Early the next day Clement1 Austin walked to Maudesley Abbey, in order to procure2 all the information likely to facilitate Margaret Wilmot’s grand purpose. He stopped at the gate of the principal lodge3. The woman who kept it was an old servant of the Dunbar family, and had known Clement Austin in Percival Dunbar’s lifetime. She gave him a hearty4 welcome, and he had no difficulty whatever in setting her tongue in motion upon the subject of Henry Dunbar.
She told him a great deal; she told him that the present owner of the Abbey never had been liked, and never would be liked: for his stern and gloomy manner was so unlike his father’s easy, affable good-nature, that people were always drawing comparisons between the dead man and the living.
This, in a few words, is the substance of what the worthy5 woman said in a good many words. Mrs. Grumbleton gave Clement all the information he required as to the banker’s daily movements at the present time. Henry Dunbar was now in the habit of rising about two o’clock in the day, at which time he was assisted from his bedroom to his sitting-room6, where he remained until seven or eight o’clock in the evening. He had no visitors, except the surgeon, Mr. Daphney, who lived in the Abbey, and a gentleman called Vernon, who had bought Woodbine Cottage, near Lisford, and who now and then was admitted to Mr. Dunbar’s sitting-room.
This was all Clement Austin wanted to know. Surely it might be possible, with a little clever management, to throw the banker completely off his guard, and to bring about the long-delayed interview between him and Margaret Wilmot.
Clement returned to the Reindeer7, had a brief conversation with Margaret, and made all arrangements.
At four o’clock that afternoon, Miss Wilmot and her lover left the Reindeer in a fly; at a quarter to five the fly stopped at the lodge-gates.
“I will walk to the house,” Margaret said; “my coming will attract less notice. But I may be detained for some time, Clement. Pray, don’t wait for me. Your dear mother will be alarmed if you are very long absent. Go back to her, and send the fly for me by-and-by.”
“Nonsense, Madge. I shall wait for you, however long you may be. Do you think my heart is not as much engaged in anything that may influence your fate as even your own can be? I won’t go with you to the Abbey; for it will be as well that Henry Dunbar should remain in ignorance of my presence in the neighbourhood. I will walk up and down the road here, and wait for you.”
“But you may have to wait so long, Clement.”
“No matter how long. I can wait patiently, but I could not endure to go home and leave you, Madge.”
They were standing8 before the great iron gates as Clement said this. He pressed Margaret’s cold hand; he could feel how cold it was, even through her glove; and then rang the bell. She looked at him as the gate was opened; she turned and looked at him with a strangely earnest gaze as she crossed the boundary of Henry Dunbar’s domain9, and then walked slowly along the broad avenue.
That last look had shown Clement Austin a pale resolute10 face, something like the countenance11 of a fair young martyr12 going quietly to the stake.
He walked away from the gates, and they shut behind him with a loud clanging noise. Then he went back to them, and watched Margaret’s figure growing dim and distant in the gathering13 dusk as she approached the Abbey. A faint glow of crimson14 firelight reddened the gravel15-drive before the windows of Mr. Dunbar’s apartments, and there was a footman airing himself under the shadow of the porch, with a glimmer16 of light shining out of the hall behind him.
“I do not suppose I shall have to wait very long for my poor girl,” Clement thought, as he left the gates, and walked briskly up and down the road. “Henry Dunbar is a resolute man; he will refuse to see her to-day, as he refused before.”
Margaret found the footman lolling against the clustered pillars of the gothic porch, staring thoughtfully at the low evening light, yellow and red behind the brown trunks of the elms, and picking his teeth with a gold toothpick.
The sight of the open hall-door, and this languid footman lolling in the porch, suddenly inspired Margaret Wilmot with a new idea. Would it not be possible to slip quietly past this man, and walk straight to the apartments of Mr. Dunbar, unquestioned, uninterrupted?
Clement had pointed17 out to her the windows of the rooms occupied by the banker. They were on the left-hand side of the entrance-hall. It would be impossible for her to mistake the door leading to them. It was dusk, and she was very plainly dressed, with a black straw bonnet18, and a veil over her face. Surely she might deceive this languid footman by affecting to be some hanger-on of the household, which of course was a large one.
In that case she had no right to present herself at the front door, certainly; but then, before the languid footman could recover from the first shock of indignation at her impertinence, she might slip past him and reach the door leading to those apartments in which the banker hid himself and his guilt19.
Margaret lingered a little in the avenue, watching for a favourable20 opportunity in which she might hazard this attempt. She waited five minutes or so.
The curve of the avenue screened her, in some wise, from the man in the porch, who never happened to roll his languid eyes towards the spot where she was standing.
A flight of rooks came scudding21 through the sky presently, very much excited, and cawing and screeching22 as if they had been an ornithological23 fire brigade hurrying to extinguish the flames of some distant rookery.
The footman, who was suffering acutely from the complaint of not knowing what to do with himself, came out of the porch and stood in the middle of the gravelled drive, with his back towards Margaret, staring at the birds as they flew westward24.
This was her opportunity. The girl hurried to the door with a light step, so light upon the smooth solid gravel that the footman heard nothing until she was on the broad stone step under the porch, when the fluttering of her skirt, as it brushed against the pillars, roused him from a species of trance or reverie.
He turned sharply round, as upon a pivot25, and stared aghast at the retreating figure under the porch.
“Hi, you there, young woman!” he exclaimed, without stirring from his post; “where are you going to? What’s the meaning of your coming to this door? Are you aware that there’s such a place as a servants’ ‘all and a servants’ hentrance?”
But the languid retainer was too late. Margaret’s hand was upon the massive knob of the door upon the left side of the hall before the footman had put this last indignant question.
He listened for an apologetic murmur26 from the young woman; but hearing none, concluded that she had found her way to the servants’ hall, where she had most likely some business or other with one of the female members of the household.
“A dressmaker, I dessay,” the footman thought. “Those gals27 spend all their earnings28 in finery and fallals, instead of behaving like respectable young women, and saving up their money against they can go into the public line with the man of their choice.”
He yawned, and went on staring at the rooks, without troubling himself any further about the impertinent young person who had dared to present herself at the grand entrance.
Margaret opened the door, and went into the room next the hall.
It was a handsome apartment, lined with books from the floor to the ceiling; but it was quite empty, and there was no fire burning in the grate. The girl put up her veil, and looked about her. She was very, very pale now, and trembled violently; but she controlled her agitation29 by a great effort, and went slowly on to the next room.
The second room was empty like the first; but the door between it and the next chamber30 was wide open, and Margaret saw the firelight shining upon the faded tapestry31, and reflected in the sombre depths of the polished oak furniture. She heard the low sound of the light ashes falling on the hearth32, and the shorting breath of a dog.
She knew that the man she sought, and had so long sought without avail, was in that room. Alone; for there was no murmur of voices, no sound of any one moving in the apartment. That hour, to which Margaret Wilmot had looked as the great crisis of her life, had come; and her courage failed her all at once, and her heart sank in her breast on the very threshold of the chamber in which she was to stand face to face with Henry Dunbar.
“The murderer of my father!” she thought; “the man whose influence blighted33 my father’s life, and made him what he was. The man through whose reckless sin my father lived a life that left him, oh! how sadly unprepared to die! The man who, knowing this, sent his victim before an offended God, without so much warning as would have given him time to think one prayer. I am going to meet that man face to face!”
Her breath came in faint gasps34, and the firelit chamber swam before her eyes as she crossed the threshold of that door, and went into the room where Henry Dunbar was sitting alone before the low fire.
He was wrapped in crimson draperies of thick woollen stuff, and the leopard-skin railway rug was muffled35 about his knees A dog of the bull-dog breed was lying asleep at the banker’s feet, half-hidden in the folds of the leopard-skin. Henry Dunbar’s head was bent36 over the fire, and his eyes were closed in a kind of dozing37 sleep, as Margaret Wilmot went into the room.
There was an empty chair opposite to that in which the banker sat; an old-fashioned, carved oak-chair, with a high back and crimson-morocco cushions. Margaret went softly up to this chair, and laid her hand upon the oaken framework. Her footsteps made no sound on the thick Turkey carpet; the banker never stirred from his doze38, and even the dog at his feet slept on.
“Mr. Dunbar!” cried Margaret, in a clear, resolute voice; “awake! it is I, Margaret Wilmot, the daughter of the man who was murdered in the grove39 near Winchester!”
The dog awoke, and snapped at her. The man lifted his head, and looked at her. Even the fire seemed roused by the sound of her voice! for a little jet of vivid light leaped up out of the smouldering log, and lighted the scared face of the banker.
Clement Austin had promised Margaret to wait for her, and to wait patiently; and he meant to keep his promise. But there are some limits even to the patience of a lover, though he were the veriest knight-errant who was ever eager to shiver a lance or hack40 the edge of a battle-axe for love of his liege lady. When you have nothing to do but to walk up and down a few yards of hard dusty high-road, upon a bleak41 evening in January, an hour more or less is of considerable importance. Five o’clock struck about ten minutes after Margaret Wilmot had entered the park, and Clement thought to himself that even if Margaret were successful in obtaining an interview with the banker, that interview would be over before six. But the faint strokes of Lisford-church clock died away upon the cold evening wind, and Clement was still pacing up and down, and the fly was still waiting; the horse comfortable enough, with a rug upon his back and his nose in a bag of oats; the man walking up and down by the side of the vehicle, slapping his gloved hands across his shoulders every now and then to keep himself warm. In that long hour between six and seven, Clement Austin’s patience wore itself almost threadbare. It is one thing to ride into the lists on a prancing42 steed, caparisoned with embroidered43 trappings, worked by the fair hands of your lady-love, and with the trumpets44 braying45, and the populace shouting, and the Queen of beauty smiling sweet approval of your prowess: but it is quite another thing to walk up and down a dusty country road, with the wind biting like some ravenous46 animal at the tip of your nose, and no more consciousness of your legs and arms than if you were a Miss Biffin.
By the time seven o’clock struck, Clement Austin’s patience had given up the ghost; and to impatience47 had succeeded a vague sense of alarm. Margaret Wilmot had gone to force herself into this man’s presence, in spite of his reiterated48 refusal to see her. What if — what if, goaded49 by her persistence50, maddened by the consciousness of his own guilt, he should attempt any violence.
Oh, no, no; that was quite impossible. If this man was guilty, his crime had been deliberately51 planned, and executed with such a diabolical52 cunning, that he had been able so far to escape detection. In his own house, surrounded by prying53 servants, he would never dare to assail54 this girl by so much as a harsh word.
But, notwithstanding this, Clement was determined55 to wait no longer. He would go to the Abbey at once, and ascertain56 the cause of Margaret’s delay. He rang the bell, went into the park, and ran along the avenue to the perch57. Lights were shining in Mr. Dunbar’s windows, but the great hall-door was closely shut.
The languid footman came in answer to Clement’s summons.
“There is a young lady here,” Clement said, breathlessly; “a young lady — with Mr. Dunbar.”
“Ho! is that hall?” asked the footman, satirically. “I thought Shorncliffe town-‘all was a-fire, at the very least, from the way you rung. There was a young pusson with Mr. Dunbar above a hour ago, if that’s what you mean?”
“Above an hour ago?” cried Clement Austin, heedless of the man’s impertinence in his own growing anxiety; “do you mean to say that the young lady has left?”
“She have left, above a hour ago.”
“She went away from this house an hour ago?”
“More than a hour ago.”
“Impossible!” Clement said; “impossible!”
“It may be so,” answered the footman, who was of an ironical58 turn of mind; “but I let her out with my own hands, and I saw her go out with my own eyes, notwithstanding.”
The man shut the door before Clement had recovered from his surprise, and left him standing in the porch; bewildered, though he scarcely knew why; frightened, though he scarcely knew what he feared.
收听单词发音 |
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clement
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| adj.仁慈的；温和的 | |
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procure
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| vt.获得，取得，促成；vi.拉皮条 | |
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lodge
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| v.临时住宿，寄宿，寄存，容纳；n.传达室，小旅馆 | |
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hearty
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| adj.热情友好的；衷心的；尽情的，纵情的 | |
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worthy
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| adj.(of)值得的，配得上的；有价值的 | |
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sitting-room
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| n.（BrE）客厅，起居室 | |
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reindeer
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| n.驯鹿 | |
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standing
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| n.持续，地位；adj.永久的，不动的，直立的，不流动的 | |
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domain
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| n.(活动等)领域，范围；领地，势力范围 | |
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resolute
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| adj.坚决的，果敢的 | |
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countenance
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| n.脸色，面容；面部表情；vt.支持，赞同 | |
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martyr
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| n.烈士，殉难者；vt.杀害，折磨，牺牲 | |
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gathering
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| n.集会，聚会，聚集 | |
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crimson
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| n./adj.深(绯)红色(的)；vi.脸变绯红色 | |
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gravel
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| n.砂跞；砂砾层；结石 | |
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glimmer
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| v.发出闪烁的微光；n.微光，微弱的闪光 | |
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pointed
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| adj.尖的，直截了当的 | |
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bonnet
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| n.无边女帽；童帽 | |
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guilt
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| n.犯罪；内疚；过失，罪责 | |
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favourable
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| adj.赞成的，称赞的，有利的，良好的，顺利的 | |
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scudding
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| n.刮面v.（尤指船、舰或云彩）笔直、高速而平稳地移动( scud的现在分词 ) | |
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screeching
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| v.发出尖叫声( screech的现在分词 )；发出粗而刺耳的声音；高叫 | |
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ornithological
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| adj.鸟类学的 | |
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westward
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| n.西方，西部；adj.西方的，向西的；adv.向西 | |
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pivot
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| v.在枢轴上转动；装枢轴，枢轴；adj.枢轴的 | |
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murmur
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| n.低语，低声的怨言；v.低语，低声而言 | |
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gals
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| abbr.gallons （复数）加仑（液量单位）n.女孩，少女( gal的名词复数 ) | |
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earnings
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| n.工资收人；利润，利益，所得 | |
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agitation
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| n.搅动；搅拌；鼓动，煽动 | |
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chamber
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| n.房间，寝室；会议厅；议院；会所 | |
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tapestry
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| n.挂毯，丰富多采的画面 | |
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hearth
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| n.壁炉炉床，壁炉地面 | |
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blighted
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| adj.枯萎的，摧毁的 | |
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gasps
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| v.喘气( gasp的第三人称单数 )；喘息；倒抽气；很想要 | |
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muffled
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| adj.（声音）被隔的；听不太清的；（衣服）裹严的；蒙住的v.压抑，捂住( muffle的过去式和过去分词 )；用厚厚的衣帽包着（自己） | |
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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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dozing
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| v.打瞌睡,假寐 n.瞌睡 | |
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doze
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| v.打瞌睡；n.打盹，假寐 | |
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grove
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| n.林子，小树林，园林 | |
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hack
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| n.劈，砍，出租马车；v.劈，砍，干咳 | |
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bleak
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| adj.(天气)阴冷的；凄凉的；暗淡的 | |
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prancing
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| v.（马）腾跃( prance的现在分词 ) | |
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embroidered
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| adj．绣花的 | |
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trumpets
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| 喇叭( trumpet的名词复数 )； 小号； 喇叭形物； （尤指）绽开的水仙花 | |
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braying
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| v.发出驴叫似的声音( bray的现在分词 )；发嘟嘟声；粗声粗气地讲话（或大笑）；猛击 | |
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ravenous
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| adj.极饿的，贪婪的 | |
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impatience
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| n.不耐烦，急躁 | |
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reiterated
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| 反复地说，重申( reiterate的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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goaded
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| v.刺激( goad的过去式和过去分词 )；激励；（用尖棒）驱赶；驱使（或怂恿、刺激）某人 | |
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persistence
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| n.坚持，持续，存留 | |
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51
deliberately
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| adv.审慎地；蓄意地；故意地 | |
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52
diabolical
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| adj.恶魔似的，凶暴的 | |
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53
prying
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| adj.爱打听的v.打听，刺探（他人的私事）( pry的现在分词 )；撬开 | |
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assail
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| v.猛烈攻击，抨击，痛斥 | |
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determined
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| adj.坚定的；有决心的 | |
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ascertain
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| vt.发现，确定，查明，弄清 | |
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perch
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| n.栖木，高位，杆；v.栖息，就位，位于 | |
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ironical
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| adj.讽刺的，冷嘲的 | |
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