Some men would have found it no easy task to console Phoebe, under the circumstances. Jervy had the immense advantage of not feeling the slightest sympathy for her: he was in full command of his large resources of fluent assurance and ready flattery. In less than five minutes, Phoebe’s tears were dried, and her lover had his arm round her waist again, in the character of a cherished and forgiven man.
“Now, my angel!” he said (Phoebe sighed tenderly; he had never called her his angel before), “tell me all about it in confidence. Only let me know the facts, and I shall see my way to protecting you against any annoyance1 from Mrs. Sowler in the future. You have made a very extraordinary discovery. Come closer to me, my dear girl. Did it happen in Farnaby’s house?”
“I heard it in the kitchen,” said Phoebe.
Jervy started. “Did any one else hear it?” he asked.
“No. They were all in the housekeeper’s room, looking at the Indian curiosities which her son in Canada had sent to her. I had left my bird on the dresser — and I ran into the kitchen to put the cage in a safe place, being afraid of the cat. One of the swinging windows in the skylight was open; and I heard voices in the back room above, which is Mrs. Farnaby’s room.”
“Whose voices did you hear?”
“Mrs. Farnaby’s voice, and Mr. Goldenheart’s.”
“Mrs. Farnaby?” Jervy repeated, in surprise. “Are you sure it was Mrs.?“
“Of course I am! Do you think I don’t know that horrid2 woman’s voice? She was saying a most extraordinary thing when I first heard her — she was asking if there was anything wrong in showing her naked foot. And a man answered, and the voice was Mr. Goldenheart’s. You would have felt curious to hear more, if you had been in my place, wouldn’t you? I opened the second window in the kitchen, so as to make sure of not missing anything. And what do you think I heard her say?”
“You mean Mrs. Farnaby?”
“Yes. I heard her say, ‘Look at my right foot — you see there’s nothing the matter with it.’ And then, after a while, she said, ‘Look at my left foot — look between the third toe and the fourth.’ Did you ever hear of such a audacious thing for a married woman to say to a young man?”
“Go on! go on! What did he say?”
“Nothing; I suppose he was looking at her foot.”
“Her left foot?”
“Yes. Her left foot was nothing to be proud of, I can tell you! By her own account, she has some horrid deformity in it, between the third toe and the fourth. No; I didn’t hear her say what the deformity was. I only heard her call it so — and she said her ‘poor darling’ was born with the same fault, and that was her defence against being imposed upon by rogues3 — I remember the very words —‘in the past days when I employed people to find her.’ Yes! she said ’her.‘ I heard it plainly. And she talked afterwards of her ‘poor lost daughter’, who might be still living somewhere, and wondering who her mother was. Naturally enough, when I heard that hateful old drunkard talking about a child given to her by Mr. Farnaby, I put two and two together. Dear me, how strangely you look! What’s wrong with you?”
“I’m only very much interested — that’s all. But there’s one thing I don’t understand. What had Mr. Goldenheart to do with all this?”
“Didn’t I tell you?”
“No.”
“Well, then, I tell you now. Mrs. Farnaby is not only a heartless wretch4, who turns a poor girl out of her situation, and refuses to give her a character — she’s a fool besides. That precious exhibition of her nasty foot was to inform Mr. Goldenheart of something she wanted him to know. If he happened to meet with a girl, in his walks or his travels, and if he found that she had the same deformity in the same foot, then he might know for certain —”
“All right! I understand. But why Mr. Goldenheart?”
“Because she had a dream that Mr. Goldenheart had found the lost girl, and because she thought there was one chance in a hundred that her dream might come true! Did you ever hear of such a fool before? From what I could make out, I believe she actually cried about it. And that same woman turns me into the street to be ruined, for all she knows or cares. Mind this! I would have kept her secret — it was no business of mine, after all — if she had behaved decently to me. As it is, I mean to be even with her; and what I heard down in the kitchen is more than enough to help me to it. I’ll expose her somehow — I don’t quite know how; but that will come with time. You will keep the secret, dear, I’m sure. We are soon to have all our secrets in common, when we are man and wife, ain’t we? Why, you’re not listening to me! What is the matter with you?”
Jervy suddenly looked up. His soft insinuating5 manner had vanished; he spoke6 roughly and impatiently.
“I want to know something. Has Farnaby’s wife got money of her own?”
Phoebe’s mind was still disturbed by the change in her lover. “You speak as if you were angry with me,” she said.
Jervy recovered his insinuating tones, with some difficulty. “My dear girl, I love you! How can I be angry with you? You’ve set me thinking — and it bothers me a little, that’s all. Do you happen to know if Mrs. Farnaby has got money of her own?”
Phoebe answered this time. “I’ve heard Miss Regina say that Mrs. Farnaby’s father was a rich man,” she said.
“What was his name?”
“Ronald.”
“Do you know when he died?”
“No.”
Jervy fell into thought again, biting his nails in great perplexity. After a moment or two, an idea came to him. “The tombstone will tell me!” he exclaimed, speaking to himself. He turned to Phoebe, before she could express her surprise, and asked if she knew where Mr. Ronald was buried.
“Yes,” said Phoebe, “I’ve heard that. In Highgate cemetery7. But why do you want to know?”
Jervy looked at his watch. “It’s getting late,” he said; “I’ll see you safe home.”
“But I want to know —”
“Put on your bonnet8, and wait till we are out in the street.”
Jervy paid the bill, with all needful remembrance of the waiter. He was generous, he was polite; but he was apparently9 in no hurry to favour Phoebe with the explanation that he had promised. They had left the tavern10 for some minutes — and he was still rude enough to remain absorbed in his own reflections. Phoebe’s patience gave way.
“I have told you everything,” she said reproachfully; “I don’t call it fair dealing11 to keep me in the dark after that.”
He roused himself directly. “My dear girl, you entirely12 mistake me!”
The reply was as ready as usual; but it was spoken rather absently. Only that moment, he had decided13 on informing Phoebe (to some extent, at least) of the purpose which he was then meditating14. He would infinitely15 have preferred using Mrs. Sowler as his sole accomplice16. But he knew the girl too well to run that risk. If he refused to satisfy her curiosity, she would be deterred17 by no scruples18 of delicacy19 from privately20 watching him; and she might say something (either by word of month or by writing) to the kind young mistress who was in correspondence with her, which might lead to disastrous21 results. It was of the last importance to him, so far to associate Phoebe with his projected enterprise, as to give her an interest of her own in keeping his secrets.
“I have not the least wish,” he resumed, “to conceal22 any thing from you. So far as I can see my way at present, you shall see it too.” Reserving in this dexterous23 manner the freedom of lying, whenever he found it necessary to depart from the truth, he smiled encouragingly, and waited to be questioned.
Phoebe repeated the inquiry24 she had made at the tavern. “Why do you want to know where Mr. Ronald is buried?” she asked bluntly.
“Mr. Ronald’s tombstone, my dear, will tell me the date of Mr. Ronald’s death,” Jervy rejoined. “When I have got the date, I shall go to a place near St. Paul’s, called Doctors’ Commons; I shall pay a shilling fee, and I shall have the privilege of looking at Mr. Ronald’s will.”
“And what good will that do you?”
“Very properly put, Phoebe! Even shillings are not to be wasted, in our position. But my shilling will buy two sixpennyworths of information. I shall find out what sum of money Mr. Ronald has left to his daughter; and I shall know for certain whether Mrs. Farnaby’s husband has any power over it, or not.”
“Well?” said Phoebe, not much interested so far —“and what then?”
Jervy looked about him. They were in a crowded thoroughfare at the time. He preserved a discreet25 silence, until they had arrived at the first turning which led down a quiet street.
“What I have to tell you,” he said, “must not be accidentally heard by anybody. Here, my dear, we are all but out of the world — and here I can speak to you safely. I promise you two good things. You shall bring Mrs. Farnaby to that day of reckoning; and we will find money enough to marry on comfortably as soon as you like.”
Phoebe’s languid interest in the subject began to revive: she insisted on having a clearer explanation than this. “Do you mean to get the money out of Mr. Farnaby?” she inquired.
“I will have nothing to do with Mr. Farnaby — unless I find that his wife’s money is not at her own disposal. What you heard in the kitchen has altered all my plans. Wait a minute — and you will see what I am driving at. How much do you think Mrs. Farnaby would give me, if I found that lost daughter of hers?”
Phoebe suddenly stood still, and looked at the sordid26 scoundrel who was tempting27 her in blank amazement28.
“But nobody knows where the daughter is,” she objected.
“You and I know that the daughter has a deformity in her left foot,” Jervy replied; “and you and I know exactly in what part of the foot it is. There’s not only money to be made out of that knowledge — but money made easily, without the slightest risk. Suppose I managed the matter by correspondence, without appearing in it personally? Don’t you think Mrs. Farnaby would open her purse beforehand, if I mentioned the exact position of that little deformity, as a proof that I was to be depended on?”
Phoebe was unable, or unwilling29, to draw the obvious conclusion, even now.
“But, what would you do,” she said, “when Mrs. Farnaby insisted on seeing her daughter?”
There was something in the girl’s tone — half fearful, half suspicious — which warned Jervy that he was treading on dangerous ground. He knew perfectly30 well what he proposed to do, in the case that had been so plainly put him. It was the simplest thing in the world. He had only to make an appointment with Mrs. Farnaby for a meeting on a future day, and to take to flight in the interval31; leaving a polite note behind him to say that it was all a mistake, and that he regretted being too poor to return the money. Having thus far acknowledged the design he had in view, could he still venture on answering his companion without reserve? Phoebe was vain, Phoebe was vindictive32; and, more promising33 still, Phoebe was a fool. But she was not yet capable of consenting to an act of the vilest34 infamy35, in cold blood. Jervy looked at her — and saw that the foreseen necessity for lying had come at last.
“That’s just the difficulty,” he said; “that’s just where I don’t see my way plainly yet. Can you advise me?”
Phoebe started, and drew back from him. “I advise you!” she exclaimed. “It frightens me to think of it. If you make her believe she is going to see her daughter, and if she finds out that you have robbed and deceived her, I can tell you this — with her furious temper — you would drive her mad.”
Jervy’s reply was a model of well-acted indignation. “Don’t talk of anything so horrible,” he exclaimed. “If you believe me capable of such cruelty as that, go to Mrs. Farnaby, and warn her at once!”
“It’s too bad to speak to me in that way!” Phoebe rejoined, with the frank impetuosity of an offended woman. “You know I would die, rather than get you into trouble. Beg my pardon directly — or I won’t walk another step with you!”
Jervy made the necessary apologies, with all possible humility36. He had gained his end — he could now postpone37 any further discussion of the subject, without arousing Phoebe’s distrust. “Let us say no more about it, for the present,” he suggested; “we will think it over, and talk of pleasanter things in the mean time. Kiss me, my dear girl; there’s nobody looking.”
So he made peace with his sweetheart, and secured to himself, at the same time, the full liberty of future action of which he stood in need. If Phoebe asked any more questions, the necessary answer was obvious to the meanest capacity. He had merely to say, “The matter is beset38 with difficulties which I didn’t see at first — I have given it up.”
Their nearest way back to Phoebe’s lodgings39 took them through the street which led to the Hampden Institution. Passing along the opposite side of the road, they saw the private door opened. Two men stepped out. A third man, inside, called after one of them. “Mr. Goldenheart! you have left the statement of receipts in the waiting-room.” “Never mind,” Amelius answered; “the night’s receipts are so small that I would rather not be reminded of them again.” “In my country,” a third voice remarked, “if he had lectured as he has lectured to-night, I reckon I’d have given him three hundred dollars, gold (sixty pounds, English currency), and have made my own profit by the transaction. The British nation has lost its taste, sir, for intellectual recreation. I wish you good evening.”
Jervy hurried Phoebe out of the way, just as the two gentlemen were crossing the street. He had not forgotten events at Tadmor — and he was by no means eager to renew his former acquaintance with Amelius.
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1
annoyance
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| n.恼怒，生气，烦恼 | |
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horrid
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| adj.可怕的；令人惊恐的；恐怖的；极讨厌的 | |
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3
rogues
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| n.流氓( rogue的名词复数 )；无赖；调皮捣蛋的人；离群的野兽 | |
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wretch
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| n.可怜的人，不幸的人；卑鄙的人 | |
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insinuating
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| adj.曲意巴结的，暗示的v.暗示( insinuate的现在分词 )；巧妙或迂回地潜入；（使）缓慢进入；慢慢伸入 | |
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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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cemetery
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| n.坟墓，墓地，坟场 | |
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bonnet
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| n.无边女帽；童帽 | |
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apparently
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| adv.显然地；表面上，似乎 | |
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tavern
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| n.小旅馆，客栈；小酒店 | |
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dealing
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| n.经商方法，待人态度 | |
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entirely
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| ad.全部地，完整地；完全地，彻底地 | |
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decided
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| adj.决定了的，坚决的；明显的，明确的 | |
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meditating
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| a.沉思的，冥想的 | |
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infinitely
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| adv.无限地，无穷地 | |
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accomplice
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| n.从犯，帮凶，同谋 | |
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deterred
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| v.阻止，制止( deter的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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scruples
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| n.良心上的不安( scruple的名词复数 )；顾虑，顾忌v.感到于心不安，有顾忌( scruple的第三人称单数 ) | |
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19
delicacy
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| n.精致，细微，微妙，精良；美味，佳肴 | |
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privately
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| adv.以私人的身份，悄悄地，私下地 | |
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disastrous
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| adj.灾难性的，造成灾害的；极坏的，很糟的 | |
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conceal
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| v.隐藏，隐瞒，隐蔽 | |
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dexterous
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| adj.灵敏的；灵巧的 | |
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inquiry
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| n.打听，询问，调查，查问 | |
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discreet
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| adj.(言行)谨慎的；慎重的；有判断力的 | |
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sordid
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| adj.肮脏的，不干净的，卑鄙的，暗淡的 | |
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tempting
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| a.诱人的, 吸引人的 | |
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amazement
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| n.惊奇，惊讶 | |
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unwilling
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| adj.不情愿的 | |
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perfectly
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| adv.完美地，无可非议地，彻底地 | |
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interval
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| n.间隔，间距；幕间休息，中场休息 | |
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vindictive
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| adj.有报仇心的，怀恨的，惩罚的 | |
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promising
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| adj.有希望的，有前途的 | |
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vilest
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| adj.卑鄙的( vile的最高级 )；可耻的；极坏的；非常讨厌的 | |
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35
infamy
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| n.声名狼藉，出丑，恶行 | |
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humility
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| n.谦逊，谦恭 | |
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postpone
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| v.延期，推迟 | |
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beset
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| v.镶嵌；困扰，包围 | |
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lodgings
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| n. 出租的房舍, 寄宿舍 | |
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