This hand of mine
Is yet a maiden1 and an innocent hand,
Not painted with the crimson2 spots of blood.
Within this bosom3 never enter’d yet
The dreadful motion of a murd’rous thought.
King John.
My first thought (when I could think at all) was this:
“She has some feeling, then! Her terror and remorse5 have maddened her. I can dwell upon her image with pity.” The next, “Will they find her wet clothes and discover that she was out last night?” The latter possibility troubled me. My mind was the seat of strange contradictions.
As the day advanced and I began to realise that I, Elwood Ranelagh, easy-going man of the world, but with traditions of respectable living on both sides of my house and a list of friends of which any man might be proud, was in a place of detention6 on the awful charge of murder, I found that my keenest torment7 arose from the fact that I was shut off from the instant knowledge of what was going on in the house where all my thoughts, my fears, and shall I say it, latent hopes were centred. To know Carmel ill and not to know how ill! To feel the threatening arm of the law hovering8 constantly over her head and neither to know the instant of its fall nor be given the least opportunity to divert it. To realise that some small inadvertance on her part, some trivial but incriminating object left about, some heedless murmur9 or burst of unconscious frenzy10 might precipitate11 her doom12, and I remain powerless, bearing my share of suspicion and ignominy, it is true, but not the chief share if matters befell as I have suggested, which they were liable to do at any hour, nay13, at any minute.
My examination before the magistrate14 held one element of comfort. Nothing in its whole tenor15 went to show that, as yet, she was in the least suspected of any participation16 in my so-called crime. But the knowledge which came later, of how the police first learned of trouble at the club-house did not add to this sense of relief, whatever satisfaction it gave my curiosity. A cry of distress17 had come to them over the telephone; a wild cry, in a woman’s choked and tremulous voice: “Help at The Whispering Pines! Help!” That was all, or all they revealed to me. In their endeavour to find out whether or not I was present when this call was made, I learned the nature of their own suspicions. They believed that Adelaide in some moment of prevision had managed to reach the telephone and send out this message. But what did I believe? What could I believe? All the incidents of the deadly struggle which must have preceded the fatal culminating act, were mysteries which my mind refused to penetrate18. After hours of torturing uncertainty19, and an evening which was the miserable20 precursor21 of a still more miserable night, I decided22 to drop conjecture23 and await the enlightenment which must come with the morrow.
It was, therefore, in a condition of mingled24 dread4 and expectation that I opened the paper which was brought me the next morning. Of the shock which it gave me to see my own name blotting25 the page with suggestions of hideous26 crime, I will not speak, but pass at once to the few gleams of added knowledge I was able to gather from those abominable27 columns. Arthur, the good-for-nothing brother, had returned from his wild carouse28 and had taken affairs in charge with something like spirit and a decent show of repentance29 for his own shortcomings and the mad taste for liquor which had led him away from home that night. Carmel was still ill, and likely to be so for many days to come. Her case was diagnosed as one of brain fever and of a most dangerous type. Doctors and nurses were busy at her bedside and little hope was held out of her being able to tell soon, if ever, what she knew of her sister’s departure from the house on that fatal evening. That her testimony30 on this point would be invaluable31 was self-evident, for proofs were plenty of her having haunted her sister’s rooms all the evening in a condition of more or less delirium32. She was alone in the house and this may have added to her anxieties, all of the servants having gone to the policemen’s ball. It was on their return in the early morning hours that she had been discovered, lying ill and injured before her sister’s fireplace.
One fact was mentioned which set me thinking. The keys of the club-house had been found lying on a table in the side hall of the Cumberland mansion33 — the keys which I have already mentioned as missing from my pocket. An alarming discovery which might have acted as a clew to the suspicious I feared, if their presence there had not been explained by the waitress who had cleared the table after dinner. Coming upon these keys lying on the floor beside one of the chairs, she had carried them out into the hall and laid them where they would be more readily seen. She had not recognised the keys, but had taken it for granted that they belonged to Mr. Ranelagh who had dined at the house that night.
They were my keys, and I have already related how I came to drop them on the floor. Had they but stayed there! Adelaide, or was it Carmel, might not have seen them and been led by some strange, if not tragic34, purpose, incomprehensible to us now and possibly never to find full explanation, to enter the secret and forsaken35 spot where I later found them, the one dead, the other fleeing in frenzy, but not in such a thoughtless frenzy as to forget these keys or to fail to lock the club-house door behind her. That she, on her return home, should have had sufficient presence of mind to toss these keys down in the same place from which she or her sister had taken them, argued well for her clear-headedness up to that moment. The fever must have come on later — a fever which with my knowledge of what had occurred at The Whispering Pines, seemed the only natural outcome of the situation.
The next paragraph detailed36 a fact startling enough to rouse my deepest interest. Zadok Brown, the Cumberlands’ coachman, declared that Arthur’s cutter and what he called the grey mare37 had been out that night. They were both in place when he returned to the stable towards early morning, but the signs were unmistakable that both had been out in the snow since he left the stable at about nine. He had locked the stable-door at that time, but the key always hung in the kitchen where any one could get it. This was on account of Arthur, who, if he wanted to go out late, sometimes harnessed a horse himself. Zadok judged that he had done so this night, though how the horse happened to be back and in her stall and no Mr. Arthur in the house, it would take wiser heads than his to explain. But he was sure the mare had been out.
There was some comment made on this, because Arthur had denied using his cutter that night. He declared instead that he had gone out on foot and designated the coachman’s tale as all bosh. “I was not the only one who had a drop too much down-town,” was the dogged assertion with which he met all questions on this subject. “I wouldn’t give a snap of my finger for Zadok’s opinion on any subject, after five hours of dancing and the necessary drinks. There were no signs of the mare having been out when I got home.” As this was about noon the next day, his opinion on this point could not be said to count for much.
As for myself, I felt inclined to believe that the mare had been out, that one or both of the women had harnessed him and that it was by these means they had reached The Whispering Pines. The night was too cold, a storm too imminent38, for them to have contemplated39 so long a walk on a road so remote as that leading to the club-house. Arthur was athletic40 but Adelaide was far from strong and never addicted41 to walking under the most favourable42 conditions. Of all the mysteries surrounding her dead presence in the club-house, the one which from the first had struck me as the most inexplicable43 was the manner of her reaching there. Now I could understand both that fact and how Carmel had succeeded in returning in safety to her home. She had ridden both ways — a theory which likewise explained how she came to wear a man’s derby and possibly a man’s overcoat. With her skirts covered by a bear-skin she would present a very fair figure of a man to any one who chanced to pass her. This was desirable in her case. A man and woman driving at a late hour through the city streets would attract little, if any, attention, while two women might. Having no wish to attract attention, they had resorted to subterfuge44 — or Carmel had; it was not like Adelaide to do so. She was always perfectly45 open, both in manner and speech.
These were my deductions46 drawn47 from my own knowledge. Would others who had not my knowledge be in any wise influenced to draw the same? Would the fact that the mare had been out during those mysterious hours when everybody had appeared to be absent from the house, saving the one young girl whom they afterwards found stark48, staring mad with delirium, serve to awaken49 suspicion of her close and personal connection with this crime? There was nothing in this reporter’s article to show that such an idea had dawned upon his mind, but the police are not readily hoodwinked and I dreaded50 the result of their inquiries51, if they chose to follow this undoubted clew.
Yet, if they let this point slip, where should I be? Human nature is human all the way through, and I could not help having moments when I asked myself if this young girl were worth the sacrifice I contemplated making for her? She was lovely to look at, amiable53 and of womanly promise save at those rare and poignant54 moments when passion would seize her in a gust55 which drove everything before it. But were any of these considerations sufficient to justify56 me in letting my whole manhood slip for the sake of one who, whatever the provocation57, had used the strength of her hands against the sister who had been as a mother to her for so many years. That she had had provocation I did not doubt. Adelaide, for all her virtues58, was not an easy person to deal with. Upright and perfectly sincere herself, she had no sympathy with or commiseration59 for any lack of principle or any display of selfishness in others. A little cold, a little reserved, a little lacking in spontaneity, though always correct and always generous in her gifts and often in her acts, her whole nature would rise at any evidence of meanness or ingratitude60, and though she said little, you would feel her disapprobation through and through. She would even change physically61. Naturally pallid62 and of small inconspicuous features, her eyes on these occasions would so flame and her whole figure so dilate63 that she looked like another woman. I have seen her brother, six feet in height and weighty for his years, cringe under her few quiet words at these times till she absolutely seemed the taller of the two. It was only in these moments she was handsome, and had I loved her, I should probably have admired this passionate64 purity, this intolerance of all that was small or selfish or unworthy a good woman’s esteem65. But not loving her, I had merely cherished a wholesome66 fear of her displeasure, and could quite comprehend what a full display of anger on her part might call up in her sensitive, already deeply suffering sister. The scathing67 arraignment68, the unbearable69 taunt70 — Well, well, it was all dream-work, but I had time to dream and opportunity for little else, and pictures, which till now I had sedulously71 kept in the background of my imagination, would come to the front as I harped72 on this topic and weighed in my disturbed mind the following question: Should I continue the course which I had instinctively73 taken out of a natural sense of chivalry75, or face my calumniators with the truth and leave my cause and hers to the justice of men, rather than to the slow but righteous workings of Providence76?
I struggled with the dilemma77 for hours, the more so, that I did not stand alone in the world. I had relatives and I had friends, some of whom had come to see me and gone away deeply grieved at my reticence78. I was swayed, too, by another consideration. I had deeply loved my mother. She was dead, but I had her honour to think of. Should it be said she had a murderer for her son? In the height of my inner conflict, I had almost cried aloud the fierce denial which would arise at this thought. But ere the word could leave my lips, such a vision rose before me of a bewildering young face with wonderful eyes and a smile too innocent for guile79 and too loving for hypocrisy80, that I forgot my late antagonistic81 feelings, forgot the claims of my dear, dead mother, and even those of my own future. Such passion and such devotion merited consideration from the man who had called them forth82. I would not slight the claims of my dead mother but I would give this young girl a chance for her life. Let others ferret out the fact that she had visited the club-house with her sister; I would not proclaim it. It was enough for me to proclaim my innocence83, and that I would do to the last.
I was in this frame of mind when Charles Clifton called and was allowed to see me. I had sent for him in one of my discouraged moods. He was my friend, but he was also my legal adviser84, and it was as such I had summoned him, and it was as such he had now come. Cordial as our relations had been — though he was hardly one of my ilk — I noted85 no instinctive74 outstretching of his hand, and so did not reach out mine. Appearances had been too strong against me for any such spontaneous outburst from even my best friends. I realised that to expect otherwise from him or from any other man would be to play the fool; and this was no time for folly86. The day for that was passed.
I was the first to speak.
“You see me where you have never thought to see a friend of yours. But we won’t go into that. The police have good reasons for what they have done and I presume feel justified87 in my commitment. Notwithstanding, I am an innocent man so far as the attack made upon Miss Cumberland goes. I had no hand in her murder, if murder it is found out to be. My story which you have read in the papers and which I felt forced to give out, possibly to my own shame and that of another whom I would fain have saved, is an absolutely true one. I did not arrive at The Whispering Pines until after Miss Cumberland was dead. To this I am ready to swear and it is upon this fact you must rely, in any defence you may hereafter be called upon to make in my regard.”
He listened as a lawyer would be apt to listen to such statements from the man who had summoned him to his aid. But I saw that I had made no impression on his convictions. He regarded me as a guilty man, and what was more to the point no doubt, as one for whom no plea could be made or any rational defence undertaken.
“You don’t believe me,” I went on, still without any great bitterness. “I am not surprised at it, after what the man Clarke has said of seeing me with my hands on her throat. Any man, friend or not, would take me for a villain89 after that. But, Charles, to you I will confess what cowardice90 kept me from owning to Dr. Perry at the proper, possibly at the only proper moment, that I did this out of a wild desire to see if those marks were really the marks of strangling fingers. I could not believe that she had been so killed and, led away by my doubts, I leaned over her and — You shall believe me, you must,” I insisted, as I perceived his hard gaze remain unsoftened. “I don’t ask it of the rest of the world. I hardly expect any one to give me credit for good impulses or even for speaking the plain truth after the discovery which has been made of my treacherous91 attitude towards these two virtuous92 and devoted93 women. But you — if you are to act as my counsel — must take this denial from me as gospel truth. I may disappoint you in other ways. I may try you and often make you regret that you undertook my case, but on this fact you may safely pin your faith. She was dead before I touched her. Had the police spy whose testimony is likely to hang me, climbed the tree a moment sooner than he did, he would have seen that. Are you ready to take my case?”
Clifton is a fair fellow and I knew if he once accepted the fact I thus urged upon him, he would work for me with all the skill and ability my desperate situation demanded. I, therefore, watched him with great anxiety for the least change in the constrained94 attitude and fixed95, unpromising gaze with which he had listened to me, and was conscious of a great leap of heart as the set expression of his features relaxed, and he responded almost warmly:
“I will take your case, Ranelagh. God help me to make it good against all odds96.”
I was conscious of few hopes, but some of the oppression under which I laboured lifted at those words. I had assured one man of my innocence! It was like a great rock in the weary desert. My sigh of relief bespoke97 my feelings and I longed to take his hand, but the moment had not yet come. Something was wanting to a perfect confidence between us, and I was in too sensitive a frame of mind to risk the slightest rebuff.
He was ready to speak before I was. “Then, you had not been long on the scene of crime when the police arrived?”
“I had been in the room but a few minutes. I do not know how long I was searching the house.”
“The police say that fully99 twenty minutes elapsed between the time they received Miss Cumberland’s appeal for help and their arrival at the club-house. If you were there that long —”
“I cannot say. Moments are hours at such a crisis — I—”
My emotions were too much for me, and I confusedly stopped. He was surveying me with the old distrust. In a moment I saw why.
“You are not open with me,” he protested. “Why should moments be hours to you previous to the instant when you stripped those pillows from the couch? You are not a fanciful man, nor have you any cowardly instincts. Why were you in such a turmoil100 going through a house where you could have expected to find nothing worse than some miserable sneak101 thief?”
This was a poser. I had laid myself open to suspicion by one thoughtless admission, and what was worse, it was but the beginning in all probability of many other possible mistakes. I had never taken the trouble to measure my words and the whole truth being impossible, I necessarily must make a slip now and then. He had better be warned of this. I did not wish him to undertake my cause blindfolded102. He must understand its difficulties while believing in my innocence. Then, if he chose to draw back, well and good. I should have to face the situation alone.
“Charles,” said I, as soon as I could perfectly control my speech, “you are quite just in your remark. I am not and can not be perfectly open with you. I shall tell you no lies, but beyond that I cannot promise. I am caught in a net not altogether of my own weaving. So far I will be frank with you. A common question may trip me up, others find me free and ready with my defence. You have chanced upon one of the former. I was in a turmoil of mind from the moment of my entrance into that fatal house, but I can give no reason for it unless I am, as you hinted, a coward.”
He settled that supposition with a gesture I had rather not have seen. It would be better for him to consider me a poltroon103 than to suspect my real reasons for the agitation104 which I had acknowledged.
“You say you cannot be open with me. That means you have certain memories connected with that night which you cannot divulge105.”
“Right, Charles; but not memories of guilt88 — of active guilt, I mean. This I have previously106 insisted on, and this is what you must believe. I am not even an accessory before the fact. I am perfectly innocent so far as Adelaide’s death is concerned. You may proceed on that basis without fear. That is, if you continue to take an interest in my case. If not, I shall be the last to blame you. Little honour is likely to accrue107 to you from defending me.”
“I have accepted the case and I shall continue to interest myself in it,” he assured me, with a dogged rather than genial108 persistence109. “But I should like to know what I am to work upon, if it cannot be shown that her call for help came before you entered the building.”
“That would be the best defence possible, of course,” I replied; “but neither from your standpoint nor mine is it a feasible one. I have no proof of my assertion, I never looked at my watch from the time I left the station till I found it run down this very morning. The club-house clock has been out of order for some time and was not running. All I know and can swear to about the length of time I was in that building prior to the arrival of the police, is that it could not have been very long, since she was not only dead and buried under those accumulated cushions, but in a room some little distance from the telephone.”
“That will do for me,” said he, “but scarcely for those who are prejudiced against you. Everything points so indisputably to your guilt. The note which you say you wrote to Carmel to meet you at the station looks very much more like one to Miss Cumberland to meet you at the club-house.”
It was thus I first learned which part of this letter had been burned off.1
1 It was the top portion, leaving the rest to read:
“Come, come my darling, my life. She will forgive when all is done. Hesitation110 will only undo52 us. To-night at 10:30. I shall never marry any one but you.“
It was also evident that I had failed to add those expressions of affection linked to Carmel’s name which had been in my mind and awakened111 my keenest apprehension112.]
“Otherwise,” he pursued, “what could have taken her there? Everybody who knew her will ask that. Such a night! so soon after seeing you! It is a mystery any way, but one entirely113 inconceivable without some such excuse for her. These lines said ‘Come!’ and she went, for reasons which may be clear to you who were acquainted with her weak as well as strong points. Went how? No one knows. By chance or by intention on her part or yours, every servant was out of the house by nine o’clock, and her brother, too. Only the sister remained, the sister whom you profess114 to have urged to leave the town with you that very evening; and she can tell us nothing,— may die without ever being able to do so. Some shock to her feelings — you may know its character and you may not — drove her from a state of apparent health into the wildest delirium in a few hours. It was not your letter — if your story is true about that letter — or she would have shown its effect immediately upon receiving it; that is, in the early evening. And she did not. Helen, one of the maids, declares that she saw her some time after you left the house, and that she wore anything but a troubled look; that, in fact, her countenance115 was beaming and so beautiful that, accustomed as the girl was to her young mistress’s good looks, she was more than struck by her appearance and spoke98 of it afterwards at the ball. A telling circumstance against you, Ranelagh, not only contradicting your own story but showing that her after condition sprang from some sudden and extreme apprehension in connection with her sister. Did you speak?”
No, I had not spoken. I had nothing to say. I was too deeply shaken by what he had just told me, to experience anything but the utmost confusion of ideas. Carmel beaming and beautiful at an hour I had supposed her suffering and full of struggle! I could not reconcile it with the letter she had written me, or with that understanding with her sister which ended so hideously116 in The Whispering Pines.
The lawyer, seeing my helpless state, proceeded with his presentation of my case as it looked to unprejudiced eyes.
“Miss Cumberland comes to the club-house; so do you. You have not the keys and so go searching about the building till you find an unlocked window by which you both enter. There are those who say you purposely left this window unfastened when you went about the house the day before; that you dropped the keys in her house where they would be sure to be found, and drove down to the station and stood about there for a good half hour, in order to divert suspicion from yourself afterwards and create an alibi117 in case it should be wanted. I do not believe any of this myself, not since accepting your assurance of innocence, but there are those who do believe it firmly and discern in the whole affair a cool and premeditated murder. Your passion for Carmel, while not generally known, has not passed unsuspected by your or her intimates; and this in itself is enough to give colour to these suspicions, even if you had not gone so far as to admit its power over you and the extremes to which you were willing to go to secure the wife you wished. So much for the situation as it appears to outsiders. Of the circumstantial evidence which links you personally to this crime, we have already spoken. It is very strong and apparently118 unassailable. But truth is truth, and if you only felt free to bare your whole soul to me as you now decline to do, I should not despair of finding some weak link in the chain which seems so satisfactory to the police and, I am forced to add, to the general public.”
“Charles —”
I was very near unbosoming myself to him at that moment. But I caught myself back in time. While Carmel lay ill and unconscious, I would not clear my name at her expense by so much as a suggestion.
“Charles,” I repeated, but in a different tone and with a different purpose, “how do they account for the cordial that was drunk — the two emptied glasses and the flask119 which were found in the adjacent closet?”
“It’s one of the affair’s conceded incongruities120. Miss Cumberland is a well-known temperance woman. Had the flask and glasses not come from her house, you would get no one to believe that she had had anything to do with them. Have you any hint to give on this point? It would be a welcome addition to our case.”
Alas121! I was as much puzzled by those emptied cordial glasses as he was, and told him so; also by the presence of the third unused one. As I dwelt in thought on the latter circumstance, I remembered the observation which Coroner Perry had made concerning it.
“Coroner Perry speaks of a third and unused glass which was found with the flask,” I ventured, tentatively. “He seemed to consider it an important item, hiding some truth that would materially help this case. What do you think, or rather, what is the general opinion on this point?”
“I have not heard. I have seen the fact mentioned, but without comment. It is a curious circumstance. I will make a note of it. You have no suggestions to offer on the subject?”
“None.”
“The clew is a small one,” he smiled.
“So is the one offered by the array of bottles found on the kitchen table; yet the latter may lead directly to the truth. Adelaide never dug those out of the cellar where they were locked up, and I’m sure I did not. Yet I suppose I’m given credit for doing so.”
“Naturally. The key to the wine-vault was the only key which was lacking from the bunch left at Miss Cumberland’s. That it was used to open the wine-vault door is evident from the fact that it was found in the lock.”
This was discouraging. Everything was against me. If the whole affair had been planned with an intent to inculpate122 me and me only, it could not have been done with more attention to detail, nor could I have found myself more completely enmeshed. Yet I knew, both from circumstances and my own instinct that no such planning had occurred. I was a victim, not of malice123 but of blind chance, or shall I say of Providence? As to this one key having been slipped from the rest and used to open the wine-vault for wine which nobody wanted and nobody drank — this must be classed with the other incongruities which might yet lead to my enlargement.
“You may add this coincidence to the other,” I conceded, after I had gone thus far in my own mind. “I swear that I had nothing to do with that key.”
Neither could I believe that it had been used or even carried there by Adelaide or Carmel, though I knew that the full ring of keys had been in their hands and that they had entered the building by means of one of them. So assured was I of their innocence in this regard that the idea which afterwards assumed such proportions in all our minds had, at this moment, its first dawning in mine, as well as its first outward expression.
“Some other man than myself was thirsty that night,” I firmly declared. “We are getting on, Charles.”
Evidently he did not consider the pace a very fast one, but being a cheerful fellow by nature, he simply expressed his dissatisfaction by an imperceptible shrug124.
“Do you know exactly what the club-house’s wine-vault contained?” he asked.
“An inventory125 was given me by the steward126 the morning we closed. It must be in my rooms.”
“Your rooms have been examined. You expected that, didn’t you? Probably this inventory has been found. I don’t suppose it will help any.”
“How should it?”
“Very true; how should it! No thoroughfare there, of course.”
“No thoroughfare anywhere to-day,” I exclaimed. “To-morrow some loop-hole of escape may suggest itself to me. I should like to sleep on the matter. I— I should like to sleep on it.”
He saw that I had something in mind of which I had thus far given him no intimation, and he waited anxiously for me to reconsider my last words before he earnestly remarked:
“A day lost at a time like this is often a day never retrieved127. Think well before you bid me leave you, unenlightened as to the direction in which you wish me to work.”
But I was not ready, not by any means ready, and he detected this when I next spoke.
“I will see you to-morrow; any time to-morrow; meantime I will give you a commission which you are at liberty to perform yourself or to entrust128 to some capable detective. The letter, of which a portion remains129, was written to Carmel, and she sent me a reply which was handed me on the station platform by a man who was a perfect stranger to me. I have hardly any memory of how the man looked, but it should be an easy task to find him and if you cannot do that, the smallest scrap130 of the note he gave me, and which unfortunately I tore up and scattered131 to the winds, would prove my veracity132 in this one particular and so make it easier for them to believe the rest.”
His eye lightened. I presume the prospect133 of making any practical attempt in my behalf was welcome.
“One thing more,” I now added. “My ring was missing from Miss Cumberland’s hand when I took away those pillows. I have reason to think — or it is natural for me to think — that she planned to return it to me by some messenger or in some letter. Do you know if such messenger or such letter has been received at my apartments? Have you heard anything about this ring? It was a notable one and not to be confounded with any other. Any one who knew us or who had ever remarked it on her hand would be able to identify it.”
“I have heard the ring mentioned,” he replied, “I have even heard that the police are interested in finding it; but I have not heard that they have been successful. You encourage me much by assuring me that it was missing from her hand when you first saw her. That ring may prove our most valuable clew.”
“Yes, but you must also remember that she may have taken it off before she started for the club-house.”
“That is very true.”
“You do not know whether they have looked for it at her home?”
“I do not.”
“Will you find out, and will you see that I get all my letters?”
“I certainly will, but you must not expect to receive the latter unopened.”
“I suppose not.”
I said this with more cheerfulness than he evidently expected. My heart had been lightened of one load. The ring had not been discovered on Carmel as I had secretly feared.
“I will take good care of your interests from now on,” he remarked, in a tone much more natural than any he had before used. “Be hopeful and show a brave front to the district attorney when he comes to interview you. I hear that he is expected home to-morrow. If you are innocent, you can face him and his whole office with calm assurance.” Which showed how little he understood my real position.
There was comfort in this very thought, however, and I quietly remarked that I did not despair.
“And I will not,” he emphasised, rising with an assumption of ease which left him as he remained hesitating before me.
It was my moment of advantage, and I improved it by proffering134 a request which had been more or less in my mind during the whole of this prolonged colloquy135.
First thanking him for his disinterestedness136, I remarked that he had shown me so much consideration as a lawyer, that I now felt emboldened137 to ask something from him as my friend.
“You are free,” said I; “I am not. Miss Cumberland will be buried before I leave these four walls. I hate to think of her going to her grave without one token from the man to whom she has been only too good and who, whatever outrage138 he may have planned to her feelings, is not without reverence139 for her character and a heartfelt repentance for whatever he may have done to grieve her. Charles, a few flowers,— white — no wreath, just a few which can be placed on her breast or in her hand. You need not say whom they are from. It would seem a mockery to any one but her. Lilies, Charles. I shall feel happier to know that they are there. Will you do this for me?”
“I will.”
“That is all.”
Instinctively he held out his hand. I dropped mine in it; there was a slight pressure, some few more murmured words and he was gone.
I slept that night.
收听单词发音 |
1
maiden
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| n.少女，处女；adj.未婚的，纯洁的，无经验的 | |
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2
crimson
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| n./adj.深(绯)红色(的)；vi.脸变绯红色 | |
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3
bosom
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| n.胸，胸部；胸怀；内心；adj.亲密的 | |
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4
dread
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| vt.担忧，忧虑；惧怕，不敢；n.担忧，畏惧 | |
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5
remorse
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| n.痛恨，悔恨，自责 | |
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6
detention
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| n.滞留，停留；拘留，扣留；(教育)留下 | |
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7
torment
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| n.折磨；令人痛苦的东西(人)；vt.折磨；纠缠 | |
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8
hovering
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| 鸟( hover的现在分词 )； 靠近（某事物）； （人）徘徊； 犹豫 | |
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9
murmur
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| n.低语，低声的怨言；v.低语，低声而言 | |
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10
frenzy
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| n.疯狂，狂热，极度的激动 | |
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11
precipitate
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| adj.突如其来的；vt.使突然发生；n.沉淀物 | |
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12
doom
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| n.厄运，劫数；v.注定，命定 | |
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13
nay
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| adv.不；n.反对票，投反对票者 | |
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14
magistrate
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| n.地方行政官，地方法官，治安官 | |
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15
tenor
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| n.男高音（歌手），次中音（乐器），要旨，大意 | |
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16
participation
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| n.参与，参加，分享 | |
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17
distress
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| n.苦恼，痛苦，不舒适；不幸；vt.使悲痛 | |
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18
penetrate
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| v.透(渗)入；刺入，刺穿；洞察，了解 | |
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19
uncertainty
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| n.易变，靠不住，不确知，不确定的事物 | |
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20
miserable
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| adj.悲惨的，痛苦的；可怜的，糟糕的 | |
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21
precursor
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| n.先驱者；前辈；前任；预兆；先兆 | |
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22
decided
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| adj.决定了的，坚决的；明显的，明确的 | |
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23
conjecture
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| n./v.推测，猜测 | |
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24
mingled
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| 混合，混入( mingle的过去式和过去分词 )； 混进，与…交往[联系] | |
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25
blotting
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| 吸墨水纸 | |
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26
hideous
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| adj.丑陋的，可憎的，可怕的，恐怖的 | |
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27
abominable
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| adj.可厌的，令人憎恶的 | |
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28
carouse
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| v.狂欢；痛饮；n.狂饮的宴会 | |
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29
repentance
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| n.懊悔 | |
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30
testimony
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| n.证词；见证，证明 | |
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31
invaluable
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| adj.无价的，非常宝贵的，极为贵重的 | |
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32
delirium
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| n. 神智昏迷,说胡话;极度兴奋 | |
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33
mansion
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| n.大厦，大楼；宅第 | |
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34
tragic
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| adj.悲剧的，悲剧性的，悲惨的 | |
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35
Forsaken
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| adj. 被遗忘的, 被抛弃的 动词forsake的过去分词 | |
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36
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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37
mare
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| n.母马，母驴 | |
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38
imminent
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| adj.即将发生的，临近的，逼近的 | |
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39
contemplated
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| adj. 预期的 动词contemplate的过去分词形式 | |
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40
athletic
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| adj.擅长运动的，强健的；活跃的，体格健壮的 | |
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41
addicted
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| adj.沉溺于....的，对...上瘾的 | |
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42
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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43
inexplicable
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| adj.无法解释的，难理解的 | |
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44
subterfuge
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| n.诡计；藉口 | |
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45
perfectly
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| adv.完美地，无可非议地，彻底地 | |
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46
deductions
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| 扣除( deduction的名词复数 )； 结论； 扣除的量； 推演 | |
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47
drawn
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| v.拖，拉，拔出；adj.憔悴的，紧张的 | |
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48
stark
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| adj.荒凉的；严酷的；完全的；adv.完全地 | |
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49
awaken
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| vi.醒，觉醒；vt.唤醒，使觉醒，唤起，激起 | |
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50
dreaded
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| adj.令人畏惧的；害怕的v.害怕，恐惧，担心( dread的过去式和过去分词) | |
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51
inquiries
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| n.调查( inquiry的名词复数 )；疑问；探究；打听 | |
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52
undo
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| vt.解开，松开；取消，撤销 | |
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53
amiable
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| adj.和蔼可亲的，友善的，亲切的 | |
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54
poignant
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| adj.令人痛苦的，辛酸的，惨痛的 | |
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55
gust
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| n.阵风，突然一阵（雨、烟等），（感情的）迸发 | |
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56
justify
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| vt.证明…正当(或有理)，为…辩护 | |
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57
provocation
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| n.激怒，刺激，挑拨，挑衅的事物，激怒的原因 | |
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58
virtues
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| 美德( virtue的名词复数 )； 德行； 优点； 长处 | |
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59
commiseration
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| n.怜悯，同情 | |
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60
ingratitude
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| n.忘恩负义 | |
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61
physically
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| adj.物质上，体格上，身体上，按自然规律 | |
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62
pallid
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| adj.苍白的，呆板的 | |
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63
dilate
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| vt.使膨胀，使扩大 | |
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64
passionate
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| adj.热情的，热烈的，激昂的，易动情的，易怒的，性情暴躁的 | |
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65
esteem
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| n.尊敬，尊重；vt.尊重，敬重；把…看作 | |
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66
wholesome
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| adj.适合；卫生的；有益健康的；显示身心健康的 | |
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67
scathing
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| adj.（言词、文章）严厉的，尖刻的；不留情的adv.严厉地，尖刻地v.伤害，损害（尤指使之枯萎）( scathe的现在分词) | |
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68
arraignment
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| n.提问，传讯，责难 | |
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69
unbearable
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| adj.不能容忍的；忍受不住的 | |
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70
taunt
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| n.辱骂，嘲弄；v.嘲弄 | |
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71
sedulously
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| ad.孜孜不倦地 | |
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72
harped
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| vi.弹竖琴（harp的过去式与过去分词形式） | |
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73
instinctively
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| adv.本能地 | |
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74
instinctive
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| adj.(出于)本能的；直觉的；(出于)天性的 | |
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75
chivalry
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| n.骑士气概，侠义；（男人）对女人彬彬有礼，献殷勤 | |
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76
providence
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| n.深谋远虑，天道，天意；远见；节约；上帝 | |
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77
dilemma
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| n.困境，进退两难的局面 | |
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78
reticence
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| n.沉默，含蓄 | |
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79
guile
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| n.诈术 | |
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80
hypocrisy
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| n.伪善，虚伪 | |
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81
antagonistic
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| adj.敌对的 | |
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82
forth
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| adv.向前；向外，往外 | |
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83
innocence
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| n.无罪；天真；无害 | |
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84
adviser
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| n.劝告者，顾问 | |
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85
noted
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| adj.著名的，知名的 | |
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86
folly
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| n.愚笨，愚蠢，蠢事，蠢行，傻话 | |
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87
justified
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| a.正当的，有理的 | |
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88
guilt
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| n.犯罪；内疚；过失，罪责 | |
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89
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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90
cowardice
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| n.胆小，怯懦 | |
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91
treacherous
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| adj.不可靠的，有暗藏的危险的；adj.背叛的，背信弃义的 | |
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92
virtuous
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| adj.有品德的，善良的，贞洁的，有效力的 | |
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93
devoted
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| adj.忠诚的，忠实的，热心的，献身于...的 | |
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94
constrained
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| adj.束缚的,节制的 | |
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95
fixed
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| adj.固定的，不变的，准备好的；(计算机)固定的 | |
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96
odds
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| n.让步，机率，可能性，比率；胜败优劣之别 | |
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97
bespoke
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| adj.（产品）订做的；专做订货的v.预定( bespeak的过去式 )；订（货）；证明；预先请求 | |
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98
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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99
fully
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| adv.完全地，全部地，彻底地；充分地 | |
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100
turmoil
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| n.骚乱，混乱，动乱 | |
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101
sneak
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| vt.潜行(隐藏,填石缝)；偷偷摸摸做；n.潜行；adj.暗中进行 | |
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102
blindfolded
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| v.（尤指用布）挡住（某人）的视线( blindfold的过去式 )；蒙住（某人）的眼睛；使不理解；蒙骗 | |
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103
poltroon
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| n.胆怯者；懦夫 | |
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104
agitation
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| n.搅动；搅拌；鼓动，煽动 | |
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105
divulge
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| v.泄漏(秘密等)；宣布，公布 | |
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106
previously
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| adv.以前，先前（地） | |
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107
accrue
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| v.(利息等)增大，增多 | |
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108
genial
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| adj.亲切的，和蔼的，愉快的，脾气好的 | |
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109
persistence
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| n.坚持，持续，存留 | |
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110
hesitation
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| n.犹豫，踌躇 | |
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111
awakened
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| v.（使）醒( awaken的过去式和过去分词 )；（使）觉醒；弄醒；（使）意识到 | |
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112
apprehension
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| n.理解，领悟；逮捕，拘捕；忧虑 | |
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113
entirely
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| ad.全部地，完整地；完全地，彻底地 | |
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114
profess
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| v.声称，冒称，以...为业，正式接受入教，表明信仰 | |
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115
countenance
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| n.脸色，面容；面部表情；vt.支持，赞同 | |
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116
hideously
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| adv.可怕地，非常讨厌地 | |
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117
alibi
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| n.某人当时不在犯罪现场的申辩或证明；借口 | |
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118
apparently
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| adv.显然地；表面上，似乎 | |
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119
flask
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| n.瓶，火药筒，砂箱 | |
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120
incongruities
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| n.不协调( incongruity的名词复数 )；不一致；不适合；不协调的东西 | |
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121
alas
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| int.唉(表示悲伤、忧愁、恐惧等) | |
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122
inculpate
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| v.使负罪；控告；使连累 | |
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123
malice
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| n.恶意，怨恨，蓄意；[律]预谋 | |
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124
shrug
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| v.耸肩(表示怀疑、冷漠、不知等) | |
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125
inventory
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| n.详细目录，存货清单 | |
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126
steward
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| n.乘务员，服务员；看管人；膳食管理员 | |
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127
retrieved
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| v.取回( retrieve的过去式和过去分词 )；恢复；寻回；检索（储存的信息） | |
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128
entrust
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| v.信赖，信托，交托 | |
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129
remains
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| n.剩余物，残留物；遗体，遗迹 | |
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130
scrap
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| n.碎片；废料；v.废弃，报废 | |
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131
scattered
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| adj.分散的，稀疏的；散步的；疏疏落落的 | |
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132
veracity
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| n.诚实 | |
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133
prospect
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| n.前景，前途；景色，视野 | |
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134
proffering
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| v.提供，贡献，提出( proffer的现在分词 ) | |
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135
colloquy
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| n.谈话，自由讨论 | |
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136
disinterestedness
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137
emboldened
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| v.鼓励，使有胆量( embolden的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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138
outrage
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| n.暴行，侮辱，愤怒；vt.凌辱，激怒 | |
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139
reverence
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| n.敬畏，尊敬，尊严；Reverence:对某些基督教神职人员的尊称；v.尊敬，敬畏，崇敬 | |
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