To him I explained the whole of the curious circumstances, our exciting search after the hidden loot, and our utter failure—a narrative3 which interested him greatly, and caused him to become enthusiastic in his desire to render us assistance. I introduced him to Seal, Reilly, and old Staffurth, and we all closely analyzed4 his story, which at first seemed so extraordinary to us as to be beyond credence5. Seal, however, as a practical seaman6, examined the plan which Usher drew, and gave it as his opinion that the Seahorse had been preserved in the manner described by Usher. His theory was that the antique vessel7 had been battened down for a storm, and that the rudder being carried away the men on board were helpless. The gale8 also carried away the masts and blew the wreck9 over the bar into the river, where she became wedged by the rocky ledge10, as Usher described. Then a sudden flood of the river caused the waters to rise so rapidly that before the crew could open the hatches and escape the vessel became submerged.
I suggested that the reason the crew stayed below was that being storm-driven to the land of their enemies, the Corsairs, they feared attack, therefore remained within their stronghold, hoping to float away when the gale abated11, but were unfortunately overwhelmed so suddenly that escape became impossible. Death had no doubt come upon them quickly, for we recollected12 that the interior showed no sign of recent fighting, and that asphyxiation13 was evidently the cause of death.
The fate of Bennett and his men in that underground burrow14 caused us considerable apprehension15. We had, up to the present, successfully combated the efforts of the gang to secure the treasure, but so ingenious and ubiquitous were our enemies that we knew not when or where they would turn up again. Reilly was of opinion that they were entombed, but my own idea was that with Black Bennett as leader they would certainly escape in some ingenious manner or other. I had a kind of intuition that we had not yet seen the last of that interesting quartette.
So far as we were concerned we had given up all hope of discovering the gold at Caldecott Manor16. It was surely tantalizing17 to read that long list of the treasure in English, covering eighteen pages in the vellum book—plates and dishes of gold, jewels in profusion18, collars of pearls, jewelled swords, packets of uncut gems19, golden cups, and “seven chests of yron each fylled wyth monie,” a list of objects which, if sold, meant an ample fortune.
Accompanied by Reilly, I visited the house at Kilburn wherein the secret tragedy had been enacted20. We had but little difficulty in finding it, a good-sized semi-detached place lying back behind some dark green railings. A board showed that it was to let, and having obtained the key at a house-agent’s in Edgware Road, we went over it as prospective21 tenants22. The furniture had been removed, but on the floor-boards of the upstairs room in which the helpless man had been so foully24 done to death we found a small dark stain, the size of a man’s palm—the stain of blood. It was, according to Reilly, the exact spot where the poor young fellow lay, his life-blood having soaked through the carpet.
We looked outside the window, and there saw the great hole in the conservatory25 roof through which my companion had fallen, while a piece of broken lattice-work hung away from the wall. The autumn sunshine fell full upon that dark stain on the floor, but the attention of the observer would not have been attracted thereby26; it was brown, like other stains one so often sees upon deal flooring, and none would ever dream that it was evidence of a foul23 and cowardly crime.
On the following day I called upon Dorothy at Cornwall Road, and almost her first words were to convey to me a piece of news from Rockingham—namely, that old Ben Knutton had met with a fatal accident. While in a state of intoxication27 two nights before he had attempted to cross the river by the foot-bridge that leads to Great Easton, had missed his footing, fallen in, and been drowned. There was no suspicion of foul play, as a young labourer named Thoms had been with him, and had been unable to save him. The inquest had been held on the previous day at the Sonde Arms, and a verdict of “Accidental Death” returned.
The old fellow was a sad inebriate28, it was true, but in common with Dorothy, I felt a certain amount of regret at his tragic29 end. Had it not been for the presence of a witness I should certainly have suspected foul play.
“Have you heard anything of your friends Bennett or Purvis?” I asked her as we sat together.
“Mr. Purvis was here last night,” she answered. “He has told me how you entrapped30 them in that subterranean31 passage.”
“Then they have escaped!” I cried. “Tell me how they managed it!”
“It appears that on leaving the Manor, and descending32 into the secret way, they found that you had removed the planks33 that bridged the well. They returned to the Manor only to discover that you had also closed down the exit securely.”
“What did they do then?”
“Well, for a time there seemed no solution of the problem until Mr. Bennett, more ingenious than the rest, suggested that they should dig a hole straight upwards34 from the roof of the passage. This they did, and in half an hour emerged in the centre of a cornfield!”
“By Jove!” I cried, laughing. “I never thought of that! Then they are all four back in London again?”
“I think so. It seems as though they have, like you, given up all hope of making any discovery.”
“Yes,” I said, with a sigh, “we are, unfortunately, no nearer the truth than we were when we started.” My eye fell upon the mantelshelf, and I noticed that in place of the portrait of the dead man there was now a photograph of a well-known actor. She had removed it, and had probably placed the picture among her most treasured possessions.
This thought pained me. It was on the tip of my tongue to refer to it, but I feared to give her annoyance35.
I openly declare that I now thought far more of my sweet and winsome36 love than I did of that sordid37 treasure. The first-named was a living reality, the soft-voiced woman who was my all-in-all; but the latter was nothing more than a mere38 phantom39, as fortune is so very often.
While my friends still discussed the ways and means of solving the problem I thought only of her, for I loved her with all my heart and with all my soul. How I wished she would set my troubled thoughts at rest regarding the poor fellow who had been done to death at Kilburn, yet when I recollected the reason of her secrecy40 I saw that she was held silent for fear of consequences. Hers was a secret—but surely not a guilty one.
Still she had admitted to me having loved him, and that had aroused the fierce fire of jealousy41 within me. I felt that I had a right to know who and what he was.
We sat chatting together, as lovers will, and when evening fell we went out together and dined at a restaurant. I suppose that if we had regarded conventionalities I ought not to have visited her at her lodgings42, yet I found her a woman overwhelmed by a sadness; one in whose life there had been so little joy, and whose future was only a blank sea of despair. My presence, I think, cheered her, for her soft cheeks flushed, her eyes grew bright when she chatted with me, and her breast heaved and fell when I spoke43 of my affection.
She was so different to other women; so calm, so thoughtful, so sweet of temperament44, though I knew that in her inner consciousness she was suffering all the tortures which come to the human mind when overshadowed by a crime. It was because of that I tried to take her out of herself, to give her a little pleasure beyond that dreary45 street in Bayswater, and to prevent her thoughts ever wandering back to that terrible night in Kilburn when those brutal46 men forced her to touch the cold, white face of the dead.
When dining together in the big hall of the Trocadero the crowd and the music brightened her, for evening gaiety in London is infectious, and she expressed pleasure that we had gone there. Over dinner I told her how for the present we had abandoned the search at Caldecott, and related to her Usher’s remarkable47 story.
“And this man Bennett actually cast the poor fellow away without food or water!” she cried, when she had heard me to the end. “Why, that was as much murder as the shooting of the unfortunate Dane! I hate the man, Paul!” she added. “Truth to tell, I myself live in fear of him. He would not hesitate to kill me—that I know.”
“No, no,” I said reassuringly48. “He dare not do that. Besides, you now have me as your protector, Dorothy.” And I looked straight into her great dark eyes.
“Ah! I know,” she faltered49. “But—well, there are reasons why I fear he may carry out his threat.”
“What!” I exclaimed. “Has he threatened you?”
She was silent for a few moments, then nodded in the affirmative.
I knew the reason. It was because she was aware of the secret at Kilburn. Perhaps he feared she might expose him, just as ten years before he had feared Robert Usher.
“If he attempts to harm you it will be the worse for him!” I cried quickly. “Remember we have in Seal and Usher witnesses who could bring him to the criminal dock. At present, however, both men are remaining silent. The whole truth is not yet revealed. There is still another crime of which certain persons have knowledge—a tragedy in London, not long ago.”
Her face blanched50 in an instant, and next second I regretted that I had hinted at her secret.
“What is that?” she asked in a hollow voice, not daring to look me in the face.
But I managed to turn the conversation without replying to her question, and resolved that in future, although anxiety might consume me, I would refrain from further mention of the ugly affair. She would tell me nothing—indeed, how could she, implicated51 as she was, even though innocent?
Yet I hated to think that my love should be an associate of those malefactors, and was striving to devise a plan by which she might escape from her terrible thraldom52.
After dinner I suggested the play, and we went together to see an amusing comedy. But afterwards, as I sat beside her in the cab on our return to Bayswater, she sighed, saying?—
“Forgive me, Paul, but somehow I fear the future. I am too happy—and I know that this perfect contentment cannot last. I am one of those doomed53 from birth to disappointment and unhappiness. It has been ever so throughout my life—it is so now.”
“No, no, dearest,” I declared, taking her little gloved hand in mine. “You have enemies, just as I have, but if we assist each other we may successfully checkmate them. This fight for a fortune is a desperate one, it is true, but up to the present it has been a drawn54 game, while we hold the honours—our mutual55 love.”
She gripped my hand in silence, but it was more expressive56 than any words could have been. I knew that she placed her whole trust in me.
Yes, ours was a strange wooing—brief, passionate57, and complete. But I felt confident that, even though she might have entertained an affection for the man so ruthlessly assassinated58 at Kilburn, she loved me truly and well.
In that belief I remained perfectly59 content. She was mine, mine alone, and I desired no more. For me her affection was all-sufficient. I had searched for a hidden treasure, and found the greatest on earth—perfect love.
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1
usher
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| n.带位员，招待员；vt.引导，护送；vi.做招待，担任引座员 | |
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abode
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| n.住处，住所 | |
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narrative
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| n.叙述，故事；adj.叙事的，故事体的 | |
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analyzed
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| v.分析( analyze的过去式和过去分词 )；分解；解释；对…进行心理分析 | |
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credence
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| n.信用，祭器台，供桌，凭证 | |
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seaman
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| n.海员，水手，水兵 | |
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vessel
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| n.船舶；容器，器皿；管，导管，血管 | |
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gale
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| n.大风，强风，一阵闹声（尤指笑声等） | |
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wreck
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| n.失事，遇难；沉船；vt.(船等)失事，遇难 | |
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ledge
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| n.壁架，架状突出物；岩架，岩礁 | |
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abated
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| 减少( abate的过去式和过去分词 )； 减去； 降价； 撤消（诉讼） | |
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recollected
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| adj.冷静的；镇定的；被回忆起的；沉思默想的v.记起，想起( recollect的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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asphyxiation
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| n. 窒息 | |
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burrow
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| vt.挖掘(洞穴)；钻进；vi.挖洞；翻寻；n.地洞 | |
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apprehension
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| n.理解，领悟；逮捕，拘捕；忧虑 | |
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manor
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| n.庄园，领地 | |
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tantalizing
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| adj.逗人的；惹弄人的；撩人的；煽情的v.逗弄，引诱，折磨( tantalize的现在分词 ) | |
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profusion
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| n.挥霍；丰富 | |
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gems
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| growth； economy； management； and customer satisfaction 增长 | |
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enacted
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| 制定（法律），通过（法案）( enact的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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prospective
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| adj.预期的，未来的，前瞻性的 | |
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tenants
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| n.房客( tenant的名词复数 )；佃户；占用者；占有者 | |
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23
foul
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| adj.污秽的；邪恶的；v.弄脏；妨害；犯规；n.犯规 | |
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foully
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| ad.卑鄙地 | |
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conservatory
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| n.温室，音乐学院；adj.保存性的，有保存力的 | |
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thereby
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| adv.因此，从而 | |
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intoxication
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| n.wild excitement;drunkenness；poisoning | |
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inebriate
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| v.使醉 | |
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tragic
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| adj.悲剧的，悲剧性的，悲惨的 | |
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entrapped
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| v.使陷入圈套，使入陷阱( entrap的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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subterranean
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| adj.地下的，地表下的 | |
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descending
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| n. 下行 adj. 下降的 | |
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33
planks
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| （厚）木板( plank的名词复数 )； 政纲条目，政策要点 | |
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upwards
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| adv.向上，在更高处...以上 | |
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annoyance
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| n.恼怒，生气，烦恼 | |
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winsome
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| n.迷人的，漂亮的 | |
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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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mere
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| adj.纯粹的；仅仅，只不过 | |
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phantom
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| n.幻影，虚位，幽灵；adj.错觉的，幻影的，幽灵的 | |
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40
secrecy
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| n.秘密，保密，隐蔽 | |
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41
jealousy
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| n.妒忌，嫉妒，猜忌 | |
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42
lodgings
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| n. 出租的房舍, 寄宿舍 | |
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43
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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temperament
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| n.气质，性格，性情 | |
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dreary
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| adj.令人沮丧的，沉闷的，单调乏味的 | |
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brutal
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| adj.残忍的，野蛮的，不讲理的 | |
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47
remarkable
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| adj.显著的，异常的，非凡的，值得注意的 | |
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reassuringly
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| ad.安心，可靠 | |
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49
faltered
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| （嗓音）颤抖( falter的过去式和过去分词 )； 支吾其词； 蹒跚； 摇晃 | |
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50
blanched
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| v.使变白( blanch的过去式 )；使（植物）不见阳光而变白；酸洗（金属）使有光泽；用沸水烫（杏仁等）以便去皮 | |
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51
implicated
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| adj.密切关联的；牵涉其中的 | |
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52
thraldom
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| n.奴隶的身份，奴役，束缚 | |
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doomed
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| 命定的 | |
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54
drawn
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| v.拖，拉，拔出；adj.憔悴的，紧张的 | |
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mutual
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| adj.相互的，彼此的；共同的，共有的 | |
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56
expressive
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| adj.表现的，表达…的，富于表情的 | |
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57
passionate
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| adj.热情的，热烈的，激昂的，易动情的，易怒的，性情暴躁的 | |
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58
assassinated
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| v.暗杀( assassinate的过去式和过去分词 )；中伤；诋毁；破坏 | |
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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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