The Paradise Mystery by J. S. Fletcher (simple e reader TXT) 📗

“I don't think my guardian cares twopence for common talk, Mrs. Folliot,” answered Mary. “And I am quite sure I don't.”

“None of us—especially people in our position—can afford to ignore rumours and common talk,” said Mrs. Folliot in her loftiest manner. “If we are, unfortunately, talked about, then it is our solemn, bounden duty to put ourselves right in the eyes of our friends—and of society. If I for instance, my dear, heard anything affecting my—let me say, moral-character, I should take steps, the most stringent, drastic, and forceful steps, to put matters to the test. I would not remain under a stigma—no, not for one minute!”

“I hope you will never have occasion to rehabilitate your moral character, Mrs. Folliot,” remarked Mary, bending closely over her work. “Such a necessity would indeed be dreadful.”

“And yet you do not insist—yes, insist!—on Dr. Ransford's taking strong steps to clear himself!” exclaimed Mrs. Folliot. “Now that, indeed, is a dreadful necessity!”

“Dr. Ransford,” answered Mary, “is quite able to defend and to take care of himself. It is not for me to tell him what to do, or even to advise him what to do. And—since you will talk of this matter, I tell you frankly, Mrs. Folliot, that I don't believe any decent person in Wrychester has the least suspicion or doubt of Dr. Ransford. His denial of any share or complicity in those sad affairs—the mere idea of it as ridiculous as it's wicked—was quite sufficient. You know very well that at that second inquest he said—on oath, too—that he knew nothing of these affairs. I repeat, there isn't a decent soul in the city doubts that!”

“Oh, but you're quite wrong!” said Mrs. Folliot, hurriedly. “Quite wrong, I assure you, my dear. Of course, everybody knows what Dr. Ransford said—very excitedly, poor man, I'm given to understand on the occasion you refer to, but then, what else could he have said in his own interest? What people want is the proof of his innocence. I could—but I won't—tell you of many of the very best people who are—well, very much exercised over the matter—I could indeed!”

“Do you count yourself among them?” asked Mary in a cold fashion which would have been a warning to any one but her visitor. “Am I to understand that, Mrs. Folliot?”

“Certainly not, my dear,” answered Mrs. Folliot promptly. “Otherwise I should not have done what I have done towards establishing the foolish man's innocence!”

Mary dropped her work and turned a pair of astonished eyes on Mrs. Folliot's large countenance.

“You!” she exclaimed. “To establish—Dr. Ransford's innocence? Why, Mrs. Folliot, what have you done?”

Mrs. Folliot toyed a little with the jewelled head of her sunshade. Her expression became almost coy.

“Oh, well!” she answered after a brief spell of indecision. “Perhaps it is as well that you should know, Miss Bewery. Of course, when all this sad trouble was made far worse by that second affair—the working-man's death, you know, I said to my husband that really one must do something, seeing that Dr. Ransford was so very, very obdurate and wouldn't speak. And as money is nothing—at least as things go—to me or to Mr. Folliot, I insisted that he should offer a thousand pounds reward to have the thing cleared up. He's a generous and open-handed man, and he agreed with me entirely, and put the thing in hand through his solicitors. And nothing would please us more, my dear, than to have that thousand pounds claimed! For of course, if there is to be—as I suppose there is—a union between our families, it would be utterly impossible that any cloud could rest on Dr. Ransford, even if he is only your guardian. My son's future wife cannot, of course—”

Mary laid down her work again and for a full minute stared Mrs. Folliot in the face.

“Mrs. Folliot!” she said at last. “Are you under the impression that I'm thinking of marrying your son?”

“I think I've every good reason for believing it!” replied Mrs. Folliot.

“You've none!” retorted Mary, gathering up her work and moving towards the door. “I've no more intention of marrying Mr. Sackville Bonham than of eloping with the Bishop! The idea's too absurd to—even be thought of!”

Five minutes later Mrs. Folliot, heightened in colour, had gone. And presently Mary, glancing after her across the Close, saw Bryce approaching the gate of the garden.