"When did she go?" asked Bernard, who was the first to find his voice.
"Goodness knows," replied the lawyer in vexed4 tones. "She left early this morning without saying she was going. Miss Randolph heard the news at breakfast. One of the grooms5 stated that he had seen Mrs. Gilroy driving in a farmer's trap to the station at Postleigh, about seven o'clock."
"Perhaps she will come back."
"No! She has taken her box with her. She had only one, I believe. I daresay she has taken fright over what she let out to me the other day about that precious son of hers"—here Durham remembered that, so far as he knew, Alice was ignorant of Michael Gore's existence. She interpreted the look.
"You can speak freely, Mr. Durham," she said. "Bernard has just told me all about the matter."
"Good," said the solicitor6, evidently relieved, as it did not necessitate7 his entering into a long explanation, of which he was rather impatient. "Then you know that Bernard and I suspect Michael Gore——"
"He has no right to that name," said Bernard, peremptorily8.
"Well, then, Michael Gilroy, though for all we know his mother may not have a right to that name either. But to come to the point. This disappearance9 of the woman makes me more certain than ever that she alone can tell the story of that night."
"And she won't tell it if it incriminates her son," said Alice.
"No, that's certain. I made inquiries——"
"You must have been quick about it," observed Gore, glancing at his watch. "It is barely three o'clock."
"I went at once to make inquiries," said Durham. "Mrs. Gilroy ordered the trap overnight and had her box removed, though how she managed it without the servants at the Hall knowing, I am not prepared to say. But she did, and went to the Postleigh station. There she took a ticket to London. She is lost there now"—here Durham made a gesture of despair—"and goodness knows when we will set eyes on her again."
"I can tell you that," put in Alice, briskly, and both men looked inquiringly at her. "She will reappear when she is able to establish the fact that Michael is the heir."
"Which means that she must prove her own marriage, if there was any—begging your pardon, Miss Malleson—to have taken place prior to that of Walter Gore with Signora Tolomeo."
"My uncle will be able to prove that."
"I'll see him about it, as there is some difficulty in knowing where your parents were married, Bernard. Your father kept the marriage a secret from you grandfather. Afterwards, Sir Simon received your mother [pg 197]at the Hall, and was fairly friendly with her. I don't think he ever became quite reconciled to your father."
"Well! well!" said Bernard, hastily, "let us leave that point alone for the present. What are we to do now?"
"We must have a counsel of war. By the way, Conniston is stopping at the Hall till this evening, Bernard. He will be back at dinner."
Alice smiled. "I think Lord Conniston is enjoying himself."
"I think he has," put in Bernard, smiling also.
"All the better. If he makes her Lady Conniston, it will be a good day's work. Only marriage will tame Conniston. I have had no end of trouble with him. He is a trial."
"Oh, Lucy is a clever girl, and can guide him if she becomes his wife, Mr. Durham. And now that her engagement is broken with Mr. Beryl, I daresay it will come off—the marriage I mean. She seems to be attracted by Lord Conniston."
"And small wonder," said Miss Berengaria, entering at this moment. "I really think Conniston is a nice fellow—much better than Bernard, here."
"I won't hear that, aunt," said Alice, indignantly.
"My dear, I always speak my mind. How are you, Durham?" added the old lady, turning on the dapper solicitor. "You look worried."
"Mrs. Gilroy has bolted."
Miss Berengaria rubbed her nose. "The deuce take the woman! Why has she done that? I always thought she was a bad lot."
"Do you know anything about her, aunt?"
"Yes, I do, and much more than she likes. She's a gipsy."
"I thought she was," said Durham, remembering the Romany dialect used by the housekeeper11, "but she doesn't look like a gipsy."
"Well," said Miss Berengaria, rubbing her nose again and taking a seat, "she's not a real gipsy, but I believe some tribe in the New Forest—the Lovels, I understand—picked her up, and looked after her. All I know of her dates from the time she came to Hurseton, with the gipsies. She was then a comely12 young woman, and I believe Walter Gore admired her."
"My father," said Bernard, coloring.
"I beg your pardon, my dear," said the old lady. "I can't say good of your father, and I won't say bad, so let me hold my tongue."
"No," said Durham, rather to the surprise of the others. "Now you have said so much, Miss Plantagenet, you must say all."
"All what?" demanded the old lady, aggressively.
"Well, you see, Mrs. Gilroy claims to have married Walter Gore."
"Then she's a liar," said Miss Berengaria, emphatically and vulgarly. "Why, Walter was married to your mother, Bernard, at that time."
"Are you sure?" he asked eagerly.
"Of course I am. I don't make any statements unless I am sure. It was after the marriage; for Sir Simon—I was friends with him then—consulted me about your father having married the Italian woman—begging your pardon again, Bernard. I then learned the date of the marriage and it was quite three years afterwards [pg 199]that Walter saw Mrs. Gilroy. I don't know what she called herself then. But she disappeared, and I understand from Sir Simon she married Walter under the impression he was a single man—drat the profligate13!" added Miss Berengaria.
"Then the son——"
"Son!" echoed the old lady, turning to Durham, who had spoken. "You don't mean to say there is a son?"
"Yes." And Durham, thinking it best to be explicit14, gave a detailed15 account of Mrs. Gilroy's interview. Miss Berengaria listened with great attention, and gave her verdict promptly16.
"It's as plain as the nose on my face," she said. "Mrs. Gilroy was really married as she thought, but when she came to see Sir Simon—and that was after the death of both of your parents, my dear," she interpolated, turning to Gore, "she must have learned the truth. I think the old rascal—no, I won't speak evil of the dead—but the good old man"—her hearers smiled at this—"the good old saint was sorry for her. He made her the housekeeper and promised to provide for her after his death."
"Five hundred a year, she says," put in Durham.
"Ah! I can't conceive Simon Gore parting with money to that extent," said Miss Berengaria, dryly, "especially to one who had no claim upon him whatsoever17."
"You don't think she had."
"Deuce take the man! Don't I say so? Of course she hadn't. Walter Gore deceived her—begging your pardon for the third time, Bernard—but Sir Simon acted very well by her. I will say that. As to there [pg 200]being a son, I never heard. But if this—what do you call him?"
"Michael Gilroy."
"Well, if Michael Gilroy is the image of Bernard, who is the image of his father in looks, though I hope not in conduct, there is no doubt that he was the man admitted by Mrs. Gilroy, who killed Sir Simon. Of course, she will fight tooth and nail for her son. I daresay—I am convinced that it is fear of what she said to you, Mr. Durham, that has made her go away. And a good riddance of bad rubbish, say I," concluded the old spinster, vigorously, "and for goodness' sake, where's the luncheon18? I'm starving."
This speech provoked a laugh, and as everyone's nerves were rather worn by the position of affairs, it was decided19 to banish20 all further discussion until the meal was over. Miss Berengaria without being told took the head of the table. "I represent the family in the absence of that silly young donkey," she said.
"Oh, Miss Berengaria," said Bernard, smiling, "if you call Conniston that, what do you call me?"
"A foolish boy, who lost his head when he should have kept it."
"I lost my heart, at all events!"
Alice laughed, and they had a very pleasant meal. Miss Berengaria was really fond of Gore and of Conniston also, but she liked to—as she put it—take them down a peg21 or two. But whenever there was trouble, Miss Berengaria, in spite of her sharp tongue, was always to be relied upon. Her bark was five times as bad as her bite, therefore those present made all allowance for her somewhat free speech.
"We start back at half-past four," announced the old lady, when the luncheon was ended, "as I don't like driving in the dark. It is now four, so you have just time to talk over what is to be done."
"What do you advise, Miss Berengaria?" asked Durham.
"I advise Bernard to give himself up, and face the matter out."
"Oh, aunt!" cried Alice, taking her lover's hand.
"My dear, this hole-and-corner business is no good. And the discovery of the likeness22 between Michael and Bernard brings a new element into play. If Bernard lets himself be arrested, the whole business can be threshed out in daylight. Besides, as we stand now, that Beryl creature—drat him!—will make mischief23."
"He has found out that Bernard is alive," said Alice.
"That's impossible!" cried Durham, waking up and sitting apparently24 on thorns. "He doesn't know Bernard is at this Castle."
"Alice has put the matter wrongly," said Bernard, taking out the letter of Beryl. "She received this from Julius. He says he saw me in the streets of London. That means he saw Michael Gilroy."
"Ah! And made the mistake, as everyone else seems to have done."
"I doubt that, Alice," said Miss Plantagenet, "I doubt that very much. It seems to me that Beryl—drat him!—knows a great deal more than we do. It's my opinion," added the old lady, looking round triumphantly25, "that Beryl has used Michael as an instrument."
"I think so also," said Durham, quickly, "and it comes to this, that if I accidentally met Michael, or if he called at my office representing himself as Bernard, I should accept him as such."
"What for?" asked Bernard, angrily.
"There you go with your temper," said Miss Berengaria. "Durham is quite right and shows more sense than I expected from him. The only way to get at the truth—which this Michael with his mother knows—is to give him a long enough rope to let him hang himself. I daresay if Durham won his confidence, the man might presume on his being accepted as Bernard, and might give us a clue. What do you say, Alice? Don't sit twiddling your thumbs, but answer."
Miss Malleson laughed. "I agree with you, aunt."
"Of course you do. Am I ever wrong? Well?" She looked round.
Durham answered her look. "I will go back to London," he said, "and will advertise for Mrs. Gilroy——"
"She won't be such a fool as to obey."
"I beg your pardon, Miss Plantagenet; she may."
"She won't, I tell you."
"Then Michael may come."
"What! with that murder hanging over his head? Rubbish!"
"You forget Bernard is accused. Michael can clear himself."
Miss Berengaria snorted and rubbed her nose. "Can he? then I should very much like to know how he can. Do what you like, young man, but mark my words: your net will catch no fish."
"It may catch Beryl," said Bernard, thoughtfully. "When he sees Mark advertising26 he will be on the look-out."
"To have Michael arrested as Bernard," said Miss Berengaria. "Well, he might. And if so, all the better for you, Gore. Oh dear me"—she rose to put on her bonnet—"what a lot of trouble all this is."
"And it rose from Bernard being true to me," said Alice, tenderly.
"As if you weren't worth the world," said Bernard, assisting her to put on her cloak.
"Eh, what's that?" said the old lady. "Hum! Bernard, your grandfather was a silly fool—no, I won't say that—but he was an upsetting peacock. The idea of not thinking Alice good enough for you!"
"She is too good for me."
"I quite agree with you," said the lawyer, laughing; "but you see, Miss Berengaria, it was not the personality of Miss Malleson that Sir Simon objected to, but her——"
"I know—I know," said the old lady tartly27. "Bless the man, does he take me for an idiot." She sat down. "I'm a fool."
Everyone looked at one another when Miss Berengaria made this startling announcement. As a rule, she called others fools, but she was chary28 of applying the term to herself. She looked round. "I am a fool," she announced again. "Alice, come and sit down. I have something to say that should have been said long ago."
"What is it?" asked the girl, seating herself beside the old lady. Miss Berengaria, a rare thing for her, began to weep. "The air here is too strong for me," she said in excuse. "All the same, I must speak out even through my tears, silly woman that I am! Oh, if I hadn't been too proud to explain to that dead peacock"—she meant the late baronet—"all this would have been avoided."
"Do you mean my grandfather would have consented to the marriage?"
"I mean nothing of the sort, Bernard, so don't interrupt," said Miss Berengaria, sharply, "but I'm a fool. Bernard, I beg your pardon."
"If you would come to the point, Miss Plantagenet, and——"
"I am coming to it, Durham," she said quickly. "Don't worry me. It is this way: Sir Simon objected to Alice because he knew nothing of her parentage."
"I know nothing myself," said Alice, sadly.
"Well then, I intend to tell you now. You are perfectly29 well born and you have every right to the name of Malleson, though why Sir Simon thought you hadn't I can't say. Give me your hand, my love, and I'll tell you who you are as concisely30 as possible."
Alice did as she was told, and Miss Plantagenet began in a hurry, as though anxious to get over a disagreeable task. Durham and Bernard listened with all their ears. Miss Berengaria noticed this.
"You needn't look so eager," she said tartly; "the story is dull. Alice, do you remember that I told you I was engaged once to a wicked fool?"
"Yes—you said——"
"There's no need to repeat what I said. I am quite sure it isn't edifying31. I have far too long a tongue, but old age will be garrulous—drat it! Well then, Alice, that man who said he loved me and lied was your grandfather. He married a girl with money, for then I had only my looks, and I was handsome," said Miss Berengaria, emphatically; "but George—his name was George and I've hated it ever since—didn't want beauty or brains. He wanted money, and got it, along with a weeping idiot whose heart he broke. I swore never to look on a man again, and when my father died I came to live at The Bower32. But I heard that George's wife had died, leaving him one daughter——"
"That was me," said Alice, hastily.
"Nothing of the sort. I said that George—his other name doesn't matter at present, although it can be mentioned if necessary—I said that George was your grandfather. The daughter grew up and married your father, who was a colonel in the Indian army. But both your parents died when you were young. I received you from your dying mother's arms and I sent you to a convent. I couldn't bear the sight of you for months," said the old lady, energetically. "You have a look of handsome George, and handsome he was. Well then, when you grew up and behaved yourself, I took you from the convent, and you have been with me ever since."
"You are my second mother," said Alice, embracing her.
"The first—the only mother," said Miss Berengaria, sharply. "You never knew any mother but me, and as your grandfather defrauded33 me of my rights to marry, I look upon you as my child."
"But why did you not tell this perfectly plain story to Sir Simon?"
"Why didn't I, Durham?" asked Miss Berengaria tearfully. "You may well ask that. Pride, my dear—pride. Sir Simon and I were in society together. He wanted to marry me, and I refused. So I never became your grandmother, Bernard, and I certainly should never have had a son like your father, who is——"
"Don't. He is my father after all."
"Was, you mean, seeing he is dead. Well, my dear boy, I'll say nothing about him. But Sir Simon loved [pg 206]me and I preferred George, who was a villain34. I couldn't bear to think that Sir Simon should know I had forgotten my anger against George to the extent of helping35 his grand-daughter. An unworthy feeling you all think it—of course—of course. But I am a woman, when all is said and done, my dears. And another thing—Simon Gore was too dictatorial36 for me, and I wasn't going to give any explanation. Besides which, had he known Alice, that you were George's grand-daughter—and he hated George—he would have been more set against the marriage than ever. And now you know what a wicked woman I have been."
"Yes, wicked," said Miss Berengaria, sobbing38, "I should have told the truth and shamed the—I mean shamed Sir Simon. Perhaps I could have arranged the marriage had I subdued39 my pride into obeying Sir Simon. But I couldn't, and he was angry, and all these troubles have arisen out of my silly silence."
"Oh, yes," cried the old lady, rising and drying her tears. "Don't you contradict me, Bernard. If I had told the truth and let Sir Simon know that Alice was well born, he might have consented."
"Not if he knew that Alice was George's grand-daughter."
Miss Berengaria tossed her head. "I don't know," she said, moving towards the door. "I might have managed him, obstinate41 as he was. But if Sir Simon had not been angry, he would not have sent you away, Bernard, and then all this rubbish about the Red Window would not have drawn42 you to that dreadful [pg 207]house, to be accused of a wicked crime. But, oh dear me! what's the use of talking? Here are the horses standing43 all this time at the door, and it's getting on to five. Alice, come home," and Miss Berengaria sailed out wrathfully.
The others looked at one another and smiled. Then Durham left the lovers alone and went to assist Miss Berengaria into the carriage.
She was already in and caught his hand. "Spare no expense to help that dear boy," she whispered. "He must be set free. And, for goodness sake, tell Alice to come at once. Why is she drivelling there?"
"Love! Miss Berengaria, love!"
"Stuff!" said the old lady, "and a man of your age talking so. Good-bye. Alice, are you comfortable? James, drive on, and don't upset us."
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收听单词发音
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1
procure
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| vt.获得，取得，促成；vi.拉皮条 | |
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gore
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| n.凝血，血污；v.（动物）用角撞伤，用牙刺破；缝以补裆；顶 | |
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chagrined
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| adj.懊恼的，苦恼的v.使懊恼，使懊丧，使悔恨( chagrin的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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vexed
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| adj.争论不休的；（指问题等）棘手的；争论不休的问题；烦恼的v.使烦恼( vex的过去式和过去分词 )；使苦恼；使生气；详细讨论 | |
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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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solicitor
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| n.初级律师，事务律师 | |
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necessitate
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| v.使成为必要，需要 | |
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peremptorily
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| adv.紧急地，不容分说地，专横地 | |
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disappearance
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| n.消失，消散，失踪 | |
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devoutly
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| adv.虔诚地，虔敬地，衷心地 | |
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housekeeper
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| n.管理家务的主妇，女管家 | |
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comely
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| adj.漂亮的，合宜的 | |
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profligate
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| adj.行为不检的；n.放荡的人，浪子，肆意挥霍者 | |
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explicit
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| adj.详述的，明确的；坦率的；显然的 | |
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detailed
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| adj.详细的，详尽的，极注意细节的，完全的 | |
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promptly
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| adv.及时地，敏捷地 | |
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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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luncheon
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| n.午宴，午餐，便宴 | |
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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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banish
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| vt.放逐，驱逐；消除，排除 | |
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peg
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likeness
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mischief
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| n.损害，伤害，危害；恶作剧，捣蛋，胡闹 | |
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apparently
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| adv.显然地；表面上，似乎 | |
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triumphantly
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| ad.得意洋洋地；得胜地；成功地 | |
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advertising
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| n.广告业；广告活动 a.广告的；广告业务的 | |
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tartly
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| adv.辛辣地，刻薄地 | |
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chary
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| adj.谨慎的，细心的 | |
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perfectly
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| adv.完美地，无可非议地，彻底地 | |
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concisely
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edifying
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bower
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| n.凉亭，树荫下凉快之处；闺房；v.荫蔽 | |
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defrauded
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| v.诈取，骗取( defraud的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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villain
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| n.反派演员，反面人物；恶棍；问题的起因 | |
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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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dictatorial
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withered
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| adj. 枯萎的，干瘪的，（人身体的部分器官）因病萎缩的或未发育良好的 动词wither的过去式和过去分词形式 | |
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sobbing
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| <主方>Ⅰ adj.湿透的 | |
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subdued
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| adj. 屈服的，柔和的，减弱的 动词subdue的过去式和过去分词 | |
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distress
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| n.苦恼，痛苦，不舒适；不幸；vt.使悲痛 | |
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obstinate
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| adj.顽固的，倔强的，不易屈服的，较难治愈的 | |
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drawn
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| v.拖，拉，拔出；adj.憔悴的，紧张的 | |
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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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