According to the copy books of our youth, “Procrastination is the thief of time.” Now, Brian found the truth of this. He had been in town almost a week, but he had not yet been to see Calton. Each morning — or something very near it — he set out, determined¹ to go direct to Chancery Lane, but he never arrived there. He had returned to his lodgings² in East Melbourne, and had passed his time either in the house or in the garden. When perhaps business connected with the sale of his station compelled his presence in town, he drove straight there and back. Curiously³ enough he shrank from meeting any of his friends. He felt keenly his recent position in the prisoner’s dock. And even when walking by the Yarra, as he frequently did, he was conscious of an uneasy feeling — a feeling that he was an object of curiosity, and that people turned to look at him out of a morbid⁴ desire to see one who had been so nearly hanged for murder.

As soon as his station should be sold and he married to Madge he determined to leave Australia, and never set foot on it again. But until he could leave the place he would see no one, nor would he mix with his former friends, so great was his dread⁵ of being stared at. Mrs. Sampson, who had welcomed him back with shrill⁶ exclamations⁷ of delight, was loud in her expressions of disapproval⁸ as to the way he was shutting himself up.

“Your eyes bein’ ’ollow,” said the sympathising cricket, “it is nat’ral as it’s want of air, which my ’usband’s uncle, being a druggist, an’ well-to-do, in Collingwood, ses as ’ow a want of ox-eye-gent, being a French name, as ’e called the atmispeare, were fearful for pullin’ people down, an’ makin’ ’em go off their food, which you hardly eats anythin’, an’ not bein’ a butterfly it’s expected as your appetite would be larger.”

分享到：