Lionel should have kept his bed that day, but dared not, lest the fact should arouse suspicion. He had a little fever, the natural result both of his wound and of his loss of blood; he was inclined to welcome rather than deplore1 it, since it set a flush on cheeks that otherwise must have looked too pale.
So leaning upon his brother’s arm he came down to a breakfast of herrings and small ale before the tardy2 sun of that December morning was well risen.
Nicholas burst in upon them with a white face and shaking limbs. He gasped3 out his tale of the event in a voice of terror, and both brothers affected4 to be shocked, dismayed and incredulous. But the worst part of that old man’s news, the true cause of his terrible agitation5, was yet to be announced.
“And they do zay,” he cried with anger quivering through his fear, “they do zay that it were you that killed he, Sir Oliver.”
“I?” quoth Sir Oliver, staring, and suddenly like a flood there burst upon his mind a hundred reasons overlooked until this moment, that inevitably6 must urge the countryside to this conclusion, and to this conclusion only. “Where heard you that foul7 lie?”
In the tumult8 of his mind he never heeded9 what answer was returned by Nicholas. What could it matter where the fellow had heard the thing; by now it would be the accusation10 on the lips of every man. There was one course to take and he must take it instantly — as he had taken it once before in like case. He must straight to Rosamund to forestall11 the tale that others would carry to her. God send he did not come too late already.
He stayed for no more than to get his boots and hat, then to the stables for a horse, and he was away over the short mile that divided Penarrow from Godolphin Court, going by bridle12 and track meadow straight to his goal. He met none until he fetched up in the courtyard at Godolphin Court. Thence a babble13 of excited voices had reached him as he approached. But at sight of him there fell a general silence, ominous14 and staring. A dozen men or more were assembled there, and their eyes considered him first with amazement15 and curiosity, then with sullen16 anger.
He leapt down from his saddle, and stood a moment waiting for one of the three Godolphin grooms17 he had perceived in that assembly to take his reins19. Seeing that none stirred —
“How now?” he cried. “Does no one wait here? Hither, sirrah, and hold my horse.”
The groom18 addressed hesitated a moment, then, under the stare of Sir Oliver’s hard, commanding eye, he shuffled20 sullenly21 forward to do as he was bid. A murmur22 ran through the group. Sir Oliver flashed a glance upon it, and every tongue trembled into silence.
In that silence he strode up the steps, and entered the rush-strewn hall. As he vanished he heard the hubbub25 behind him break out anew, fiercer than it had been before. But he nothing heeded it.
He found himself face to face with a servant, who shrank before him, staring as those in the courtyard had stared. His heart sank. It was plain that he came a little late already; that the tale had got there ahead of him.
“Where is your mistress?” said he.
“I . . . I will tell her you are here, Sir Oliver,” the man replied in a voice that faltered26; and he passed through a doorway27 on the right. Sir Oliver stood a moment tapping his boots with his whip, his face pale, a deep line between his brows. Then the man reappeared, closing the door after him.
“Mistress Rosamund bids you depart, sir. She will not see you.”
A moment Sir Oliver scanned the servant’s face — or appeared to scan it, for it is doubtful if he saw the fellow at all. Then for only answer he strode forward towards the door from which the man had issued. The servant set his back to it, his face resolute28.
“Sir Oliver, my mistress will not see you.”
“Out of my way!” he muttered in his angry, contemptuous fashion, and as the man persistent29 in his duty stood his ground, Sir Oliver took him by the breast of his jacket, heaved him aside and went in.
She was standing30 in mid-apartment, dressed by an odd irony31 all in bridal white, that yet was not as white as was her face. Her eyes looked like two black stains, solemn and haunting as they fastened up on this intruder who would not be refused. Her lips parted, but she had no word for him. She just stared in a horror that routed all his audacity32 and checked the masterfulness of his advance. At last he spoke33.
“I see that you have heard,” said he, “the lie that runs the countryside. That is evil enough. But I see that you have lent an ear to it; and that is worse.”
She continued to regard him with a cold look of loathing34, this child that but two days ago had lain against his heart gazing up at him in trust and adoration35.
“Rosamund!” he cried, and approached her by another step. “Rosamund! I am here to tell you that it is a lie.”
“You had best go,” she said, and her voice had in it a quality that made him tremble.
“Go?” he echoed stupidly. “You bid me go? You will not hear me?”
“I consented to hear you more than once; refused to hear others who knew better than I, and was heedless of their warnings. There is no more to be said between us. I pray God that they may take and hang you.”
He was white to the lips, and for the first time in his life he knew fear and felt his great limbs trembling under him.
“They may hang me and welcome since you believe this thing. They could not hurt me more than you are doing, nor by hanging me could they deprive me of aught I value, since your faith in me is a thing to be blown upon by the first rumour36 of the countryside.”
He saw the pale lips twist themselves into a dreadful smile. “There is more than rumour, I think,” said she. “There is more than all your lies will ever serve to cloak.”
“My lies?” he cried. “Rosamund, I swear to you by my honour that I have had no hand in the slaying37 of Peter. May God rot me where I stand if this be not true!”
“It seems,” said a harsh voice behind him, “that you fear God as little as aught else.”
He wheeled sharply to confront Sir John Killigrew, who had entered after him.
“So,” he said slowly, and his eyes grew hard and bright as agates38, “this is your work.” And he waved a hand towards Rosamund. It was plain to what he alluded39.
“My work?” quoth Sir John. He closed the door, and advanced into the room. “Sir, it seems your audacity, your shamelessness, transcends40 all bounds. Your. . . . ”
“Have done with that,” Sir Oliver interrupted him and smote41 his great fist upon the table. He was suddenly swept by a gust42 of passion. “Leave words to fools, Sir John, and criticisms to those that can defend them better.”
“Aye, you talk like a man of blood. You come hectoring it here in the very house of the dead — in the very house upon which you have cast this blight43 of sorrow and murder. . . . ”
“Have done, I say, or murder there will be!”
His voice was a roar, his mien44 terrific. And bold man though Sir John was, he recoiled45. Instantly Sir Oliver had conquered himself again. He swung to Rosamund. “Ah, forgive me!” he pleaded. “I am mad — stark46 mad with anguish47 at the thing imputed48. I have not loved your brother, it is true. But as I swore to you, so have I done. I have taken blows from him, and smiled; but yesterday in a public place he affronted49 me, lashed23 me across the face with his riding-whip, as I still bear the mark. The man who says I were not justified51 in having killed him for it is a liar52 and a hypocrite. Yet the thought of you, Rosamund, the thought that he was your brother sufficed to quench53 the rage in which he left me. And now that by some grim mischance he has met his death, my recompense for all my patience, for all my thought for you is that I am charged with slaying him, and that you believe this charge.”
“She has no choice,” rasped Killigrew.
“Sir John,” he cried, “I pray you do not meddle54 with her choice. That you believe it, marks you for a fool, and a fool’s counsel is a rotten staff to lean upon at any time. Why God o’ mercy! assume that I desired to take satisfaction for the affront50 he had put upon me; do you know so little of men, and of me of all men, that you suppose I should go about my vengeance55 in this hole-and-corner fashion to set a hangman’s noose56 about my neck. A fine vengeance that, as God lives! Was it so I dealt with you, Sir John, when you permitted your tongue to wag too freely, as you have yourself confessed? Heaven’s light, man; take a proper view; consider was this matter likely. I take it you are a more fearsome antagonist57 than was ever poor Peter Godolphin, yet when I sought satisfaction of you I sought it boldly and openly, as is my way. When we measured swords in your park at Arwenack we did so before witnesses in proper form, that the survivor58 might not be troubled with the Justices. You know me well, and what manner of man I am with my weapons. Should I not have done the like by Peter if I had sought his life? Should I not have sought it in the same open fashion, and so killed him at my pleasure and leisure, and without risk or reproach from any?”
Sir John was stricken thoughtful. Here was logic59 hard and clear as ice; and the knight60 of Arwenack was no fool. But whilst he stood frowning and perplexed61 at the end of that long tirade62, it was Rosamund who gave Sir Oliver his answer.
“You ran no risk of reproach from any, do you say?”
He turned, and was abashed63. He knew the thought that was running in her mind.
“You mean,” he said slowly, gently, his accents charged with reproachful incredulity, “that I am so base and false that I could in this fashion do what I dared not for your sake do openly? ’Tis what you mean. Rosamund! I burn with shame for you that you can think such thoughts of one whom . . . whom you professed64 to love.”
Her coldness fell from her. Under the lash24 of his bitter, half-scornful accents, her anger mounted, whelming for a moment even her anguish in her brother’s death.
“You false deceiver!” she cried. “There are those who heard you vow65 his death. Your very words have been reported to me. And from where he lay they found a trail of blood upon the snow that ran to your own door. Will you still lie?”
They saw the colour leave his face. They saw his arms drop limply to his sides, and his eyes dilate66 with obvious sudden fear.
“A . . . a trail of blood?” he faltered stupidly.
“Aye, answer that!” cut in Sir John, fetched suddenly from out his doubts by that reminder67.
Sir Oliver turned upon Killigrew again. The knight’s words restored to him the courage of which Rosamund’s had bereft68 him. With a man he could fight; with a man there was no need to mince69 his words.
“I cannot answer it,” he said, but very firmly, in a tone that brushed aside all implications. “If you say it was so, so it must have been. Yet when all is said, what does it prove? Does it set it beyond doubt that it was I who killed him? Does it justify70 the woman who loved me to believe me a murderer and something worse?” He paused, and looked at her again, a world of reproach in his glance. She had sunk to a chair, and rocked there, her fingers locking and interlocking, her face a mask of pain unutterable.
“Can you suggest what else it proves, sir?” quoth Sir John, and there was doubt in his voice.
Sir Oliver caught the note of it, and a sob71 broke from him.
“O God of pity!” he cried out. “There is doubt in your voice, and there is none in hers. You were my enemy once, and have since been in a mistrustful truce72 with me, yet you can doubt that I did this thing. But she . . . she who loved me has no room for any doubt!”
“Sir Oliver,” she answered him, “the thing you have done has broken quite my heart. Yet knowing all the taunts73 by which you were brought to such a deed I could have forgiven it, I think, even though I could no longer be your wife; I could have forgiven it, I say, but for the baseness of your present denial.”
He looked at her, white-faced an instant, then turned on his heel and made for the door. There he paused.
“Your meaning is quite plain,” said he. “It is your wish that I shall take my trial for this deed.” He laughed. “Who will accuse me to the Justices? Will you, Sir John?”
“If Mistress Rosamund so desires me,” replied the knight.
“Ha! Be it so. But do not think I am the man to suffer myself to be sent to the gallows74 upon such paltry75 evidence as satisfies that lady. If any accuser comes to bleat76 of a trail of blood reaching to my door, and of certain words I spoke yesterday in anger, I will take my trial — but it shall be trial by battle upon the body of my accuser. That is my right, and I will have every ounce of it. Do you doubt how God will pronounce? I call upon him solemnly to pronounce between me and such an one. If I am guilty of this thing may He wither77 my arm when I enter the lists.”
“Myself I will accuse you,” came Rosamund’s dull voice. “And if you will, you may claim your rights against me and butcher me as you butchered him.”
“God forgive you, Rosamund!” said Sir Oliver, and went out.
He returned home with hell in his heart. He knew not what the future might hold in store for him; but such was his resentment78 against Rosamund that there was no room in his bosom79 for despair. They should not hang him. He would fight them tooth and claw, and yet Lionel should not suffer. He would take care of that. And then the thought of Lionel changed his mood a little. How easily could he have shattered their accusation, how easily have brought her to her proud knees imploring80 pardon of him! By a word he could have done it, yet he feared lest that word must jeopardize81 his brother.
In the calm, still watches of that night, as he lay sleepless82 upon his bed and saw things without heat, there crept a change into his mental attitude. He reviewed all the evidence that had led her to her conclusions, and he was forced to confess that she was in some measure justified of them. If she had wronged him, he had wronged her yet more. For years she had listened to all the poisonous things that were said of him by his enemies — and his arrogance83 had made him not a few. She had disregarded all because she loved him; her relations with her brother had become strained on that account, yet now, all this returned to crush her; repentance84 played its part in her cruel belief that it was by his hand Peter Godolphin had fallen. It must almost seem to her that in a sense she had been a party to his murder by the headstrong course to which she had kept in loving the man her brother hated.
He saw it now, and was more merciful in judging her. She had been more than human if she had not felt as he now saw that she must feel, and since reactions are to be measured by the mental exaltations from which they spring, so was it but natural that now she must hate him fiercely whom she had loved wellnigh as fiercely.
It was a heavy cross to bear. Yet for Lionel’s sake he must bear it with what fortitude85 he could. Lionel must not be sacrificed to his egoism for a deed that in Lionel he could not account other than justified. He were base indeed did he so much as contemplate86 such a way of escape as that.
But if he did not contemplate it, Lionel did, and went in terror during those days, a terror that kept him from sleep and so fostered the fever in him that on the second day after that grim affair he had the look of a ghost, hollow-eyed and gaunt. Sir Oliver remonstrated87 with him and in such terms as to put heart into him anew. Moreover, there was other news that day to allay88 his terrors: the Justices, at Truro had been informed of the event and the accusation that was made; but they had refused point-blank to take action in the matter. The reason of it was that one of them was that same Master Anthony Baine who had witnessed the affront offered Sir Oliver. He declared that whatever had happened to Master Godolphin as a consequence was no more than he deserved, no more than he had brought upon himself, and he gave it as his decision that his conscience as a man of honour would not permit him to issue any warrant to the constable89.
Sir Oliver received this news from that other witness, the parson, who himself had suffered such rudeness at Godolphin’s hands, and who, man of the Gospel and of peace though he was, entirely90 supported the Justice’s decision — or so he declared.
Sir Oliver thanked him, protesting that it was kind in him and in Master Baine to take such a view, but for the rest avowing91 that he had had no hand in the affair, however much appearances might point to him.
When, however, it came to his knowledge two days later that the whole countryside was in a ferment92 against Master Baine as a consequence of the attitude he had taken up, Sir Oliver summoned the parson and straightway rode with him to the Justice’s house at Truro, there to afford certain evidence which he had withheld93 from Rosamund and Sir John Killigrew.
“Master Baine,” he said, when the three of them were closeted in that gentleman’s library, “I have heard of the just and gallant94 pronouncement you have made, and I am come to thank you and to express my admiration95 of your courage.”
Master Baine bowed gravely. He was a man whom Nature had made grave.
“But since I would not that any evil consequences might attend your action, I am come to lay proof before you that you have acted more rightly even than you think, and that I am not the slayer96.”
“You are not?” ejaculated Master Baine in amazement.
“Oh, I assure you I use no subterfuge97 with you, as you shall judge. I have proof to show you, as I say; and I am come to do so now before time might render it impossible. I do not desire it to be made public just yet, Master Baine; but I wish you to draw up some such document as would satisfy the courts at any future time should this matter be taken further, as well it may.”
It was a shrewd plea. The proof that was not upon himself was upon Lionel; but time would efface98 it, and if anon publication were made of what he was now about to show, it would then be too late to look elsewhere.
“I assure you, Sir Oliver, that had you killed him after what happened I could not hold you guilty of having done more than punish a boorish99 and arrogant100 offender101.”
“I know sir. But it was not so. One of the pieces of evidence against me — indeed the chief item — is that from Godolphin’s body to my door there was a trail of blood.”
The other two grew tensely interested. The parson watched him with unblinking eyes.
“Now it follows logically, I think, inevitably indeed, that the murderer must have been wounded in the encounter. The blood could not possibly have been the victim’s, therefore it must have been the slayer’s. That the slayer was wounded indeed we know, since there was blood upon Godolphin’s sword. Now, Master Baine, and you, Sir Andrew, shall be witnesses that there is upon my body not so much as a scratch of recent date. I will strip me here as naked as when first I had the mischance to stray into this world, and you shall satisfy yourselves of that. Thereafter I shall beg you, Master Baine, to indite102 the document I have mentioned.” And he removed his doublet as he spoke. “But since I will not give these louts who accuse me so much satisfaction, lest I seem to go in fear of them, I must beg, sirs, that you will keep this matter entirely private until such time as its publication may be rendered necessary by events.”
They saw the reasonableness of his proposal, and they consented, still entirely sceptical. But when they had made their examination they were utterly103 dumbfounded to find all their notions entirely overset. Master Baine, of course, drew up the required document, and signed and sealed it, whilst Sir Andrew added his own signature and seal as witness thereunto.
With this parchment that should be his buckler against any future need, Sir Oliver rode home, uplifted. For once it were safe to do so, that parchment should be spread before the eyes of Sir John Killigrew and Rosamund, and all might yet be well.
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1
deplore
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| vt.哀叹，对...深感遗憾 | |
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tardy
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| adj.缓慢的，迟缓的 | |
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gasped
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| v.喘气( gasp的过去式和过去分词 )；喘息；倒抽气；很想要 | |
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affected
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| adj.不自然的，假装的 | |
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agitation
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| n.搅动；搅拌；鼓动，煽动 | |
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inevitably
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| adv.不可避免地；必然发生地 | |
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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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tumult
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| n.喧哗；激动，混乱；吵闹 | |
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heeded
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| v.听某人的劝告，听从( heed的过去式和过去分词 )；变平，使（某物）变平( flatten的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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accusation
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| n.控告，指责，谴责 | |
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forestall
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| vt.抢在…之前采取行动；预先阻止 | |
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bridle
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| n.笼头，束缚；vt.抑制，约束；动怒 | |
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babble
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| v.含糊不清地说，胡言乱语地说，儿语 | |
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ominous
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| adj.不祥的，不吉的，预兆的，预示的 | |
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amazement
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| n.惊奇，惊讶 | |
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sullen
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| adj.愠怒的，闷闷不乐的，(天气等)阴沉的 | |
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grooms
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| n.新郎( groom的名词复数 )；马夫v.照料或梳洗（马等）( groom的第三人称单数 )；使做好准备；训练；（给动物）擦洗 | |
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groom
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| vt.给（马、狗等）梳毛，照料，使...整洁 | |
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reins
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| 感情，激情； 缰( rein的名词复数 )； 控制手段； 掌管； （成人带着幼儿走路以防其走失时用的）保护带 | |
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shuffled
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| v.洗（纸牌）( shuffle的过去式和过去分词 )；拖着脚步走；粗心地做；摆脱尘世的烦恼 | |
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sullenly
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| 不高兴地，绷着脸，忧郁地 | |
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murmur
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| n.低语，低声的怨言；v.低语，低声而言 | |
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lashed
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| adj.具睫毛的v.鞭打( lash的过去式和过去分词 )；煽动；紧系；怒斥 | |
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lash
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| v.系牢；鞭打；猛烈抨击；n.鞭打；眼睫毛 | |
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hubbub
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| n.嘈杂；骚乱 | |
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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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doorway
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| n.门口，(喻)入门；门路，途径 | |
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resolute
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| adj.坚决的，果敢的 | |
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persistent
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| adj.坚持不懈的，执意的；持续的 | |
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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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irony
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| n.反语，冷嘲；具有讽刺意味的事，嘲弄 | |
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audacity
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| n.大胆，卤莽，无礼 | |
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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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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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adoration
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| n.爱慕，崇拜 | |
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rumour
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| n.谣言，谣传，传闻 | |
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slaying
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| 杀戮。 | |
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agates
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| n.玛瑙( agate的名词复数 )；玛瑙制（或装有玛瑙的）工具； （小孩玩的）玛瑙纹玩具弹子；5。5磅铅字 | |
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alluded
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| 提及，暗指( allude的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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transcends
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| 超出或超越（经验、信念、描写能力等）的范围( transcend的第三人称单数 )； 优于或胜过… | |
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smote
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| v.猛打，重击，打击( smite的过去式 ) | |
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gust
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| n.阵风，突然一阵（雨、烟等），（感情的）迸发 | |
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43
blight
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| n.枯萎病；造成破坏的因素；vt.破坏，摧残 | |
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mien
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| n.风采；态度 | |
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recoiled
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| v.畏缩( recoil的过去式和过去分词 )；退缩；报应；返回 | |
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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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anguish
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| n.(尤指心灵上的)极度痛苦，烦恼 | |
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48
imputed
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| v.把（错误等）归咎于( impute的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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affronted
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| adj.被侮辱的，被冒犯的v.勇敢地面对( affront的过去式和过去分词 )；相遇 | |
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affront
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| n./v.侮辱，触怒 | |
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51
justified
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| a.正当的，有理的 | |
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52
liar
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| n.说谎的人 | |
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quench
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| vt.熄灭，扑灭；压制 | |
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meddle
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| v.干预，干涉，插手 | |
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vengeance
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| n.报复，报仇，复仇 | |
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56
noose
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| n.绳套，绞索（刑）；v.用套索捉；使落入圈套；处以绞刑 | |
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antagonist
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| n.敌人，对抗者，对手 | |
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survivor
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| n.生存者，残存者，幸存者 | |
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logic
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| n.逻辑(学)；逻辑性 | |
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60
knight
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| n.骑士，武士；爵士 | |
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perplexed
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| adj.不知所措的 | |
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62
tirade
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| n.冗长的攻击性演说 | |
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63
abashed
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| adj.窘迫的，尴尬的v.使羞愧，使局促，使窘迫( abash的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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professed
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| 公开声称的，伪称的，已立誓信教的 | |
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vow
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| n.誓(言)，誓约；v.起誓，立誓 | |
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dilate
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| vt.使膨胀，使扩大 | |
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reminder
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| n.提醒物，纪念品；暗示，提示 | |
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bereft
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| adj.被剥夺的 | |
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mince
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| n.切碎物；v.切碎，矫揉做作地说 | |
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justify
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| vt.证明…正当(或有理)，为…辩护 | |
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sob
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| n.空间轨道的轰炸机；呜咽，哭泣 | |
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truce
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| n.休战，(争执，烦恼等的)缓和；v.以停战结束 | |
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73
taunts
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| 嘲弄的言语，嘲笑，奚落( taunt的名词复数 ) | |
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gallows
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| n.绞刑架，绞台 | |
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paltry
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| adj.无价值的，微不足道的 | |
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76
bleat
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| v.咩咩叫，(讲)废话，哭诉；n.咩咩叫，废话，哭诉 | |
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wither
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| vt.使凋谢，使衰退，(用眼神气势等)使畏缩；vi.枯萎，衰退，消亡 | |
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resentment
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| n.怨愤，忿恨 | |
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79
bosom
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| n.胸，胸部；胸怀；内心；adj.亲密的 | |
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imploring
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| 恳求的，哀求的 | |
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jeopardize
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| vt.危及，损害 | |
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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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arrogance
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| n.傲慢，自大 | |
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84
repentance
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| n.懊悔 | |
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85
fortitude
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| n.坚忍不拔；刚毅 | |
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contemplate
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| vt.盘算，计议；周密考虑；注视，凝视 | |
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remonstrated
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| v.抗议( remonstrate的过去式和过去分词 )；告诫 | |
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allay
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| v.消除，减轻(恐惧、怀疑等) | |
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constable
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| n.(英国)警察，警官 | |
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90
entirely
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| ad.全部地，完整地；完全地，彻底地 | |
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avowing
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| v.公开声明，承认( avow的现在分词 ) | |
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ferment
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| vt.使发酵；n./vt.（使）激动，（使）动乱 | |
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93
withheld
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| withhold过去式及过去分词 | |
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94
gallant
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| adj.英勇的，豪侠的；(向女人)献殷勤的 | |
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95
admiration
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| n.钦佩，赞美，羡慕 | |
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96
slayer
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| n. 杀人者，凶手 | |
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97
subterfuge
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| n.诡计；藉口 | |
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98
efface
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| v.擦掉，抹去 | |
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99
boorish
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| adj.粗野的，乡巴佬的 | |
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100
arrogant
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| adj.傲慢的，自大的 | |
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101
offender
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| n.冒犯者，违反者，犯罪者 | |
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102
indite
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| v.写（文章，信等）创作 | |
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103
utterly
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| adv.完全地，绝对地 | |
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