for me! And yet I did love her, God knows I did!" He turned upon Uvo Delavoye in a sudden blaze. "And so I do still—do you hear me? Then give me back my ring, I say, and don't encourage me in this madness—you—you devil!"
"Give it him back," I said. But Uvo set his teeth against us both, looking almost what he had just been called—looking abominably113 like that fine evil gentleman in Hampton Court—and I could stand the whole thing no longer. I rammed114 my own hand into Delavoye's pocket. And down and away out into the night, like a fiend let loose, went Guy Berridge and the ring with the peacock enamelled in white on a blood-red ground.
"You may be right, Gilly, but now I ought really to sit up with him all night. In any case I shall have it back in the morning, and then neither you nor he shall ever see that unclean bird again!"
But he went so far as to show it to me across my counter, not many minutes after young Berridge had shambled past, with bent116 head and unshaven cheeks, to catch his usual train next morning.
"I did sit up with him," said Uvo. "We sat up till he dropped off in his chair, and eventually I got him to bed more asleep than awake. But he's as bad as ever again this morning, and he has surrendered the infernal ring this time of his own accord. I'm to break matters to the girl by giving it back to her."
"You're a perfect hero to take it on!"
"When do you tackle her?"
"Never, my dear fellow! Can't you see the point? This white peacock's at the bottom of the whole thing. Neither of them shall ever set eyes on it again, and then you see if they don't marry and live happy ever after!"
"But are you going to throw the thing away?"
"Not if I can help it, Gilly. I'll tell you what I thought of doing. There's a little working jeweller, over at Richmond, who made me quite a good pin out of some heavy old studs that belonged to my father. I'm going to take him this ring to-day and see if he can turn out a duplicate for love or money."
"I'll go with you," I said, "if you can wait till the afternoon."
"We must be gone before Berridge has a chance of getting back," replied Uvo, doubtfully; "otherwise I shall have to begin all over again, because of course he'll come back cured and roaring for his ring. I haven't quite decided118 what to say to him, but I fancy my imagination will prove equal to the strain."
This seemed to me a rather cynical attitude to take, even in the best of causes, and it certainly was not like Uvo Delavoye. Only too capable, in my opinion, of deceiving himself, he was no impostor, if I knew him, and it was disappointing to see him take so kindly119 to the part. I preferred not to talk about it on the road to Richmond, which we took on foot in the small hours of the afternoon. A weeping thaw120 had reduced the frozen ruts to mere mud piping, of that consistency121 which grips a tyre like teeth. But it was impossible not to compare this heavy tramp with our sparkling spin through Bushey Park. And the hot and cold fits of poor Guy Berridge afforded an inevitable122 analogy.
"I can't understand him," I was saying. "I can understand a fellow falling in love and even falling out again. But Berridge flies from one extreme to the other like a ball in a hard rally."
"And it's not the way he's built, Gilly! That's what sticks with me. You may be quite sure he's not the first breeder of sinners who began by shivering on the brink123 of matrimony. It's a desperate plunge124 to take. I should be terrified myself; but then I'm not one of nature's faithful hounds. If it wasn't for the canine125 fidelity126 of this good Berridge, I shouldn't mind his thinking and shrinking like many a better man."
We were cutting off the last corner before Richmond by following the asphalt foot-path behind St. Stephen's Church. Here we escaped the mud at last; the moist asphalt shone with a cleanly lustre127; and our footsteps threw an echo ahead, between the two long walls, until it mixed with the tramp of approaching feet, and another couple advanced into view. They were man and girl; but I did not at first identify the radiant citizen in the glossy128 hat, with his arm thrust through the lady's, as Guy Berridge homeward bound with his once beloved. It was a groan34 from Uvo that made me look again, and next moment the four of us blocked the narrow gangway.
"The very man we were talking about!" cried Berridge without looking at me. His hat had been ironed, his weak chin burnished129 by a barber's shave, the strong moustache clipped and curled. But a sporadic130 glow marked either cheek-bone, and he had forgotten to return our salute131.
"Yes, Mr. Delavoye!" said Miss Hemming with arch severity. "What have you been doing with my white peacock?"
She had a brown fringe, very crisply curled as a rule; but the damp air had softened132 and improved it; and perhaps her young gentleman's recovery had carried the good work deeper, for she was a girl who sometimes gave herself airs, but there seemed no room for any in her happy face.
"To tell you the truth," replied Uvo, unblushingly, "I was on my way to show it to a bit of a connoisseur133 at Richmond." He turned to Berridge, who met his glance eagerly. "That's really why I borrowed it, Guy. I believe it's more valuable than either of you realise."
"Not to me!" cried the accountant readily. "I don't know what I was doing to take it off. I hear it's a most unlucky thing to do."
It was easy to see from whom he had heard it. Miss Hemming said nothing, but looked all the more decided with her mouth quite shut. And Delavoye addressed his apologies to the proper quarter.
"I'm awfully134 sorry, Miss Hemming! Of course you're quite right; but I hope you'll show it to my man yourselves——"
"If you don't mind," said Berridge, holding out his hand with a smile.
But Uvo had broken off of his own accord.
"I think you'll be glad"—he was feeling in all his pockets—"quite glad if you do—" and his voice died away as he began feeling again.
"Lucky I wired to you to meet me at Richmond, wasn't it, Edie? Otherwise we should have been too late," said the accountant densely135.
"Perhaps you are!" poor Uvo had to cry outright. "I—the fact is I—can't find it anywhere."
"You may have left it behind," suggested Berridge.
"We can call for it, if you did," said the girl.
There was something in his sudden worry that appealed to their common fund of generosity136.
"No, no! I told you why I was going to Richmond. I thought I had it in my ticket pocket. In fact, I know I had; but I went with my sister this morning to get some flowers at Kingston market, and I haven't had it out since. It's been taken from me, and that was where! I wish you'd feel in my pockets for me. I've had them picked—picked of the one thing that wasn't mine, and was of value—and now you'll neither of you ever forgive me, and I don't deserve to be forgiven!"
But they did forgive him, and that handsomely—so manifest was his distress—so great their recovered happiness. It was only I who could not follow their example, when they had gone on their way, and Delavoye and I were hurrying on ours, ostensibly to get the Richmond police to telephone at once to Kingston, as the first of all the energetic steps that we were going to take. For we were still in that asphalt passage, and the couple had scarcely quitted it at the other end, when Delavoye drew off his glove and showed me the missing ring upon his little finger.
I could hardly believe my eyes, or my ears either when he roundly defended his conduct. I need not go into his defence; it was the only one it could have been; but Uvo Delavoye was the only man in England who could and would have made it with a serious face. It was no mere trinket that he had "lifted," but a curse from two innocent heads. That end justified137 any means, to his wild thinking. But, over and above the ethical138 question, he had an inherited responsibility in the matter, and had only performed a duty which had been thrust upon him.
"Nor shall they be a bit the worse off," said Uvo warmly. "I still mean to have that duplicate made, off my own bat, and when I foist139 it on our friends I shall simply say it turned up in the lining140 of my overcoat."
"Man Uvo," said I, "there are two professions waiting for you; but it would take a judge of both to choose between your fiction and your acting."
"Acting!" he cried. "Why, a blog like Guy Berridge can act when he's put to it; he did just now, and took you in, evidently! It never struck you, I suppose, that he'd wired to me this morning to say nothing to the girl, probably at the same time that he wired to her to meet him? He carried it all off like a born actor just now, and yet you curse me for going and doing likewise to save the pair of them!"
It is always futile141 to try to slay142 the bee in another's bonnet143; but for once I broke my rule of never arguing with Uvo Delavoye, if I could help it, on the particular point involved. I simply could not help it, on this occasion; and when Uvo lost his temper, and said a great deal more than I would have taken from anybody else, I would not have helped it if I could. So hot had been our interchange that it was at its height when we debouched from St. Stephen's Passage into the open cross-roads beyond.
At that unlucky moment, one small suburban Arab, in full flight from another, dashed round the corner and butted144 into that part of Delavoye which the Egyptian climate had specially6 demoralised. I saw his dark face writhe145 with pain and fury. With one hand he caught the offending urchin146, and in the other I was horrified147 to see his stick, a heavy blackthorn, held in murderous poise148 against the leaden sky, while the child was thrust out at arm's length to receive the blow. I hurled149 myself between them, and had such difficulty in wresting150 the blackthorn from the madman's grasp that his hand was bleeding, and something had tinkled151 on the pavement, when I tore it from him.
Panting, I looked to see what had become of the small boy. He had taken to his heels as though the foul152 fiend were at them; his late pursuer was now his companion in flight, and I was thankful to find we had the scene to ourselves. Delavoye was pointing to the little thing that had tinkled as it fell, and as he pointed the blood dripped from his hand, and he shuddered like a man recovering from a fit.
I had better admit plainly that the thing was that old ring with the white peacock set in red, and that Uvo Delavoye was once more as I had known him down to that hour.
"Don't touch the beastly thing!" he cried. "It's served me worse than it served poor Berridge! I shall have to think of a fresh lie to tell him—and it won't come so easy now—but I'd rather cut mine off than trust this on another human hand!"
He picked it up between his finger-nails. And there was blood on the white peacock when I saw it next on Richmond Bridge.
"Don't you worry about my hand," said Uvo as he glanced up and down the grey old bridge. "It's only a scratch from the blackthorn spikes153, but I'd have given a finger to be shot of this devil!"
A flick154 of his wrist sent the old ring spinning; we saw it meet its own reflection in the glassy flood, like a salmon-fly beautifully thrown; and more rings came and widened on the waters, till they stirred the mirrored branches of the trees on Richmond Hill.
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收听单词发音
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1
worthiest
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| 应得某事物( worthy的最高级 )； 值得做某事； 可尊敬的； 有（某人或事物）的典型特征 | |
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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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punctiliously
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glorification
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| n.赞颂 | |
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binding
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| 有约束力的，有效的，应遵守的 | |
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6
specially
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| adv.特定地；特殊地；明确地 | |
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7
peculiar
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| adj.古怪的，异常的；特殊的，特有的 | |
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ken
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| n.视野，知识领域 | |
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epithet
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| n.（用于褒贬人物等的）表述形容词，修饰语 | |
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hemming
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| 卷边 | |
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deficient
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| adj.不足的，不充份的，有缺陷的 | |
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peculiarity
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| n.独特性，特色；特殊的东西；怪癖 | |
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affected
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| adj.不自然的，假装的 | |
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fabrics
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| 织物( fabric的名词复数 )； 布； 构造； （建筑物的）结构（如墙、地面、屋顶）：质地 | |
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15
second-hand
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| adj.用过的，旧的，二手的 | |
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16
judgment
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| n.审判；判断力，识别力，看法，意见 | |
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17
influenza
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| n.流行性感冒，流感 | |
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18
suburban
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| adj.城郊的，在郊区的 | |
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19
tragic
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| adj.悲剧的，悲剧性的，悲惨的 | |
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20
wink
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| n.眨眼，使眼色，瞬间；v.眨眼，使眼色，闪烁 | |
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21
cower
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| v.畏缩，退缩，抖缩 | |
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22
truculent
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| adj.野蛮的，粗野的 | |
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23
winced
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| 赶紧避开，畏缩( wince的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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24
instinctively
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| adv.本能地 | |
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25
confide
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| v.向某人吐露秘密 | |
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26
plied
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| v.使用（工具）( ply的过去式和过去分词 )；经常供应（食物、饮料）；固定往来；经营生意 | |
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27
miserable
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| adj.悲惨的，痛苦的；可怜的，糟糕的 | |
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28
liars
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| 说谎者( liar的名词复数 ) | |
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29
traitors
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| 卖国贼( traitor的名词复数 )； 叛徒； 背叛者； 背信弃义的人 | |
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30
eyebrow
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| n.眉毛，眉 | |
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31
twitch
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| v.急拉，抽动，痉挛，抽搐；n.扯，阵痛，痉挛 | |
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32
perfectly
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| adv.完美地，无可非议地，彻底地 | |
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33
mere
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| adj.纯粹的；仅仅，只不过 | |
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34
groan
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| vi./n.呻吟，抱怨；(发出)呻吟般的声音 | |
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35
groaned
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| v.呻吟( groan的过去式和过去分词 )；发牢骚；抱怨；受苦 | |
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36
abject
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| adj.极可怜的，卑屈的 | |
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37
dread
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| vt.担忧，忧虑；惧怕，不敢；n.担忧，畏惧 | |
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38
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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39
catching
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| adj.易传染的，有魅力的，迷人的，接住 | |
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40
dressing
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| n.(食物)调料；包扎伤口的用品，敷料 | |
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41
outright
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| adv.坦率地；彻底地；立即；adj.无疑的；彻底的 | |
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42
crimson
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| n./adj.深(绯)红色(的)；vi.脸变绯红色 | |
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43
babbled
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| v.喋喋不休( babble的过去式和过去分词 )；作潺潺声（如流水）；含糊不清地说话；泄漏秘密 | |
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44
tinge
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| vt.(较淡)着色于，染色；使带有…气息；n.淡淡色彩，些微的气息 | |
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45
reactionary
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| n.反动者，反动主义者；adj.反动的，反动主义的，反对改革的 | |
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46
guise
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| n.外表，伪装的姿态 | |
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47
abruptness
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| n. 突然，唐突 | |
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48
twitching
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| n.颤搐 | |
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49
scrap
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| n.碎片；废料；v.废弃，报废 | |
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50
consolation
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| n.安慰，慰问 | |
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51
morbid
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| adj.病的；致病的；病态的；可怕的 | |
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52
brute
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| n.野兽，兽性 | |
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53
degenerate
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| v.退步，堕落；adj.退步的，堕落的；n.堕落者 | |
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54
heartily
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| adv.衷心地，诚恳地，十分，很 | |
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55
inclinations
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| 倾向( inclination的名词复数 )； 倾斜； 爱好； 斜坡 | |
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56
doctrine
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| n.教义；主义；学说 | |
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57
ignoble
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| adj.不光彩的，卑鄙的；可耻的 | |
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58
kinsman
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| n.男亲属 | |
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59
contentious
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| adj.好辩的，善争吵的 | |
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60
luncheon
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| n.午宴，午餐，便宴 | |
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61
worthier
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| 应得某事物( worthy的比较级 )； 值得做某事； 可尊敬的； 有（某人或事物）的典型特征 | |
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62
puddles
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| n.水坑， （尤指道路上的）雨水坑( puddle的名词复数 ) | |
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63
brilliance
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| n.光辉，辉煌，壮丽，（卓越的）才华，才智 | |
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64
chestnuts
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| n.栗子( chestnut的名词复数 )；栗色；栗树；栗色马 | |
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65
filigree
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| n.金银丝做的工艺品；v.用金银细丝饰品装饰；用华而不实的饰品装饰；adj.金银细丝工艺的 | |
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66
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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67
forefather
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| n.祖先；前辈 | |
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68
sinister
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| adj.不吉利的，凶恶的，左边的 | |
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69
wig
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| n.假发 | |
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70
scarlet
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| n.深红色，绯红色，红衣；adj.绯红色的 | |
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71
cascade
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| n.小瀑布，喷流；层叠；vi.成瀑布落下 | |
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72
chamber
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| n.房间，寝室；会议厅；议院；会所 | |
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73
cynical
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| adj.(对人性或动机)怀疑的，不信世道向善的 | |
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74
voluptuous
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| adj.肉欲的，骄奢淫逸的 | |
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75
nostrils
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| 鼻孔( nostril的名词复数 ) | |
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76
sprout
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| n.芽，萌芽；vt.使发芽，摘去芽；vi.长芽，抽条 | |
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77
eyebrows
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| 眉毛( eyebrow的名词复数 ) | |
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78
affectedly
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79
counterfeit
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| vt.伪造，仿造；adj.伪造的，假冒的 | |
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80
pangs
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| 突然的剧痛( pang的名词复数 )； 悲痛 | |
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81
acting
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| n.演戏，行为，假装；adj.代理的，临时的，演出用的 | |
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82
yew
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| n.紫杉属树木 | |
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83
cedar
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| n.雪松，香柏(木) | |
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84
vanquished
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| v.征服( vanquish的过去式和过去分词 )；战胜；克服；抑制 | |
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85
delirious
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| adj.不省人事的，神智昏迷的 | |
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86
levity
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| n.轻率，轻浮，不稳定，多变 | |
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87
creed
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| n.信条；信念，纲领 | |
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88
impair
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| v.损害，损伤；削弱，减少 | |
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89
excellence
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| n.优秀，杰出，(pl.)优点，美德 | |
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90
recollect
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| v.回忆，想起，记起，忆起，记得 | |
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91
wondrous
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| adj.令人惊奇的，奇妙的；adv.惊人地；异乎寻常地；令人惊叹地 | |
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92
delightful
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| adj.令人高兴的，使人快乐的 | |
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93
accusation
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| n.控告，指责，谴责 | |
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94
quotations
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| n.引用( quotation的名词复数 )；[商业]行情（报告）；（货物或股票的）市价；时价 | |
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95
unfamiliar
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| adj.陌生的，不熟悉的 | |
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96
enervating
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| v.使衰弱，使失去活力( enervate的现在分词 ) | |
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97
stark
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| adj.荒凉的；严酷的；完全的；adv.完全地 | |
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98
frightful
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| adj.可怕的；讨厌的 | |
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99
ebbing
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| （指潮水）退( ebb的现在分词 )； 落； 减少； 衰落 | |
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100
miraculous
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| adj.像奇迹一样的，不可思议的 | |
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101
vowing
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| 起誓，发誓（vow的现在分词形式） | |
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102
sane
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| adj.心智健全的，神志清醒的，明智的，稳健的 | |
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103
adamant
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| adj.坚硬的，固执的 | |
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104
hysterical
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| adj.情绪异常激动的，歇斯底里般的 | |
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105
entreaties
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| n.恳求，乞求( entreaty的名词复数 ) | |
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106
frayed
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| adj.磨损的v.（使布、绳等）磨损，磨破( fray的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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107
pointed
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| adj.尖的，直截了当的 | |
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108
wrung
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| 绞( wring的过去式和过去分词 )； 握紧（尤指别人的手）； 把（湿衣服）拧干； 绞掉（水） | |
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109
irresistible
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| adj.非常诱人的，无法拒绝的，无法抗拒的 | |
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110
lust
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| n.性(淫)欲；渴(欲)望；vi.对…有强烈的欲望 | |
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111
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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112
tug
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| v.用力拖(或拉)；苦干；n.拖；苦干；拖船 | |
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113
abominably
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| adv. 可恶地，可恨地，恶劣地 | |
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114
rammed
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| v.夯实（土等）( ram的过去式和过去分词 )；猛撞；猛压；反复灌输 | |
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115
wry
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| adj.讽刺的；扭曲的 | |
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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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117
humbug
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| n.花招，谎话，欺骗 | |
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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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kindly
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| adj.和蔼的，温和的，爽快的；adv.温和地，亲切地 | |
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thaw
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| v.（使）融化，（使）变得友善；n.融化，缓和 | |
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121
consistency
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| n.一贯性，前后一致，稳定性；(液体的)浓度 | |
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inevitable
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| adj.不可避免的，必然发生的 | |
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123
brink
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| n.(悬崖、河流等的)边缘，边沿 | |
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plunge
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| v.跳入，(使)投入，(使)陷入；猛冲 | |
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125
canine
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| adj.犬的，犬科的 | |
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126
fidelity
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| n.忠诚，忠实；精确 | |
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127
lustre
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| n.光亮，光泽；荣誉 | |
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glossy
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| adj.平滑的；有光泽的 | |
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129
burnished
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| adj.抛光的，光亮的v.擦亮（金属等），磨光( burnish的过去式和过去分词 )；被擦亮，磨光 | |
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sporadic
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| adj.偶尔发生的 [反]regular；分散的 | |
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131
salute
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| vi.行礼，致意，问候，放礼炮；vt.向…致意，迎接，赞扬；n.招呼，敬礼，礼炮 | |
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132
softened
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| （使）变软( soften的过去式和过去分词 )； 缓解打击； 缓和； 安慰 | |
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connoisseur
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| n.鉴赏家，行家，内行 | |
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134
awfully
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| adv.可怕地，非常地，极端地 | |
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135
densely
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| ad.密集地；浓厚地 | |
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136
generosity
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| n.大度，慷慨，慷慨的行为 | |
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137
justified
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| a.正当的，有理的 | |
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ethical
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| adj.伦理的，道德的，合乎道德的 | |
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139
foist
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| vt.把…强塞给，骗卖给 | |
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lining
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| n.衬里，衬料 | |
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futile
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| adj.无效的，无用的，无希望的 | |
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142
slay
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| v.杀死，宰杀，杀戮 | |
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143
bonnet
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| n.无边女帽；童帽 | |
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butted
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| 对接的 | |
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writhe
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| vt.挣扎，痛苦地扭曲；vi.扭曲，翻腾，受苦；n.翻腾，苦恼 | |
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146
urchin
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| n.顽童；海胆 | |
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horrified
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| a.(表现出)恐惧的 | |
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poise
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| vt./vi. 平衡，保持平衡；n.泰然自若，自信 | |
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hurled
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| v.猛投，用力掷( hurl的过去式和过去分词 )；大声叫骂 | |
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wresting
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| 动词wrest的现在进行式 | |
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151
tinkled
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| （使）发出丁当声，（使）发铃铃声( tinkle的过去式和过去分词 )； 叮当响着发出，铃铃响着报出 | |
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152
foul
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| adj.污秽的；邪恶的；v.弄脏；妨害；犯规；n.犯规 | |
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spikes
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| n.穗( spike的名词复数 )；跑鞋；（防滑）鞋钉；尖状物v.加烈酒于( spike的第三人称单数 )；偷偷地给某人的饮料加入（更多）酒精（ 或药物）；把尖状物钉入；打乱某人的计划 | |
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154
flick
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| n.快速的轻打，轻打声，弹开；v.轻弹，轻轻拂去，忽然摇动 | |
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