He took the letter from
her almost mechanically, and tore it open without looking at the address.
The certificate dropped to the ground. He picked it up with a tremulous
hand, and for some moments stood staring at it with dazzled, unseeing
eyes. He could see that it was a document with dates and names written in
a clerkly hand. For some moments he could see no more. And then words and
names shone out of the confusion of letters that spun and whirled, like
motes in the sunshine, before his dazzled eyes.
"Valentine Hawkehurst, bachelor, author, Carlyle Terrace, Edgware Road,
son of Arthur Hawkehurst, journalist; Charlotte Halliday, spinster, of
the Lawn, Bayswater, daughter of Thomas Halliday, farmer."
He read no more.
It was a copy of a certificate of marriage--not a certificate of
death--that had been brought to him.
"You can go," he said to the servant hoarsely.
He had a vague consciousness that she was staring at him with curious
looks, and that it was not good for him to be watched by any one just
now.
"About dinner, sir, if you please?" the young woman began timidly.
"What do I know about dinner?"
"You will dine at home, sir?"
"Dine at home? Yes; Mrs. Woolper can give you your orders."
"Mrs. Woolper has gone out, sir. She has gone for good, I believe, sir;
she took her boxes. And Miss Paget's luggage will be sent for, if you
please, sir.
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