“Sir Vivian,” said Godfrey, “I can not express to you my thanks for the kindness which you showed me in standing2 by me to-day. Believe me, I am very sensible of it.”
“You must not speak of it;” said the worthy3 old gentleman; “and as for the affair itself, it is a piece of ill-luck that might have happened to the best of us. At the same time, I should very much like to have an opportunity of telling that wretched Fensden what I think of him.”
“Do not let us talk of him,” said Godfrey. “His own feelings must be sufficient punishment for him. There is one thing, however, that I must say to you before we go any further.”
“And what is that?”
“It concerns my wedding,” Godfrey replied. “I am afraid it will be a terrible blow to poor Molly; but until this charge, which I have no doubt will be brought against me, is disproved, she must not think any more of me.”
Sir Vivian stared at him in astonishment4.
“Nonsense, my dear lad,” said he. “I know that you love my girl, and that she loves you. It is her duty, therefore, to stand by you and to comfort you when you are in trouble. Believe me, she will have no doubt as to your innocence5.”
“I know that,” said Godfrey; “but I do not think it would be fair for me to allow her name to be linked with mine under such painful circumstances.”
“It will be linked with it whether you like it or not,” was the reply. “If I am prepared to stake my honour on your innocence, you may be very sure that she will stake hers. Molly isn’t a fair-weather friend.”
“She is the truest and best girl in the world,” said Godfrey. “No one knows that better than I.”
“Then wait until you have seen her and talked it over with her alone. Put the question to her, and see what she will say. I know her well enough to guess what her answer will be.”
“God bless you for your trust in me!” said Godfrey, in a shaky voice. “I fear I have done very little to deserve it.”
“It is sufficient that I know you for what you are,” the other answered. “I knew your uncle and grandfather before him, and I am as certain that you would not do anything dishonourable as I am of my own name. What we have to do is to put our wits to work and to endeavour to find out, as Codey says, the sender of the box. Then I believe we shall be on the track of the real criminal. It was a very good suggestion on Mr. Bensleigh’s part that we should employ that man; we could not have had a better. I never saw such eyes in my life. He seems to look one through and through. I pity Mr. Fensden when he comes to be cross-examined by him.”
The old gentleman chuckled6 over the thought and then lapsed7 into silence.
When they reached Detwich, they became aware that Griffin had travelled from London by the same train. Godfrey beckoned8 to him.
“Of course you heard the evidence to-day, Griffin,” Godfrey began when the other approached.
“Yes, sir, I did,” said the police official, gravely.
“And you must have drawn9 your own conclusions from it?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Well, Griffin, what I wanted to say to you is that, if I am wanted for anything, I shall not leave the Hall until Wednesday morning; then I shall go up to the inquiry10 again.”
“I will bear the fact in mind, sir,” said the man. “But there’s one thing I should like to say, if you don’t mind.”
“What is it? Say it by all means.”
“It’s this, sir. Whether it’s going against my duty or not — and there’s nobody here to hear it if it is — whatever verdict they may bring in, I don’t believe for a moment that you had any more to do with that poor girl’s death than I had. You will excuse my saying so, I hope, sir?”
“On the contrary, I am very much obliged to you for your good opinion,” Godfrey replied, holding out his hand which the other took. “I am afraid that it’s going to be a very unpleasant business for me. That can’t be helped, however. Good-night.”
“Good-night, sir,” the man answered.
Then Godfrey joined Sir Vivian and, as had been arranged, they drove off to the Hall together. The moon was rising above the hill as they went through the park, and as Godfrey looked on the peaceful scene around him and thought of the terrible suspicion that was growing in people’s minds concerning himself his heart sank within him. If only little Teresina could speak, how easily she could clear up all the dark charges against him! She was dead, however, brutally11 murdered, and he, the only man who had ever befriended her, was suspected of having caused her death.
“Keep up a stout12 heart, my lad,” said Sir Vivian, as they alighted from the carriage and ascended13 the steps. “Think of the ladies, and don’t make them any more unhappy than you can help.”
The door was opened by the ancient butler who had served his uncle before him, and Godfrey entered his home, but how different a man from the young fellow who had left it that morning!
“The ladies are in the drawing-room, sir,” said the servant, when he had relieved them of their hats and coats.
They accordingly proceeded thither14, one of them at least with a sinking heart.
“We have just been wondering when we should see you,” said Kitty.
There was a look of anxiety on Molly’s face as she came forward to meet her lover. She placed her hand in his, and they sat down together.
“Well, my dear boy,” said Mrs. Henderson, “what have you to tell us? What was the result?”
There was no need for her to say to what she referred. Their minds had been too much occupied with it that day to leave room for any uncertainty15 upon the point.
“Nothing is decided16 yet,” said Sir Vivian, who took upon himself the part of spokesman. “The inquiry is adjourned17 until Wednesday.”
“That means that you will have to go up again,” said Molly. “Why couldn’t they settle it at once?”
Godfrey knew, but he dared not tell her the reason.
“They are searching for more evidence, I fancy,” said Sir Vivian. “You must remember that the matter is, at present, shrouded18 in the greatest mystery. Until that can be cleared up, nothing can be done.”
“And Mr. Fensden, where did you leave him?” asked Mrs. Henderson.
“We parted outside the Court,” said Godfrey. “I have no idea where he is staying to-night.”
Though he tried to speak unconcernedly, Molly felt certain in her own mind that there had been trouble between the two men. She said nothing to him about it, however. She knew that he would tell her in good time.
That night, when Sir Vivian’s carriage was announced, Godfrey accompanied him to the front door. Before leaving, the old gentleman took him on one side out of earshot of the servants.
“Keep up your spirits, my dear lad,” he said, as he had done so many times before. “Remember that you have many friends and that I am not the least of them. Should anything occur, send for me at once, and I will be with you as fast as horses can bring me. In the meantime do not alarm the ladies more than you can help.”
“You may rely upon my not doing so,” said Godfrey, and then Sir Vivian entered his carriage and drove away.
Later, when Godfrey bade Molly good-night, she looked up at him with sorrowful eyes.
“I feel sure,” she said, “that there is something you are keeping back from me. I beg of you not to do so. You know how I love you, and how earnest is my desire to share both your joys and your sorrows with you. Will you not confide19 in me and tell me everything?”
“When there is anything worth the hearing, you may be sure I will tell you, dear,” he answered, not daring to let her know the truth that night. “In the morning we will talk the whole matter over and you shall give me your advice. And now you must go to bed and try to obtain a good night’s rest, for I am sure you did not sleep well last night.”
“I did not,” she answered. “I was thinking of you all night, for I knew how you were dreading20 going up to-day.”
He did not tell her that he dreaded21 going up on Wednesday a great deal more. He preferred to take her in his arms and kiss her, calling her his good angel, swearing that he would love her all his life long, and that even death itself should not separate them. Then he went to his room, prepared to spend what he knew would be a sleepless22 night, and he was not destined23 to be wrong. Hour after hour he tumbled and tossed upon his bed, going over the day’s proceedings24 again and again, and speculating with never-ceasing anxiety as to what was to happen in the future. At last, unable to bear it any longer, he rose from his bed and went downstairs to his studio, where he lighted his fire and smoked and read until daylight. Then a cold bath somewhat refreshed him, and, as soon as he had dressed, he set off across the park to the home farm. He was always an early riser, and his presence there at that hour excited no comment. He watched the sleek25, soft-eyed cows being milked, saw the handsome cart-horses, of which he had once been so proud, set off upon their day’s work, had a quarter of an hour’s conversation with his head-keeper at his cottage gate, and then returned home through the plantations26 to breakfast. It was his mother’s habit to read prayers to the household immediately before the meal, and, as he knelt by Molly’s side, and listened to the old familiar words, his heart ached when he thought of the misery28 that any moment might bring upon them.
As the first train from London did not arrive until somewhat late, the morning papers were delivered with the letters, which usually reached the Hall about half-past nine. When they arrived Godfrey selected one, and took it with him to his studio. With a feeling that he had never before experienced when opening a paper, he turned the crisp pages in search of the column which he knew he would find. Then he saw in large type:
The Burford Street Murder
Extraordinary Evidence
There was no need for him to wonder what that evidence was: he knew before he began to read. The prominence29 given by the paper to the case was a proof of the excitement the inquiry had aroused in the public mind. At last he forced himself to read. Every word rose before his eyes as vividly30 as though it had been traced in letters of fire. Set down in cold print, the affair presented a very sinister31 aspect, so far as he was concerned. Every portion of the evidence seemed to point to himself as being the man who had committed the dastardly deed. He could well imagine what the feeling of independent persons would be who read it, and how readily they would arrive at a conclusion unfavourable to himself. He had just perused32 it for the second time, when he was startled by a faint tap upon the door.
“Come in,” he cried, and in response Molly entered the room.
“I have been looking for you,” she said, with the parody33 of a smile upon her face.
“I should have come in search of you in a few moments,” he replied. “The fact is, I have had certain things to do which could not very well be left undone34. Will you forgive me, dear?”
“Of course I will,” she answered. “It is impossible for you to be always with me, and yet I am selfish enough to grudge35 you the time you spend upon anything else.”
He was quick-witted enough to see that what she said was only an attempt to gain time. She, on her side, knew that he stood in need of comfort, and she had come to give it to him.
“Molly,” he said, rising from the chair in which he had been sitting and going toward her, “I feel that I must tell you everything. God knows, this is the crisis of my life, and to whom should I turn in my sorrow, if not to the woman I love, and whom I know loves me? Have you read the account of the inquest in the papers?”
“No,” she answered, “I would not read it, lest I should derive36 a false impression from it. I am quite willing to hear what you have to say about it, and to accept your version as the truth.”
“God bless you, dear, for your trust in me!” he replied; “but it is necessary that you should hear what other people have to say upon the matter. Read it carefully, and, when you have finished, tell me what you think about it.”
He gave her the paper, and for a moment she stood as if undecided.
“Do you really wish it?” she asked.
“It is better that you should do so, believe me,” he said. “In that case, no one can say that I kept anything back from you.”
“I will read it,” she said, and went toward the window-seat to do so.
While she was reading, he stood before the fire and watched her. He noticed the poise37 of the beautiful head, the sweet hands holding the paper, on one finger of which sparkled the engagement ring he had given her, and the tiny foot just peeping from beneath the dark green skirt. She was a woman worth fighting all the world for, and, as he reflected how easy it would be for false evidence to separate them, he experienced a fear such as he had never known in his life before.
When she had finished, she crossed the room with the paper in her hand. Deliberately38 folding it up and laying it upon the table, she went to him, and placed her hands in his. Looking up into his face with trustful eyes, she said:
“I told you yesterday, Godfrey, that I believed in you. I tell you again, that, whatever the world may say with regard to this dreadful affair, it will make no difference in my love. I feel as convinced as I am of anything that, by whatever means, or at whose hand, that poor girl met her death, you were in no sort of way responsible for, or connected with it. You believe me, don’t you?”
“I do,” he answered, with tears in his eyes. “And I thank God for your trust. Do you know, yesterday I suggested to your father that, situated39 as we are, it would be better if I were to give you back your freedom until my innocence is proved?”
“I would not take it,” she answered, firmly. “When I gave myself to you, it was not to be your bride in fair weather alone; it was to be your partner in the rough seas of life as well as in the smooth. No, come what may, Godfrey, I will not let you give me up. Promise me that you will never mention such a thing again? It hurts me even to think of it.”
“Your mind is made up?”
“Quite made up,” she answered. “I should not change, even if you were what —(here she shuddered)— what that paper would seem to suggest. No, darling, I am your wife, if not in the law, at least in God’s sight.”
“I thank you,” he answered, earnestly. “The knowledge that you still trust me will be my most precious consolation40.”
“And now tell me of this Mr. Codey, the lawyer you have employed. Is he a clever man?”
“One of the cleverest in the land, I should say,” Godfrey replied. “He has had great experience in these sort of cases, and, if any man can render me assistance, I should say he is that one.”
“Oh, how thankful I shall be,” she said, “when everything is settled! How little we dreamt, when we were so happy together last week, that within a few days we should be made so miserable! Perhaps, after all, it is only our love being tried in the crucible41 of trouble. And when it is over, and we have come out of it, we shall know each other’s real worth. That is the best way to look at it, I think.”
“Quite the best,” he answered, and kissed her on the forehead.
Then, adopting a brighter tone, he suggested that they should go for a walk together, in order, if possible, to dispel42, for the time being at least, the dark clouds that had settled upon them. It was a clear, bright morning, and as they crossed the park, and mounted the hillside toward the plantation27, where the rabbits were playing, and the pheasants, who of late had not received the attention their merits deserved, were strutting43 about on the open grass land, Godfrey found it difficult to believe that the situation was really as desperate as he imagined. Their walk lasted for upward of two hours; indeed, it was nearly lunch-time before they reached the house once more. When they did, Molly went upstairs to her room to prepare herself for luncheon44, while Godfrey made his way to his mother’s sitting room, where he found the old lady quietly knitting by the fire.
“Thank goodness you have come in at last, dear!” said Mrs. Henderson. “I have been wanting so much to have a talk with you! Godfrey, I have read the evidence given at the inquest, and it frightens me.”
“I am sorry for that, mother,” he said, seating himself by her side. “What do you think of it?”
She placed her hand upon his arm, and looked at him with her loving eyes.
“I think my boy is too noble to have done anything of which his mother would have had reason to be ashamed.”
Godfrey rose from his chair and walked to the window. These constant proofs of the love in which he was held was unmanning him. He could not trust himself to speak. When his own little world believed in him so implicitly45, how could the greater world be so censorious?
When they went into luncheon, Godfrey soon saw that the ancient butler and his subordinate had become aware of the state of affairs. Attentive46 to his wants as they always were, on this particular occasion, they were even more so than usual. It was as if they were endeavouring in their own kindly47 way to show that they too believed in him, and were desirous of proving their sympathy with him. Never before had his own home struck him in the same light. His heart was too full for speech, and, in spite of his sister’s well-meant attempt to promote conversation, the meal passed almost in silence.
After luncheon the bailiff sent in word that he should like to speak to him. The man was accordingly admitted to the smoking-room, where he discussed various matters connected with the estate with his master for upward of an hour. Labouring as he was, under the weight of greater emotions, Godfrey found it difficult to pin his attention to the matters at issue, and when the other went his way, after respectfully touching48 his forelock, for the first time since he had known the old fellow, he heaved a sigh of relief. At half-past four he joined the ladies in the drawing-room for afternoon tea. To add to his pain, another consignment49 of wedding presents had arrived, and in order that he should not be thought to be unduly50 nervous about the future, he was compelled to appear delighted with the attentions he had received from his friends.
“That makes the fifth pair of asparagus tongs51 we have received,” said Molly, as she closed the case and placed it with its fellows upon the table. “And what is this? Well, I declare, it’s another set of sweet dishes. That brings the number up to twenty-seven!”
At that moment the sound of carriage wheels outside reached them, followed, a few seconds later, by the ringing of the front door-bell.
“Visitors, I suppose,” said Kitty. “It may be rude, but I must say that I trust it is not the vicar.”
They waited in suspense52 until Williamson, the butler, entered the room and informed Godfrey that a gentleman had called to see him, and was waiting in the library.
“Who is it?” Godfrey asked. “Did he not give his name?”
“His name is Tompkins, sir,” the butler replied. “He said he should be glad if you could spare the time to see him for a few moments.”
“I will do so at once,” said Godfrey, and, asking the ladies to excuse him, left the room.
On entering the library, he found himself face to face with a middle-aged53 individual, who at first glance resembled a sporting parson. He was dressed in black, and carried a black silk hat in his hand.
“What can I do for you?” Godfrey inquired. “I am not aware that I have ever seen you before.”
“Very likely not, sir,” the man replied. “My name is Tompkins, and I am a Scotland Yard detective. I hold a warrant for your arrest on a charge of wilfully54 murdering Teresina Cardi in Burford Street on the night of Thursday last. I had better tell you that anything you may say will be used against you.”
The blow had fallen at last!
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1
miserable
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| adj.悲惨的，痛苦的；可怜的，糟糕的 | |
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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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worthy
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| adj.(of)值得的，配得上的；有价值的 | |
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astonishment
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| n.惊奇，惊异 | |
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innocence
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| n.无罪；天真；无害 | |
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6
chuckled
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| 轻声地笑( chuckle的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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7
lapsed
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| adj.流失的，堕落的v.退步( lapse的过去式和过去分词 )；陷入；倒退；丧失 | |
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8
beckoned
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| v.（用头或手的动作）示意，召唤( beckon的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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9
drawn
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| v.拖，拉，拔出；adj.憔悴的，紧张的 | |
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10
inquiry
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| n.打听，询问，调查，查问 | |
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brutally
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| adv.残忍地，野蛮地，冷酷无情地 | |
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ascended
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| v.上升，攀登( ascend的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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thither
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| adv.向那里；adj.在那边的，对岸的 | |
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15
uncertainty
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| n.易变，靠不住，不确知，不确定的事物 | |
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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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adjourned
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| （使）休会， （使）休庭( adjourn的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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shrouded
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| v.隐瞒( shroud的过去式和过去分词 )；保密 | |
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confide
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| v.向某人吐露秘密 | |
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dreading
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| v.害怕，恐惧，担心( dread的现在分词 ) | |
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dreaded
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| adj.令人畏惧的；害怕的v.害怕，恐惧，担心( dread的过去式和过去分词) | |
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sleepless
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| adj.不睡眠的，睡不著的，不休息的 | |
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destined
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| adj.命中注定的；(for)以…为目的地的 | |
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proceedings
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| n.进程，过程，议程；诉讼(程序)；公报 | |
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sleek
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| adj.光滑的，井然有序的；v.使光滑，梳拢 | |
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plantations
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| n.种植园，大农场( plantation的名词复数 ) | |
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plantation
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| n.种植园，大农场 | |
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misery
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| n.痛苦，苦恼，苦难；悲惨的境遇，贫苦 | |
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prominence
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| n.突出；显著；杰出；重要 | |
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vividly
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| adv.清楚地，鲜明地，生动地 | |
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sinister
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| adj.不吉利的，凶恶的，左边的 | |
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32
perused
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| v.读（某篇文字）( peruse的过去式和过去分词 )；（尤指）细阅；审阅；匆匆读或心不在焉地浏览（某篇文字） | |
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parody
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| n.打油诗文，诙谐的改编诗文，拙劣的模仿；v.拙劣模仿，作模仿诗文 | |
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undone
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| a.未做完的，未完成的 | |
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grudge
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| n.不满，怨恨，妒嫉；vt.勉强给，不情愿做 | |
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derive
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| v.取得；导出；引申；来自；源自；出自 | |
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poise
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| vt./vi. 平衡，保持平衡；n.泰然自若，自信 | |
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deliberately
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| adv.审慎地；蓄意地；故意地 | |
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situated
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| adj.坐落在...的，处于某种境地的 | |
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40
consolation
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| n.安慰，慰问 | |
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41
crucible
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| n.坩锅，严酷的考验 | |
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42
dispel
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| vt.驱走，驱散，消除 | |
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43
strutting
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| 加固，支撑物 | |
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44
luncheon
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| n.午宴，午餐，便宴 | |
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45
implicitly
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| adv. 含蓄地, 暗中地, 毫不保留地 | |
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46
attentive
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| adj.注意的，专心的；关心(别人)的，殷勤的 | |
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47
kindly
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| adj.和蔼的，温和的，爽快的；adv.温和地，亲切地 | |
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48
touching
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| adj.动人的，使人感伤的 | |
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49
consignment
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| n.寄售；发货；委托；交运货物 | |
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50
unduly
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| adv.过度地，不适当地 | |
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51
tongs
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| n.钳；夹子 | |
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52
suspense
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| n.（对可能发生的事）紧张感，担心，挂虑 | |
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53
middle-aged
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| adj.中年的 | |
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54
wilfully
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| adv.任性固执地；蓄意地 | |
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