Alletha Rye was called. She spoke4 to the fact of finding Mr. Ollivera, dead; and electrified5 the court, when questioned as to why she had gone to the sitting-room6, seeing that it was an entirely7 unusual thing for her to do, by saying that she went in to see whether Mr. Ollivera was there dead, or not. In the quietest, most composed manner possible, she related her singular dream, saying it had sent her to the room.
"Surely," said the coroner, "you did not expect to see Mr. Ollivera dead?"
"I cannot say I did! I went rather to convince myself that he was not there dead," was the witness's answer. "But the dream had been so vivid that I could not shake it from my mind; it made me uneasy, although my better reason did not put any faith in it whatever that it could be true. That is why I went to the room. And Mr. Ollivera lay dead in his chair, exactly as I had seen him in my dream."
The coroner, a practical man, did not know what to make of this statement: such evidence had never been tendered him before, and he eyed the witness keenly. To see her stand there in her black robes, tall, upright, of really dignified8 demeanour, with her fair features and good looks--but there were dark circles round her eyes today, and the soft colour had left her cheeks--to hear her tell of this in her sensible, calm accents, was something marvellous.
"Were you at home on Monday night?" asked the coroner. And it may as well be remarked that some of the questions put by him during the inquest, miscellaneous queries9 that did not appear to be quite in order, or have much to do with the point in question, had very probably their origin in the various rumours10 that had reached him, and in the doubt breathed into his ears by Mr. Kene. The coroner did not in the least agree with Mr. Kene; rather pitied the barrister as a visionary, for allowing himself to glance at such a doubt; but he was fond of diving to the bottom of things. Living in the same town, knowing all the jury personally, in the habit of exchanging a word of news with Mrs. Jones whenever he met her, the coroner may have been excused if the proceedings were slightly irregular, involving some gossip as well as law.
"No," replied the witness. "Except that I ran in for a few minutes. I had been at work that afternoon at a neighbour's, helping11 her to make a gown. I went in home to get a pattern."
"What time was that?"
"I cannot be particular as to the exact time. It must have been nearly eight."
"Did you see the deceased then?"
"No. I did not see any one except the servant. She was standing12 at the open street door. When I had been upstairs to get what I wanted I went out again."
"Did you hear any noise as you passed Mr. Ollivera's rooms?"
"Not any. I do not know anything more of the details, sir, than I have told you."
The next witness called was Mr. Bede Greatorex. He gave his evidence clearly, but at portions of it was evidently under the influence of some natural emotion, which he contrived13 to suppress. A man does not like to show such.
"My name is Bede Greatorex. I am the son of Mr. Greatorex, the well-known London solicitor14, and second partner in the firm Greatorex and Greatorex. The deceased, John Ollivera, was my cousin, his father and my mother having been brother and sister. A matter of business arose connected with a cause to be tried in the Nisi Prius Court, in which Mr. Ollivera was to be the leading counsel, and my father despatched me down on Monday to communicate with him. I arrived by the six o'clock evening train, and was with him before half-past six. We held a business conference together; I stayed about an hour with him, and then went back to my hotel. I never afterwards saw him alive."
"I must put a few questions to you with your permission, Mr. Greatorex, for the satisfaction of the jury," observed the coroner.
"Put as many as you like, sir; I will answer them to the best of my ability," was the reply.
"First of all--what was the exact hour at which you reached Mr. Ollivera's rooms?"
"I should think it must have been about twenty minute after six. The train got in to time, six o'clock; I took a fly to the Star and Garter, and from thence walked at once to Mr. Ollivera's lodgings15, the people at the hotel directing me. The whole could not have taken above twenty minutes."
"And how long did you remain with him?"
"An hour: perhaps rather more. I should think I left him about half-past seven. I was back at the hotel by quarter to eight, having walked slowly, looking at the different features of the streets as I passed. I had never been in the town before."
"Well, now, Mr. Greatorex, what was the manner of the deceased while you were with him? Did you perceive anything unusual?"
"Nothing at all. He was just as he always was, and very glad to see me. We"--the witness paused to swallow his emotion--"we had ever been the best of friends and companions. I thought him a little quiet, dull. As he sat, he bent17 his forehead on his hand and complained of headache, saying it had been close in court that day."
("True enough," murmured Mr. Kene.)
"The news you brought down to him was not bad news?" questioned the coroner.
"Quite the contrary. It was good: favourable18 to our cause."
"Did you see him write the note found on his table, or any portion of it?"
"When the servant showed me into the room, he appeared to be writing a note. As he sat down after shaking hands with me, he put the blotting19 paper over what he had written. He did not take it off again, or write at all while I remained."
"Was it the same note, think you, that was afterwards found?"
"I should think it likely. I noticed that some few lines only were written. About"--the witness paused a moment--"about the same quantity as in the first portion of the note."
"Did he put the blotting paper over it to prevent you seeing it, do you suppose, Mr. Greatorex?"
"I do not know. I thought he was only afraid it might get blotted20. The ink was wet."
"Did any one come in while you were with him?"
"No. I wished him goodnight, intending to see him in the morning, and was shown out by some young man."
"Do you know to whom that note was written?"
"I have not the slightest idea. Neither do I know to what it alludes21."
"Then--your theory, I presume, is--that he added that blotted concluding line after your departure? In fact, just when he was on the point of committing the rash act?"
"I do not see what else can be believed. The pen lay across the words when found, as if thrown there after writing them, and appeared to have caused the blots22."
"Did he say anything to you about any appointment he had kept that afternoon?"
"Not anything."
"And now about the pistol, Mr. Greatorex. Did you see one on the table!"
"Yes."
"Did it not strike you as singular that it should be there?"
"Not at all. Mr. Ollivera never travelled anywhere without a pistol; it was a fancy he had. Some years ago, when in a remote part of Spain, he was attacked in his chamber23 at night, robbed, and rather seriously hurt; since then he has when travelling taken a pistol with him. I asked him what brought it on the table, and he said he had been putting a drop of oil on the lock.
"Did you know that it was loaded?"
"I did not. I really did not think much about it one way or the other. We were busy over the business on which I came down: and I knew as I have said, that he used to carry a pistol with him when travelling."
"Then--in point of fact, Mr. Greatorex, you can throw no positive light on this affair for us?"
The witness shook his head. "I wish I could. I have told you all I know."
"Do you think there can be any reasonable doubt--any doubt whatever--that he committed suicide?"
"I fear there can be none," replied Mr. Greatorex, in a low tone, and he shivered perceptibly as he gave it. It was a crime which Bede Greatorex had always held in shrinking, pitying abhorrence24.
"One question more, and then we will release you and thank you for the clear manner in which you have given your evidence," said the coroner. "Did you see cause to suspect in that last interview that his mind was otherwise than in a sane25 state?"
"Oh no; certainly not."
"It was calm and clear as usual, for all you saw?"
"Quite so."
"Stay. There is one other point. Was the deceased in any kind of embarrassment26, so far as your cognizance goes, pecuniary27, or else?"
"I feel quite sure that he was in no pecuniary embarrassment whatever," returned the witness warmly, anxious to do justice to his cousin's memory. "As to any other kind of embarrassment, I cannot speak. I am aware of none; and I think he was one of the least likely men to get into any."
That was all. Mr. Greatorex bowed to the coroner and gave place to another witness. A little dark woman in black, with an old-fashioned black chip bonnet28 on, and silver threads beginning to mix with her black hair; but her eyebrows29 were very black still. Certainly no two women could present a greater contrast in appearance than she and Miss Rye, although they were sisters.
"Your name is Julia Jones," began the coroner's man, who knew Mrs. Jones intimately in private life.
"Yes, it is Julia Jones," in a tart30 voice, and with an accent on the "Jones," as if the name grated on her tongue. And Mrs. Jones was sworn.
After some preliminary evidence, touching31 Mr. Ollivera's previous visits to her, and the length of time he had stayed, which she entered upon of her own accord and was not checked, Mrs. Jones was asked what she knew of the calamity32. How it was first brought to her knowledge.
"The first was through my sister, Alletha Rye shrieking33 out from the first-floor landing below, a little before seven o'clock on Tuesday morning," responded Mrs. Jones, in the same tart tone; which was, in fact, habitual34 to her. "I was in my bedroom, the front room on the second floor, dressed up to my petticoat, and out I flew, thinking she must be on fire. She said something about Mr. Ollivera, and I ran down, and saw him lying in the chair. Jones's nephew, in his waistcoat and shirtsleeves, and his face all in a lather35, for he was shaving, got into the room when I did."
"When did you see the deceased last, Mrs. Jones?" was the next question put, after the witness had described the appearance of the room, the pistol on the carpet, the blotted note on the table, the quantity of oil in the lamp, and so forth36.
"When did I see him last? why on the Monday afternoon, when he came in from court," responded Mrs. Jones. "I was crossing the hall at the foot of the stairs, between the parlour and the shop, as he came in. He looked tired, and I said so; and he answered that he had been about all day, in the court and elsewhere, and was tired. That's when I saw him last: never after, till I saw him in his chair, dead."
"You heard nothing of his movements on that evening?"
"I wasn't likely to hear it, seeing I went out as soon as the shop was shut. Before it, in fact, for I left Jones's nephew to put up the shutters37. Old Jenkins is dying, as all the parish knows, and I went to sit with him and take him some beef-tea. Jones's nephew, he went out too, to his debating club, as he calls it. And precious debating it must be," continued Mrs. Jones, with additional tartness38, "if the debaters are all as green and soft as he! Alletha Rye, she was at work at Mrs. Wilson's: and so, as ill-luck had it, all the house was out."
"Except your servant, Susan Marks," observed one of the jury. "She was left at home to keep house, we hear."
"And in a very pretty manner she did keep it!" retorted Mrs. Jones, as if she had taken a pint39 of vinegar to set her teeth on edge; when Susan Marks, at the back, gave a kind of groan40, and burst into fresh tears. "Up the street here, down the street there, over the way at the doors yonder, staring, and gossiping, and gampusing--that's how she kept it. And on an assize night, of all nights in the year, to be airing her cap in the street, when barristers and other loose characters are about!"
The gratuitous41 compliment paid to the barristers raised a laugh, in spite of the sad inquiry42 the court had met upon. Mrs. Jones's epithet43 sounded, however, worse to others than to herself.
"And she could tell me, when I got in just before eleven, that Mr. Ollivera had gone to bed!" resumed that lady, in intense aggravation44: "which, of course, I believed, and we all went up to our rooms, suspecting nothing. Let me ever catch her out at the street door again! home she'll go to Upton Snodsbury."
Groans45 from the back, in the vicinity of Susan Marks.
"Had you known previously46, Mrs. Jones, that Mr. Ollivera was in the habit of bringing with him a loaded pistol?"
"Yes; for he told me. One day last October, when I was up dusting his drawing-room, he had got it out of the case. I said I should not like to have such a weapon near me, and he laughed at that. He used to keep it on the chest of drawers in his bedroom: that is, the case; and I suppose the thing itself was inside."
"Your husband was not at home when this unfortunate event happened, Mrs. Jones?"
"No, he was not," assented47 Mrs. Jones; and it was as if she had swallowed a whole gallon of vinegar now. "He has been off to Wales last week and this, and is as likely as not to be there next."
Another question or two, not of much import, and Mrs. Jones gave place to her husband's nephew. He was known in the town for a steady, well-conducted young man, quite trustworthy. He had not very much to tell.
"My name is Alfred Jones," he said, "and I live with my uncle, Richard Jones, as assistant in the shop----"
"----Which wouldn't want any assistant at all, if Jones stayed at home and stuck to his duties," put in Mrs. Jones's sharp voice from the back. Upon which she was admonished48 to hold her tongue: and the witness continued.
"On Monday night, I put up the shutters at seven, as usual in the winter season; I changed my coat, washed my hands, and went to the debating club in Goose Lane. Soon after I got there I found I had forgotten a book that I ought to have taken back to the club's library. The time for my keeping it was up, and as we are fined twopence if we keep a book over time, I went back to get it. It was then half-past seven. The street door was open, and Susan, the servant, was standing at it outside. As I ran up the stairs, the book being in my bedroom at the top of the house, I heard the drawing-room door open just after I passed it; I turned my head, and saw a gentleman come out. He----"
"Did you know him, witness?"
"No, sir, he was a stranger to me. I know him now for Mr. Greatorex. He was talking to Mr. Ollivera. They were making an appointment for the next morning."
"Did you hear what was said?"
"Yes, sir. As I looked round at the gentleman he was turning his head back to the room, and said, 'Yes, you may rely upon my coming early; I'll be here before nine o'clock. Goodnight, John.' Those were, I think, the exact words, sir."
"Did you see Mr. Ollivera?"
"No, sir, he did not come out, and the gentleman only pushed the door back a little while he spoke. If it had been wide open I couldn't have seen in; I was too far, some two or three steps up the stairs. I turned back then to attend Mr. Greatorex to the street door. After that I ran up for my book, and left the house again. I was not two minutes in it altogether."
"Did you see Mr. Ollivera as you came down?"
"No, sir. The drawing-room door was closed, as Mr. Greatorex had left it. I never saw or heard of Mr. Ollivera again until Miss Rye's screams brought me down the next morning. That is all I know."
"At what hour did you go home on Monday evening?"
"It was close upon eleven, sir. We generally disperse49 at half-past ten but we stayed late that night. Mrs. Jones and Miss Rye had not long come in, and were in the sitting-room."
The next witness called was Susan Marks. The young woman, what with her own heinous50 offences on the eventful night, the dreadful calamity itself, and the reproaches of her mistress, had been in a state of tears ever since, fresh bursts breaking forth at the most unseasonable times.
Susan Marks, aged51 nineteen, native of Upton Snodsbury, cook and servant-of-all-work to Mrs. Jones. Such was the young woman's report of herself, as well as could be heard for her sobs52 and tears. She was attired53 neatly54 and well; in a print mourning gown and straw bonnet trimmed with black; her face, that would otherwise have been fresh and clear, had small patches of red upon it, the result of the many tears and of perpetual rubbing.
"Now, young woman," said the coroner briskly, as if he thought time was being lost, "what have you to tell us of the events of Monday night?"
"Nothing, sir," replied the young woman, in a fresh burst of grief that could be called nothing less than a howl. "I never see Mr. Ollivera at all after I showed the gentleman up to him."
"Well, let us hear about that. What time was it?"
"It was past six, sir; I don't know how much. I had washed up Mr. Ollivera's dinner things, and was putting the plates and dishes on the dresser shelves, when Mr. Ollivera's bell rang. It was for his lamp, which I lighted and took in: he always wanted it afore daylight was well over when he was busy. He seemed in a hurry, and drew down the window-blinds himself. I lighted the gas-burner outside the drawing-room door, and went back to the kitchen. No sooner was I there--leastways it couldn't have been five minutes--when there came a ring at the street door bell. I went to answer it, and saw a tall gentleman, who asked for Mr. Ollivera, and I showed him upstairs to the drawing-room."
"Who was that gentleman?"
"It was Mr. Greatorex. But I didn't know him then, sir. I thought it was a barrister; he didn't give no name."
"Did you see Mr. Ollivera when you took this gentleman up?"
"Yes, sir. He was sitting with his back towards us, writing at the table, and I see the things on it. I hadn't noticed them much when I took the lamp in. I see the papers put together tidy, which had been all about when he was at his dinner. I think he was very busy that evening," urged the witness, as if the fact might plead an excuse for what afterwards took place: "when I removed the dinner things he told me to put the sherry wine away on the sideboard; sometimes if he wanted to drink any, he'd have it left on the table."
"Did he seem glad to see Mr. Greatorex?"
"Yes, sir, very. They shook hands, and Mr. Greatorex began telling him what he had come down about, and said his father had sent him in place of telegrumming. I asked Mr. Ollivera what time he'd like to have tea, but he said he didn't know whether he should take any, he might be going out; if he wanted it, he'd ring. How was I to think, after that, that I ought to have went up to him, to see how he might be getting on, which missis has been a going on at me ever since for not doing?" demanded the witness with a stream of tears.
"Come, come! there, wipe your face," said one of the jury, with gruff kindness. And the questions went on, and the witness's replies.
It was about an hour that Mr. Greatorex stayed, she thought She saw him come out at the street door, and go away. Well, yes, she was a yard or two off, at a neighbour's door, next house but one. After missis went out and the shop was shut, and Alfred Jones went out, and there wasn't nobody indoors to want her, she thought it no harm to stand at the street door a bit: and if she did go a step or two away from it, she never took her eyes off the door, and no person could go in or out without her seeing them and that she'd swear. She saw Mr. Greatorex come out and walk away up High Street; and she never heard no sound in the house whatsoever55.
"Did any one go in?" the coroner asked.
"No, sir, not a soul--barring Alfred Jones and Miss Rye Alfred Jones came back after he first went out, saying that he had forgot something, and he went upstairs to fetch it. He wasn't there no time; and it was while he was up there that Mr. Greatorex came down and left. Soon after that, Miss Rye, she come in, and went upstairs, and was there ever so long."
"What do you call 'ever so long'?"
"Well, sir, I'm sure she was there a quarter of an hour," returned the witness, in a quick, positive sort of tone, as if the fact of Miss Rye's being there so long displeased56 her. "I ought to know; and me a-standing inside the doorsill, afraid to move off it for fear she should come out."
"Were you alone?"
"Well, yes, sir, I was. Mary, the housemaid at the big linendraper's next door but one, can bear me out that I was, for she was there all the time, talking to me."
Perhaps the coroner thought the answer savoured of Hibernianism, for something like a smile crossed his face.
"And you heard no sound whatever upstairs all the evening, Susan Marks? You saw no one, except the persons mentioned, go in or come out; no stranger?"
"I never heard no sound, and never saw no stranger at all," said the witness, earnestly. "I never even saw Godfrey Pitman leave. But I b'lieve he was away earlier."
The concluding assertion fell with some surprise on the room; there ensued a pause, and the coroner lifted his head sharply. Godfrey Pitman? Who was Godfrey Pitman?
"Who is Godfrey Pitman, witness?"
"It was the lodger57 at the top of the house, sir. He had the front bedroom there--and a fine dance it was to carry his meals up. Missis gave him the offer of eating them in the little room off the kitchen, but I suppose he was too proud to come down. Anyway, he didn't come."
"Is he lodging16 there now?"
"Oh no, sir, he was only there a week and a day, and left on the Monday. He was a traveller in the spectacles line, he told me, passing through the town; which he likewise wore himself sometimes. Well, sir, I never see him go at all, and he didn't never give me a shilling for having waited on him and carried his trays up all them stairs."
The girl had told apparently58 what she knew, and the coroner requested Mrs. Jones to come in again. He questioned her about the lodger.
"It was a person of the name of Pitman," she answered, readily. "He was only passing through the town, and occupied the room for a week."
"Who was he?" asked the coroner. "Did you know him?"
"I didn't know him from Adam," answered Mrs. Jones, tartly59; "I didn't know anything about him. I called him Alletha Rye's lodger, not mine, for it was she who picked him up. He may have told her all about himself, for aught I can say: she seemed to take a desperate fancy to him, and mended his travelling bag. He didn't tell me. Not but what he seemed a civil, respectable man."
"When did he leave you, Mrs. Jones?"
"On Monday, about half-past four, when he took the five o'clock train for Birmingham. He came to the inner shop door as he was going out, and thanked me for my kindness, as he called it, in taking him in at a pitch; he said it was not what every one would do for a stranger. Neither is it."
"You are sure he left you at that hour?"
"Have I got the use of my eyes and senses?" demanded Mrs. Jones. "Sure! I walked to the side door after him, and saw him go up the street towards the railway with his blue bag. Of course I am sure. It was as I crossed the hall, on my way back, that Mr. Ollivera came in, and I spoke to him as I have told you."
It was therefore placed beyond doubt that the lodger, Mr. Pitman, could have no part or act in what took place in the house later. The coroner would have dismissed the subject summarily, but that one of the jury, a man who liked to hear himself talk, expressed an opinion that it might be satisfactory if they questioned Miss Rye. With a gesture of impatience60 the coroner called for her.
She came in, was asked what she knew of Mr. Pitman, and stood before them in silence, her face a little bent, her forefinger61, encased in its well-fitting black kid glove, pressed lightly on her lip, her clear blue eye looking out straight before her. It was as if she were trying to recall something to her memory.
"I recollect62 now," she said, after a minute "I could not remember what took me up by the railway station where I met him. It was on last Sunday week, in the afternoon. Mrs. Hillman, who lives up there, was ill, and I had been to see her. As I was leaving her house, towards dusk, a few passengers were coming down from the station. I stood on the doorstep until they should have passed; and one of them, who had a blue bag in his hand, like those that lawyers' clerks carry, stopped and asked me if I had a room in my house that I could let him occupy for a week. I supposed he took the house where I stood for mine. He went on to say he was a traveller and stranger, had never before been to the town, felt very poorly, and would very much wish to be spared the bustle63 of an hotel. I knew that my sister, Mrs. Jones had a bedroom ready for letting," continued Miss Rye, "and I thought she might not object to oblige him; he spoke quite as a gentleman, and I felt rather sorry for him, for he looked haggard and ill. That is how it happened."
"And your sister admitted him, and he stayed the week?" cried the juror.
"Strictly64 speaking, I admitted him; for when we reached home I found Mrs. Jones had gone to sit with old Jenkins for the rest of the day. So I took it upon myself to do so. On Saturday last Mr. Pitman said he would, with our permission, remain a day over the week, and leave on Monday.
"And did he pay the rent, Miss Rye?" asked the juror, who perhaps had a doubt on the point.
"He paid the first week's rent as soon as he was admitted to the house, and gave a sovereign towards the purchase of his provisions," was the answer. "What remained he settled for on the Monday, previous to his departure by the five o'clock train for Birmingham."
"Who was he, witness? Where did he come from?"
"I really cannot tell much about him," was Miss Rye's reply. "I understood him to say he was a traveller; his name, as he wrote it down for us, was Godfrey Pitman. He was laid up with a bad cold and relaxed throat all the time he stayed, and borrowed some books of me to read."
There appeared to be no further scope for the exercise of the juror's powers; no possible loophole for bringing this departed Mr. Godfrey Pitman into connection with the death of Mr. Ollivera; and Miss Rye was allowed to depart.
Little more evidence was to be gleaned65. Mr. Kene, tendering evidence, spoke of his long intimacy66 with the deceased, and of their last interview, when he was just the same that he ever had been: calm, cheerful, earnest-purposed. He could not understand, he added, how it was possible for Mr. Ollivera to have laid violent hands on himself--unless, indeed, the headache, of which he had complained, had proceeded from some derangement67 of the functions of the brain, and induced temporary insanity68.
But this suggested theory was wholly incompatible69 with the letter that had been found, and with Mr. Bede Greatorex's testimony of the sane mind of the deceased when he quitted him. The jury shook their heads: keen-eyed Mr. Butterby, looking on unobtrusively from a remote nook of the room, shook his.
The inquest drew to a close; the one fatal element in the evidence being the letter found on the table. The coroner and jury debated upon their verdict with closed doors, and only re-admitted the public when they had decided70: It did not take them long.
"Felo-de-se."
In accordance with the customary usage, a mandate71 was issued for a night interment, without Christian72 rites73; and the undertaker promised to be ready for that same night.
The crowd filed out of the room, talking eagerly. That it was undoubtedly74 a case of self-murder, and that in the most unhappy sense of the word, none doubted. No, not one: even Mr. Kene began to waver.
As they were dispersing75 hither and thither76 along the street, there came hastily up a young man in the garb77 of a clergyman. It was the Reverend Henry William Ollivera, brother of the deceased gentleman. He had just arrived by train. In as few words as possible, his cousin, Frank Greatorex, and Mr. Kene imparted to him some hasty particulars of the unhappy event.
"He never did it," said the clergyman, solemnly. "Bede"--for at that moment Bede Greatorex joined the speakers--"how could you suffer them to bring in a verdict so horrible?"
But Mr. Ollivera had not heard the full details yet. By common consent, as it were, they had not at first told him of the letter. Bede would not tell it now. Let the worst come out to him by degrees thought he.
"I am going up to town," said Bede Greatorex. "If----"
"And not stay for tonight?" interrupted one of them, in an accent that savoured of reproach.
"Nay78, I must consider my father," was the grave reply of Bede. "He is in suspense79 all this while, waiting for news."
So they parted. Bede Greatorex hastened to catch the departing train for London. And the others remained to see the last of the ill-fated John Ollivera.
He was carried out of Mr. Jones's in the bright moonlight, soon after eleven o'clock had struck. Whether intentionally80, as best befitting the scanty81 ceremony to be performed, or whether in accidental forgetfulness the undertaker had failed to provide a covering for the coffin82. And Mrs. Jones, with sundry83 sharp and stinging words of reprimand to the man, as it was in the nature of Mrs. Jones's tongue to give, brought down a long woollen black scarf-shawl, and helped to spread it over the coffin with her own hands.
Thus the procession started, preceded by many curious gazers, followed by more, Alletha Rye stealing on amidst the latter number; and so went on to the place of interment.
You have seen what took place there.
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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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testimony
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penetrated
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| adj. 击穿的，鞭辟入里的 动词penetrate的过去式和过去分词形式 | |
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spoke
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electrified
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sitting-room
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entirely
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| ad.全部地，完整地；完全地，彻底地 | |
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dignified
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| a.可敬的，高贵的 | |
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queries
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| n.问题( query的名词复数 )；疑问；询问；问号v.质疑，对…表示疑问( query的第三人称单数 )；询问 | |
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rumours
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| n.传闻( rumour的名词复数 )；风闻；谣言；谣传 | |
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helping
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| n.食物的一份&adj.帮助人的，辅助的 | |
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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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contrived
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| adj.不自然的，做作的；虚构的 | |
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solicitor
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| n.初级律师，事务律师 | |
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lodgings
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| n. 出租的房舍, 寄宿舍 | |
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lodging
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| n.寄宿，住所；(大学生的)校外宿舍 | |
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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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favourable
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| adj.赞成的，称赞的，有利的，良好的，顺利的 | |
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blotting
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| 吸墨水纸 | |
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blotted
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| 涂污( blot的过去式和过去分词 )； （用吸墨纸）吸干 | |
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alludes
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| 提及，暗指( allude的第三人称单数 ) | |
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blots
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| 污渍( blot的名词复数 )； 墨水渍； 错事； 污点 | |
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chamber
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| n.房间，寝室；会议厅；议院；会所 | |
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abhorrence
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| n.憎恶；可憎恶的事 | |
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sane
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| adj.心智健全的，神志清醒的，明智的，稳健的 | |
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embarrassment
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| n.尴尬；使人为难的人(事物)；障碍；窘迫 | |
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pecuniary
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| adj.金钱的；金钱上的 | |
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bonnet
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| n.无边女帽；童帽 | |
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eyebrows
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| 眉毛( eyebrow的名词复数 ) | |
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tart
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| adj.酸的；尖酸的，刻薄的；n.果馅饼；淫妇 | |
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touching
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| adj.动人的，使人感伤的 | |
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calamity
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| n.灾害，祸患，不幸事件 | |
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shrieking
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| v.尖叫( shriek的现在分词 ) | |
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habitual
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| adj.习惯性的；通常的，惯常的 | |
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lather
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| n.(肥皂水的)泡沫，激动 | |
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forth
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| adv.向前；向外，往外 | |
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shutters
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| 百叶窗( shutter的名词复数 )； （照相机的）快门 | |
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tartness
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| n.酸，锋利 | |
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pint
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| n.品脱 | |
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groan
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| vi./n.呻吟，抱怨；(发出)呻吟般的声音 | |
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gratuitous
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| adj.无偿的，免费的；无缘无故的，不必要的 | |
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inquiry
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| n.打听，询问，调查，查问 | |
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epithet
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| n.（用于褒贬人物等的）表述形容词，修饰语 | |
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aggravation
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| n.烦恼，恼火 | |
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groans
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| n.呻吟，叹息( groan的名词复数 )；呻吟般的声音v.呻吟( groan的第三人称单数 )；发牢骚；抱怨；受苦 | |
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previously
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| adv.以前，先前（地） | |
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assented
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| 同意，赞成( assent的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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admonished
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| v.劝告( admonish的过去式和过去分词 )；训诫；（温和地）责备；轻责 | |
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disperse
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| vi.使分散；使消失；vt.分散；驱散 | |
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heinous
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| adj.可憎的，十恶不赦的 | |
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aged
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| adj.年老的，陈年的 | |
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sobs
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| 啜泣（声），呜咽（声）( sob的名词复数 ) | |
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attired
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| adj.穿着整齐的v.使穿上衣服，使穿上盛装( attire的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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neatly
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| adv.整洁地，干净地，灵巧地，熟练地 | |
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whatsoever
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| adv.（用于否定句中以加强语气）任何；pron.无论什么 | |
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displeased
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| a.不快的 | |
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57
lodger
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| n.寄宿人，房客 | |
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apparently
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| adv.显然地；表面上，似乎 | |
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tartly
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| adv.辛辣地，刻薄地 | |
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impatience
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| n.不耐烦，急躁 | |
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forefinger
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| n.食指 | |
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62
recollect
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| v.回忆，想起，记起，忆起，记得 | |
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63
bustle
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| v.喧扰地忙乱，匆忙，奔忙；n.忙碌；喧闹 | |
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strictly
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| adv.严厉地，严格地；严密地 | |
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gleaned
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| v.一点点地收集（资料、事实）( glean的过去式和过去分词 )；（收割后）拾穗 | |
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intimacy
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| n.熟悉，亲密，密切关系，亲昵的言行 | |
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derangement
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| n.精神错乱 | |
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68
insanity
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| n.疯狂，精神错乱；极端的愚蠢，荒唐 | |
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incompatible
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| adj.不相容的，不协调的，不相配的 | |
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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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mandate
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| n.托管地；命令，指示 | |
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Christian
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| adj.基督教徒的；n.基督教徒 | |
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rites
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| 仪式，典礼( rite的名词复数 ) | |
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undoubtedly
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| adv.确实地，无疑地 | |
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dispersing
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| adj. 分散的 动词disperse的现在分词形式 | |
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76
thither
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| adv.向那里；adj.在那边的，对岸的 | |
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garb
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| n.服装，装束 | |
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78
nay
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| adv.不；n.反对票，投反对票者 | |
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suspense
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| n.（对可能发生的事）紧张感，担心，挂虑 | |
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intentionally
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| ad.故意地，有意地 | |
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81
scanty
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| adj.缺乏的，仅有的，节省的，狭小的，不够的 | |
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82
coffin
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| n.棺材，灵柩 | |
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sundry
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| adj.各式各样的，种种的 | |
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