I looked in Mr. Quayle’s face; but I asked him no question. The mud we trod seemed colder, the houses we passed more frowning than before; but I asked no question. I could not form one in my mind; only suddenly and somehow I felt frightened, as if in dreams before a great solitude1. Then in a moment I was sobbing3 fast and thickly.
Ah, what is the use to skate round the memory! Let it clutch me for a moment, and be faced and dismissed. My father, my dear, ardent4, noble father was dead—struck down in an instant—shaken out of life by the poignant5 utterances6 of his own spirit. While the flower of his fervour was blossoming and bearing fruit, the roots thereof were dead already—smitten in their place in his heart. That, its work done, had ceased beating. Sometimes afterwards in my desolation I recalled the church clock, with its poised7 motionless hands, and thought what a melancholy8 omen2 it had been.
Mr. Quayle was kindness itself to me in my utter terror and loneliness. He took upon himself, provisionally, the whole conduct of my affairs. One morning he came in, and drew me to him.
“Dicky—Dicky-bird, me jewl!” he said. “I’ve found the fine cuckoo that’s to come and father the poor little orphaned9 nestling.”
I must observe that he had his own theories about this same “harbinger of spring,” which, according to him, was the “bird that looked after another bird’s young.” I remembered the occasion on which he had so defined it, and the laughter which had greeted him; and his alternative, “Well, then, ’tis the bird that doesn’t lay its own eggs, and that’s all one!” But the first definition, it appeared, was the one he kept faith in.
“D’you remember Mr. Paxton?” he said.
“Uncle Jenico?” I asked.
He nodded.
“Uncle Jenico Paxton, mamma’s own only brother. Poor papa, my dear—always a wonder and an honour to his profession—has left, it seems, a will, in which he bequeathes everything to Uncle Jenico in trust for his little boy, Master Dicky Bowen. And Uncle Jenico has been found, and is coming to take charge of little Dicky Bowen.”
Was I glad or sorry? I was too stunned10, I think, to care one way or the other. Any one would do to stop the empty place which none could ever fill, and neither my sympathies nor my dislikes were active in the case of Uncle Jenico. I had seen him only once or twice, when he had come to spend a night or so with us in town. My memory was of a stout11, hoarse12 old man in spectacles, rather lame13, with a little nose and twinkling eyes. He had seemed always busy, always in a hurry. He bore an important, mysterious reputation with us as a great inventive genius, who carried a despatch-box with him choked with invaluable14 patents, and always left something behind—a toothbrush or an umbrella—when he left. Let it be Uncle Jenico as well as another.
While we were talking there was a flurry at the door of the room, and a man, overcoming some resistance outside, forced his way in. I gave a little cry, and stood staring. It was the acquitted15 prisoner, Joshua Pilbrow. George appeared just behind him, flushed and truculent16.
“He would do it, sir,” said the servant, “for all I warned him away.”
Mr. Quayle had put me from him and arisen. There was a bad look on his face; but he motioned to George to go, and we were left alone.
The intruder stood shrugging his disordered clothes into place, and looking the while with a sort of black stealth at the barrister. His face held and haunted me. It was bleak17 and sallow, and grey in the hollows, with fixed18 dark eyes—the face, I thought, of a malignant19, though injured, creature. But it did not so affect Mr. Quayle, it was evident.
“The verdict was ‘Not guilty,’ sir,” said the man, quite suddenly and vehemently21.
Mr. Quayle gave an unpleasant laugh.
“Or else you wouldn’t be intrudin’ here,” he said shortly.
“I came to thank my benefactor,” said the man. “I had heard nothing till this moment of the tragic22 sequel.”
“Well,” said the barrister, in the same cynical23 tone, “you have come too late. The price of your acquittal is this little orphaned life.”
He put his arm about my shoulders. The stranger looked hard at me.
“His son?” he muttered.
“There are some verdicts,” said Mr. Quayle, “bought too dear.”
In a moment the man turned upon him in a sort of fierce concentrated bitterness.
“With the inconsistency of your evil profession,” he cried, “you discount your own conclusions. The law guarantees and grudges24 me my innocence25. A curse upon it, I say! Did he there sacrifice his life for me? He sacrificed it for truth, sir, and it’s that which you, as a lawyer, can’t forgive.”
“You will observe,” said Mr. Quayle, icily, “that I have not questioned the truth.”
The little lawyer laughed again.
“You malign20 our benevolence,” he said. “The law, by its artless verdict, has entitled you to sue on the insurance question. Think, Mr. Pilbrow; it actually offers itself to witness to your right to the thousand pounds.”
“And I shall force it to,” cried the other; “and would to heaven I could make it bleed another thousand for the wrong it has done me. It would, if equity27 were justice.”
“Equity is justice,” said Mr. Quayle. “Good morning.”
The man did not move for a moment, but stood looking gloomily at me.
Now, I cannot define what was working in my little soul. The pinched, shorn face was not lovely, the eyes in it were not good; yet there was something there of loss and hopelessness that touched me cruelly. And was not my father lying in the next room in solemn witness to its innocence? Suddenly, before Mr. Quayle could stay me, I had run to the visitor and plucked at his coat.
“You did not do it,” I cried. “My father said so!”
He gave a little gasp28, and fluttered his hand across his eyes, sweeping29 in a wonderful way the evil out of them.
“Ah!” he said, “if your father, young gentleman, would whisper to you where Abel lies hidden! He knows now.”
He stepped back, with a strange, wintry smile on his lips, stopped, seemed about to speak, waved his hand to me, and was gone.
“Dicky, Dicky,” cried Mr. Quayle, “you’re the son of your father; but, dear me, not so good a lawyer!”
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1
solitude
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| n. 孤独; 独居,荒僻之地,幽静的地方 | |
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2
omen
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| n.征兆，预兆；vt.预示 | |
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3
sobbing
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| <主方>Ⅰ adj.湿透的 | |
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4
ardent
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| adj.热情的，热烈的，强烈的，烈性的 | |
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poignant
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| adj.令人痛苦的，辛酸的，惨痛的 | |
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6
utterances
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| n.发声( utterance的名词复数 )；说话方式；语调；言论 | |
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7
poised
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| a.摆好姿势不动的 | |
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8
melancholy
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| n.忧郁，愁思；adj.令人感伤（沮丧）的，忧郁的 | |
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9
orphaned
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| [计][修]孤立 | |
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10
stunned
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| adj. 震惊的，惊讶的 动词stun的过去式和过去分词 | |
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12
hoarse
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| adj.嘶哑的，沙哑的 | |
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13
lame
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| adj.跛的，(辩解、论据等)无说服力的 | |
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14
invaluable
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| adj.无价的，非常宝贵的，极为贵重的 | |
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15
acquitted
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| 宣判…无罪( acquit的过去式和过去分词 )； 使（自己）作出某种表现 | |
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16
truculent
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| adj.野蛮的，粗野的 | |
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17
bleak
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| adj.(天气)阴冷的；凄凉的；暗淡的 | |
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18
fixed
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| adj.固定的，不变的，准备好的；(计算机)固定的 | |
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19
malignant
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| adj.恶性的，致命的；恶意的，恶毒的 | |
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20
malign
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| adj.有害的；恶性的；恶意的；v.诽谤，诬蔑 | |
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21
vehemently
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| adv. 热烈地 | |
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22
tragic
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| adj.悲剧的，悲剧性的，悲惨的 | |
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23
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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24
grudges
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| 不满，怨恨，妒忌( grudge的名词复数 ) | |
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25
innocence
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| n.无罪；天真；无害 | |
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26
innuendo
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| n.暗指，讽刺 | |
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27
equity
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| n.公正，公平，（无固定利息的）股票 | |
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28
gasp
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| n.喘息，气喘；v.喘息；气吁吁他说 | |
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29
sweeping
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| adj.范围广大的，一扫无遗的 | |
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