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Within the Tides-Part7_JOSEPH CONRAD (1857-1924)_English Literature(文学名著)-第2页

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now they had left the poet lying asleep on the hearthrug of the

editorial room and had rushed to the Dunster mansion wildly. The



Editor had another discovery to announce. Swaying a little where

he stood he opened his mouth very wide to shout the one word



"Found!" Behind him Willie flung both his hands above his head and

let them fall dramatically. Renouard saw the four white-headed



people at the end of the terrace rise all together from their

chairs with an effect of sudden panic.



"I tell you - he - is - found," the patron of letters shouted

emphatically.



"What is this!" exclaimed Renouard in a choked voice. Miss Moorsom

seized his wrist suddenly, and at that contact fire ran through all



his veins, a hot stillness descended upon him in which he heard the

blood - or the fire - beating in his ears. He made a movement as



if to rise, but was restrained by the convulsive pressure on his

wrist.



"No, no." Miss Moorsom's eyes stared black as night, searching the

space before her. Far away the Editor strutted forward, Willie



following with his ostentatious manner of carrying his bulky and

oppressive carcass which, however, did not remain exactly



perpendicular for two seconds together.

"The innocent Arthur . . . Yes. We've got him," the Editor became



very business-like. "Yes, this letter has done it."

He plunged into an inside pocket for it, slapped the scrap of paper



with his open palm. "From that old woman. William had it in his

pocket since this morning when Miss Moorsom gave it to him to show



me. Forgot all about it till an hour ago. Thought it was of no

importance. Well, no! Not till it was properly read."



Renouard and Miss Moorsom emerged from the shadows side by side, a

well-matched couple, animated yet statuesque in their calmness and



in their pallor. She had let go his wrist. On catching sight of

Renouard the Editor exclaimed:



"What - you here!" in a quite shrill voice.

There came a dead pause. All the faces had in them something



dismayed and cruel.

"He's the very man we want," continued the Editor. "Excuse my



excitement. You are the very man, Renouard. Didn't you tell me

that your assistant called himself Walter? Yes? Thought so. But



here's that old woman - the butler's wife - listen to this. She

writes: All I can tell you, Miss, is that my poor husband directed



his letters to the name of H. Walter."

Renouard's violent but repressed exclamation was lost in a general



murmur and shuffle of feet. The Editor made a step forward, bowed

with creditable steadiness.



"Miss Moorsom, allow me to congratulate you from the bottom of my

heart on the happy - er - issue. . . "



"Wait," muttered Renouard irresolutely.

The Editor jumped on him in the manner of their old friendship.



"Ah, you! You are a fine fellow too. With your solitary ways of

life you will end by having no more discrimination than a savage.



Fancy living with a gentleman for months and never guessing. A

man, I am certain, accomplished, remarkable, out of the common,



since he had been distinguished" (he bowed again) "by Miss Moorsom,

whom we all admire."



She turned her back on him.

"I hope to goodness you haven't been leading him a dog's life,



Geoffrey," the Editor addressed his friend in a whispered aside.

Renouard seized a chair violently, sat down, and propping his elbow



on his knee leaned his head on his hand. Behind him the sister of

the professor looked up to heaven and wrung her hands stealthily.



Mrs. Dunster's hands were clasped forcibly under her chin, but she,

dear soul, was looking sorrowfully at Willie. The model nephew!



In this strange state! So very much flushed! The careful

disposition of the thin hairs across Willie's bald spot was



deplorably disarranged, and the spot itself was red and, as it

were, steaming.



"What's the matter, Geoffrey?" The Editor seemed disconcerted by

the silent attitudes round him, as though he had expected all these






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