Colonel Kelmscott that day was strangely touched, even before he took up his morning paper. A letter from Granville, posted at Plymouth, had just reached him by the early mail, to tell him that the only son he had ever really loved or cared for on earth had sailed the day before, a disinherited outcast, to seek his fortune in the wild wastes of Africa. How he could break the news to Lady Emily he couldn’t imagine. The Colonel, twisting his white moustache, with a quivering hand on his tremulous lip, hardly dared to realize what their future would seem like. And then—he turned to the paper, and saw to his horror this awful tale of a cold-blooded and cowardly murder, committed on a friend by one who, however little he might choose to acknowledge it, was after all his own eldest10 son, a Kelmscott of Tilgate, as much as Granville himself, in lawful11 wedlock12 duly begotten13.
The proud but broken man gazed at the deadly announcement in blank amaze and agony. His Nemesis14 had come. Guy Waring was his own son—and Guy Waring was a murderer.
He tried to argue with himself at first that this tragic15 result in some strange way justified16 him, after the event, for his own long neglect of his parental17 responsibilities. The young man was no true Kelmscott at heart, he was sure, or such an act as that would have revolted and appalled18 him. He was no true son in reality; his order disowned him. Base blood flowed in his veins19, and made crimes like these conceivable.
“I was right after all,” the Colonel thought, “not to acknowledge these half low-born lads as the heirs of Tilgate. Bad blood will out in the end—and THIS is the result of it.”
And then, with sudden revulsion he thought once more—God help him! How could he say such things in his heart even now of HER, his pure, trustful Lucy? She was better than him in her soul, he knew—ten thousand times better. If bad blood came in anywhere, it came in from himself, not from that simple-hearted, innocent little country-bred angel.
And perhaps if he’d treated these lads as he ought, and brought them up to their own, and made them Kelmscotts indeed, instead of nameless adventurers, they might never have fallen into such abysses of turpitude20. But he had let them grow up in ignorance of their own origin, with the vague stain of a possible illegitimacy hanging over their heads; and what wonder if they forgot in the end how noblesse oblige, and sank at last into foul21 depths of vice22 and criminality?
As he read on, his head swam with the cumulative23 evidence of that deliberately24 planned and cruelly executed yet brutal25 murder. The details of the crime gave him a sickening sense of loathing26 and incredulity. Impossible that his own son could have schemed and carried out so vile27 an attack upon a helpless person, who had once been his nearest and dearest companion. And yet, the account in the paper gave him no alternative but to believe it. Nevitt and Guy Waring had been inseparable friends. They had dined together, supped together, played duets in their own rooms, gone out to the same parties, belonged to the same club, in all things been closer than even the two twin brothers. Some quarrel seemed to have arisen about a matter of speculations28 in which both had suffered. They separated at once—separated in anger. Nevitt went down to Devonshire by himself for his holiday. Then Waring followed him, without any pretence29 at concealment30; inquired for him at the village inn with expressions of deadly hate; tracked him to a lonely place in the adjacent wood; choked him, apparently31 with some form of garotte or twisted rope—for the injuries seemed greater than even the most powerful man could possibly inflict32 with the hands alone; and hid the body of his murdered friend at last in a mossy dell by the bank of the streamlet. Nor was that all; for with callous33 effrontery34 he had returned to the inn, still inquiring after his victim; and had gone off next morning early with a lie on his lips, pretending even then to nurse his undying wrath35 and to be bent36 on following up with coarse threats of revenge his stark37 and silent enemy.
So far the Times. But to Colonel Kelmscott, reading in between the lines as he went, there was more in it than even that. He saw, though dimly, some hint of a motive38. For it was at Mambury that all these things had taken place; and it was at Mambury that the secret of Guy Waring’s descent lay buried, as he thought, in the parish registers. What it all meant, Colonel Kelmscott couldn’t indeed wholly understand; but many things he knew which the writer of the account in the Times knew not. He knew that Nevitt was a clerk in the bank where he himself kept his account, and to which he had given orders to pay in the six thousand to Cyril’s credit, at Cyril’s bankers. He knew, therefore, that Nevitt might thus have been led to suspect the real truth of the case as to the two so-called Warings. He knew that Cyril had just received the six thousand. Trying to put these facts together and understand their meaning he utterly39 failed; but this much at least was clear to him, he thought—the reason for the murder was something connected with a search for the entry of his own clandestine40 marriage.
He looked down at the paper again. Great heavens, what was this? “It is rumoured41 that a further inducement to the crime may perhaps be sought in the fact that the deceased gentleman had a large sum of money in his possession in Bank of England notes at the time of his death. These notes he carried in a pocket-book about his person, where they were seen by the landlord of the Talbot Arms at Mambury, the night before the supposed murder. When the body was discovered by the side of the brook42, two days later, the notes were gone. The pockets were carefully searched by order of the police, but no trace of the missing money could be discovered. It is now conjectured43 that Mr. Guy Waring, who is known to have lost heavily in the Rio Negro Diamond Mines, may have committed the crime from purely44 pecuniary45 motives46, in order to release himself from his considerable and very pressing financial embarrassments47.”
The paper dropped from Colonel Kelmscott’s hands. His eyes ceased to see. His arm fell rigid48. This last horrible suggestion proved too much for him to bear. He shrank from it like poison. That a son of his own, unacknowledged or not, should be a criminal—a murderer—was terrible enough; but that he should even be suspected of having committed murder for such base and vulgar motives as mere49 thirst of gain was more than the blood of the Kelmscotts could put up with. The unhappy father had said to himself in his agony at first that if Guy really killed that prying50 bank clerk at all, it was no doubt in defence of his mother’s honour. THAT was a reason a Kelmscott could understand. That, if not an excuse, was at least a palliation. But to be told he had killed him for a roll of bank-notes—oh, horrible, incredible; his reason drew back at it. That was a depth to which the Kelmscott idiosyncrasy could never descend51. The Colonel in his horror refused to believe it.
He put his hands up feebly to his throbbing52 brow. This was a ghastly idea—a ghastly accusation53. The man called Waring had dragged the honour of the Kelmscotts through the mud of the street. There was but one comfort left. He never bore that unsullied name. Nobody would know he was a Kelmscott of Tilgate.
The Colonel rose from his seat, and staggered across the floor. Half-way to the door, he reeled and stopped short. The veins of his forehead were black and swollen54. He had the same strange feeling in his head as he experienced on the day when Granville left—only a hundred times worse. The two halves of his brain were opening and shutting. His temples seemed too full; he fancied there was something wrong with his forehead somewhere. He reeled once more, like a drunken man. Then he clutched at a chair and sat down. His brain was flooded.
He collapsed55 all at once, mumbling56 to himself some inarticulate gibberish. Half an hour later, the servants came in and found him. He was seated in his chair, still doddering feebly. The house was roused. A doctor was summoned, and the Colonel put to bed. Lady Emily watched him with devoted57 care. But it was all in vain. The doctor shook his head the moment he examined him. “A paralytic58 stroke,” he said gravely; “and a very serious one. He seems to have had a slighter attack some time since, and to have wholly neglected it. A great blood-vessel in the brain must have given way with a rush. I can hold out no hope. He won’t live till morning.”
And indeed, as it turned out, about ten that night the Colonel’s loud and stentorious breathing began to fail slowly. The intervals59 grew longer and longer between each recurrent gasp60, and life died away at last in imperceptible struggles.
By two in the morning, Kelmscott of Tilgate lay dead on his bed; and his two unacknowledged and unrecognised sons were the masters of his property.
But one of them was at that moment being tossed about wildly on the waves of Biscay; and the other was locked up on a charge of murder in the county jail at Tavistock, in Devonshire.
Meanwhile, at the other house at Chetwood, where these tidings were being read with almost equal interest, Elma Clifford laid down the paper on the table with a very pale face, and looked at her mother. Mrs. Clifford, all solicitous61 watchfulness62 for the effect on Elma, looked in return with searching eyes at her daughter. Then Elma opened her lips like one who talks in her sleep, and spoke63 out twice in two short disconnected sentences. The first time she said simply, “He didn’t do it, I know,” and the second time, with all the intensity64 of her emotional nature, “Mother, mother, whatever turns up, I MUST go there.”
“HE will be there,” Mrs. Clifford interposed, after a painful pause.
And Elma answered dreamily, with her great eyes far away, “Yes, of course, I know he will. And I must be there too, to see how far, if at all, I can help them.”
“Yes, darling,” her mother replied, stroking her daughter’s hair with a caressing65 hand. She knew that when Elma spoke in a tone like that, no power on earth could possibly restrain her.
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1
distinguished
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| adj.卓越的，杰出的，著名的 | |
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remarkable
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| adj.显著的，异常的，非凡的，值得注意的 | |
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outrage
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| n.暴行，侮辱，愤怒；vt.凌辱，激怒 | |
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confidential
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| adj.秘（机）密的，表示信任的，担任机密工作的 | |
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pier
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| n.码头；桥墩，桥柱；[建]窗间壁，支柱 | |
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6
triumphant
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| adj.胜利的，成功的；狂欢的，喜悦的 | |
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7
vindication
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| n.洗冤，证实 | |
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8
maligned
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| vt.污蔑，诽谤（malign的过去式与过去分词形式） | |
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9
extremity
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| n.末端，尽头；尽力；终极；极度 | |
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eldest
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| adj.最年长的，最年老的 | |
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lawful
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| adj.法律许可的，守法的，合法的 | |
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12
wedlock
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| n.婚姻，已婚状态 | |
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13
begotten
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| v.为…之生父( beget的过去分词 )；产生，引起 | |
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nemesis
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| n.给以报应者，复仇者，难以对付的敌手 | |
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15
tragic
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| adj.悲剧的，悲剧性的，悲惨的 | |
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16
justified
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| a.正当的，有理的 | |
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parental
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| adj.父母的；父的；母的 | |
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18
appalled
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| v.使惊骇，使充满恐惧( appall的过去式和过去分词)adj.惊骇的；丧胆的 | |
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veins
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| n.纹理；矿脉( vein的名词复数 )；静脉；叶脉；纹理 | |
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20
turpitude
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| n.可耻；邪恶 | |
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21
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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22
vice
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| n.坏事；恶习；[pl.]台钳，老虎钳；adj.副的 | |
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23
cumulative
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| adj.累积的，渐增的 | |
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24
deliberately
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| adv.审慎地；蓄意地；故意地 | |
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brutal
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| adj.残忍的，野蛮的，不讲理的 | |
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26
loathing
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| n.厌恶，憎恨v.憎恨，厌恶( loathe的现在分词)；极不喜欢 | |
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vile
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| adj.卑鄙的，可耻的，邪恶的；坏透的 | |
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28
speculations
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| n.投机买卖( speculation的名词复数 )；思考；投机活动；推断 | |
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29
pretence
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| n.假装，作假；借口，口实；虚伪；虚饰 | |
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concealment
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| n.隐藏, 掩盖，隐瞒 | |
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apparently
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| adv.显然地；表面上，似乎 | |
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32
inflict
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| vt.(on)把…强加给，使遭受，使承担 | |
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callous
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| adj.无情的，冷淡的，硬结的，起老茧的 | |
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effrontery
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| n.厚颜无耻 | |
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wrath
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| n.愤怒，愤慨，暴怒 | |
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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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stark
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| adj.荒凉的；严酷的；完全的；adv.完全地 | |
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38
motive
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| n.动机，目的；adv.发动的，运动的 | |
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utterly
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| adv.完全地，绝对地 | |
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40
clandestine
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| adj.秘密的，暗中从事的 | |
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41
rumoured
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| adj.谣传的；传说的；风 | |
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42
brook
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| n.小河，溪；v.忍受，容让 | |
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43
conjectured
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| 推测，猜测，猜想( conjecture的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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44
purely
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| adv.纯粹地，完全地 | |
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45
pecuniary
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| adj.金钱的；金钱上的 | |
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46
motives
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| n.动机，目的( motive的名词复数 ) | |
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47
embarrassments
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| n.尴尬( embarrassment的名词复数 )；难堪；局促不安；令人难堪或耻辱的事 | |
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48
rigid
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| adj.严格的，死板的；刚硬的，僵硬的 | |
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49
mere
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| adj.纯粹的；仅仅，只不过 | |
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50
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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51
descend
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| vt./vi.传下来，下来，下降 | |
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52
throbbing
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| a. 跳动的,悸动的 | |
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53
accusation
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| n.控告，指责，谴责 | |
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54
swollen
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| adj.肿大的，水涨的；v.使变大，肿胀 | |
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55
collapsed
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| adj.倒塌的 | |
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56
mumbling
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| 含糊地说某事，叽咕，咕哝( mumble的现在分词 ) | |
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devoted
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| adj.忠诚的，忠实的，热心的，献身于...的 | |
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58
paralytic
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| adj. 瘫痪的 n. 瘫痪病人 | |
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59
intervals
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| n.[军事]间隔( interval的名词复数 )；间隔时间；[数学]区间；（戏剧、电影或音乐会的）幕间休息 | |
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60
gasp
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| n.喘息，气喘；v.喘息；气吁吁他说 | |
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61
solicitous
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| adj.热切的，挂念的 | |
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62
watchfulness
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| 警惕，留心； 警觉（性） | |
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63
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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64
intensity
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| n.强烈，剧烈；强度；烈度 | |
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65
caressing
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| 爱抚的，表现爱情的，亲切的 | |
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