Dangerfield was, after his wont1, seated at his desk, writing letters, after his early breakfast, with his neatly-labelled accounts at his elbow. There was a pleasant frosty sun glittering through the twigs2 of the leafless shrubs3, and flashing on the ripples4 and undulations of the Liffey, and the redbreasts and sparrows were picking up the crumbs5 which the housekeeper6 had thrown for them outside. He had just sealed the last of half-a-dozen letters, when the maid opened his parlour-door, and told him that a gentleman was at the hall-step, who wished to see him.
Dangerfield looked up with a quick glance —
‘Eh?— to be sure. Show him in.’
And in a few seconds more, Mr. Mervyn, his countenance7 more than usually pale and sad, entered the room. He bowed low and gravely, as the servant announced him.
Dangerfield rose with a prompt smile, bowing also, and advanced with his hand extended, which, as a matter of form rather than of cordiality, his visitor took, coldly enough, in his.
‘Happy to see you here, Mr. Mervyn — pray, take a chair — a charming morning for a turn by the river, Sir.’
‘I have taken the liberty of visiting you, Mr. Dangerfield —’
‘Your visit, Sir, I esteem8 an honour,’ interposed the lord of the Brass9 Castle.
A slight and ceremonious bow from Mervyn, who continued —‘For the purpose of asking you directly and plainly for some light upon a matter in which it is in the highest degree important I should be informed.’
‘You may command me, Mr. Mervyn,’ said Dangerfield, crossing his legs, throwing himself back, and adjusting himself to attention.
Mervyn fixed10 his dark eyes full and sternly upon that white and enigmatical face, with its round glass eyes and silver setting, and those delicate lines of scorn he had never observed before, traced about the mouth and nostril11.
‘Then, Sir, I venture to ask you for all you can disclose or relate about one Charles Archer12.’
Dangerfield cocked his head on one side, quizzically, and smiled the faintest imaginable cynical13 smile.
‘I can’t disclose anything, for the gentleman never told me his secrets; but all I can relate is heartily14 at your service.’
‘Can you point him out, Sir?’ asked Mervyn, a little less sternly, for he saw no traces of a guilty knowledge in the severe countenance and prompt, unembarrassed manner of the gentleman who leaned back in his chair, with the clear bright light full on him, and his leg crossed so carelessly.
Dangerfield smiled, shook his head gently, and shrugged15 his shoulders the least thing in the world.
‘Don’t you know him, Sir?’ demanded Mervyn.
‘Why,’ said Dangerfield, with his chin a little elevated, and the tips of his fingers all brought together, and his elbows resting easily upon the arms of his chair, and altogether an involuntary air of hauteur16, ‘Charles Archer, perhaps you’re not aware, was not exactly the most reputable acquaintance in the world; and my knowledge of him was very slight indeed — wholly accidental — and of very short duration.’
‘May I ask you, if, without leaving this town, you can lay your finger on him, Sir?’
‘Why, not conveniently,’ answered Dangerfield, with the same air of cynical amusement. ‘‘Twould reach in that case all the way to Florence, and even then we should gain little by the discovery.’
‘But you do know him?’ pursued Mervyn.
‘I did, Sir, though very slightly,’ answered Dangerfield.
‘And I’m given to understand, Sir, he’s to be found occasionally in this town?’ continued his visitor.
‘There’s just one man who sees him, and that’s the parish clerk — what’s his name?— Zekiel Irons — he sees him. Suppose we send down to his house, and fetch him here, and learn all about it?’ said Dangerfield, who seemed mightily17 tickled18 by the whole thing.
‘He left the town, Sir, last night; and I’ve reason to suspect, with a resolution of returning no more. And I must speak plainly, Mr. Dangerfield, ’tis no subject for trifling19 — the fame and fortune of a noble family depend on searching out the truth; and I’ll lose my life, Sir, or I’ll discover it.’
Still the old cynical, quizzical smile on Dangerfield’s white face, who said encouragingly —
‘Nobly resolved, Sir, upon my honour!’
‘And Mr. Dangerfield, if you’ll only lay yourself out to help me, with your great knowledge and subtlety20 — disclosing everything you know or conjecture21, and putting me in train to discover the rest — so that I may fully22 clear this dreadful mystery up — there is no sacrifice of fortune I will not cheerfully make to recompense such immense services, and you may name with confidence your own terms, and think nothing exorbitant23.’
For the first time Dangerfield’s countenance actually darkened and grew stern, but Mervyn could not discern whether it was with anger or deep thought, and the round spectacles returned his intense gaze with a white reflected sheen, sightless as death.
But the stern mouth opened, and Dangerfield, in his harsh, brief tones, said —
‘You speak without reflection, Sir, and had nigh made me lose my temper; but I pardon you; you’re young, Sir, and besides, know probably little or nothing of me. Who are you, Sir, who thus think fit to address me, who am by blood and education as good a gentleman as any alive? The inducements you are pleased to offer — you may address elsewhere — they are not for me. I shall forget your imprudence, and answer frankly24 any questions, within my knowledge, you please to ask.’
Mervyn bowed apologetically, and a silence ensued; after which he thus availed himself of his host’s permission to question him —
‘You mentioned Irons, the clerk, Mr. Dangerfield, and said that he sees Charles Archer. Do you mean it?’
‘Why, thus I mean it. He thinks he sees him; but, if he does, upon my honour, he sees a ghost,’ and Dangerfield chuckled25 merrily.
‘Pray, Mr. Dangerfield, consider me, and be serious, and in Heaven’s name explain,’ said Mervyn, speaking evidently in suppressed anguish27.
‘Why, you know — don’t you? the poor fellow’s not quite right here,’ and he tapped the centre of his own towering forehead with the delicate tip of his white middle finger. ‘I’ve seen a little of him; he’s an angler, so am I; and he showed me the fishing of the river, here, last summer, and often amused me prodigiously28. He’s got some such very odd maggots! I don’t say, mind ye, he’s mad, there are many degrees, and he’s quite a competent parish clerk. He’s only wrong on a point or two, and one of them is Charles Archer. I believe for a while he thought you were he; and Dangerfield laughed his dry, hard chuckle26.
‘Where, Sir, do you suppose Charles Archer is now to be found?’ urged Mervyn.
‘Why, what remains29 of him, in Florence,’ answered Dangerfield.
‘You speak, Sir, as if you thought him dead.’
‘Think? I know he’s dead. I knew him but three weeks, and visited him in his sickness — was in his room half an hour before he died, and attended his funeral,’ said Dangerfield.
‘I implore30 of you, Sir, as you hope for mercy, don’t trifle in this matter,’ cried Mervyn, whose face was white, like that of a man about to swoon under an operation.
‘Trifle! What d’ye mean, Sir?’ barked out Dangerfield, rabidly.
‘I mean, Sir, this — I’ve information he’s positively31 living, and can relieve my father’s memory from the horrible imputation32 that rests upon it. You know who I am!’
‘Ay, Sir, Lord Castlemallard told me.’
‘And my life I cheerfully devote to the task of seizing and tracing out the bloody33 clue of the labyrinth34 in which I’m lost.’
‘Good —’tis a pious35 as well as a prudent36 resolve,’ said Dangerfield, with a quiet sneer37. ‘And now, Sir, give me leave to say a word. Your information that Charles Archer is living, is not worth the breath of the madman that spoke38 it, as I’ll presently show you. By an odd chance, Sir, I required this file of newspapers, last week, to help me in ascertaining39 the date of Sir Harry40 Wyatt’s marriage. Well, only last night, what should I hit on but this. Will you please to read?’
He had turned over the pages rapidly, and then he stopped at this little piece of news packed up in a small paragraph at the bottom of a column, and, pointing his finger to it, he slid the volume of newspapers over to Mervyn, who read —
‘Died on the 4th of August, of a lingering disease, at his lodgings41 in Florence, whither he had gone for the improvement of his health, Charles Archer, Esq., a gentleman who some three years since gave an exceeding clear evidence against Lord Dunoran, for the murder of Mr. Beauclerc, and was well known at Newmarket. His funeral, which was private, was attended by several English gentlemen, who were then at Florence.’
Mervyn, deadly pale, with gleaming eyes, and hand laid along his forehead, as if to screen off an insupportable light and concentrate his gaze upon the words, read and re-read these sentences with an agony of scrutiny42 such as no critic ever yet directed upon a disputed passage in his favourite classic. But there was no possibility of fastening any consolatory43 interpretation44 upon the paragraph. It was all too plain and outspoken45.
‘’Tis possible this may be true — thus much. A Charles Archer is dead, and yet another Charles Archer, the object of my search, still living,’ said Mervyn.
‘Hey! that didn’t strike me,’ said Dangerfield, as much amused as was consistent with moderately good breeding. ‘But I can quite account, Mr. Mervyn,’ he continued, with a sudden change of tone and manner, to something almost of kindness, ‘for your readiness to entertain any theory not quite destructive of hopes, which, notwithstanding, I fear, rest simply on the visions of that poor hypochondriac, Irons. But, for all that, ’tis just possible that something may strike either you or me in the matter not quite so romantic — hey? But still something.— You’ve not told me how the plague Charles Archer could possibly have served you. But on that point, perhaps, we can talk another time. I simply desire to say, that any experience or ability I may possess are heartily at your service whenever you please to task them, as my good wishes are already.’
So, stunned47, and like a man walking in a dream — all his hopes shivered about his feet — Mervyn walked through the door of the little parlour in the Brass Castle, and Dangerfield, accompanying him to the little gate which gave admission from the high-road to that tenement48, dismissed him there, with a bow and a pleasant smile; and, standing46, for a while, wiry and erect49, with his hands in his pockets, he followed him, as he paced dejectedly away, with the same peculiar50 smile.
When he was out of sight, Dangerfield returned to his parlour, smiling all the way, and stood on the hearthrug, with his back to the fire. When he was alone, a shadow came over his face, and he looked down on the fringe with a thoughtful scowl51 — his hands behind his back — and began adjusting and smoothing it with the toe of his shoe.
‘Sot, fool, and poltroon52 — triple qualification for mischief53 — I don’t know why he still lives. Irons — a new vista54 opens, and this d —— d young man!’ All this was not, as we sometimes read, ‘mentally ejaculated,’ but quite literally55 muttered, as I believe every one at times mutters to himself. ‘Charles Archer living — Charles Archer dead — or, as I sometimes think, neither one nor t’other quite — half man, half corpse56 — a vampire57 — there is no rest for thee: no sabbath in the days of thy week. Blood, blood — blood —’tis tiresome58. Why should I be a slave to these d —— d secrets. I don’t think ’tis my judgment59, so much as the devil, holds me here. Irons has more brains than I— instinct — calculation — which is oftener right? Miss Gertrude Chattesworth, a mere60 whim61, I think understood her game too. I’ll deal with that tomorrow. I’ll send Daxon the account, vouchers62, and cheque for Lord Castlemallard — tell Smith to sell my horses, and, by the next packet — hey?’ and he kissed his hand, with an odd smirk63, like a gentleman making his adieux, ‘and so leave those who court the acquaintance of Charles Archer, to find him out, and catch their Tartar how they may.’
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wont
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| adj.习惯于；v.习惯；n.习惯 | |
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twigs
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| 细枝，嫩枝( twig的名词复数 ) | |
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shrubs
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| 灌木( shrub的名词复数 ) | |
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ripples
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| 逐渐扩散的感觉( ripple的名词复数 ) | |
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crumbs
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| int. (表示惊讶)哎呀 n. 碎屑 名词crumb的复数形式 | |
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housekeeper
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| n.管理家务的主妇，女管家 | |
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countenance
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| n.脸色，面容；面部表情；vt.支持，赞同 | |
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esteem
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| n.尊敬，尊重；vt.尊重，敬重；把…看作 | |
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brass
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| n.黄铜；黄铜器，铜管乐器 | |
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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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nostril
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| n.鼻孔 | |
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archer
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| n.射手，弓箭手 | |
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cynical
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| adj.(对人性或动机)怀疑的，不信世道向善的 | |
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heartily
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| adv.衷心地，诚恳地，十分，很 | |
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shrugged
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| vt.耸肩（shrug的过去式与过去分词形式） | |
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hauteur
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| n.傲慢 | |
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mightily
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| ad.强烈地；非常地 | |
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tickled
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| （使）发痒( tickle的过去式和过去分词 )； （使）愉快，逗乐 | |
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trifling
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| adj.微不足道的；没什么价值的 | |
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subtlety
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| n.微妙，敏锐，精巧；微妙之处，细微的区别 | |
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conjecture
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| n./v.推测，猜测 | |
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fully
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| adv.完全地，全部地，彻底地；充分地 | |
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exorbitant
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| adj.过分的；过度的 | |
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frankly
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| adv.坦白地，直率地；坦率地说 | |
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chuckled
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| 轻声地笑( chuckle的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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chuckle
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| vi.／n.轻声笑，咯咯笑 | |
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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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prodigiously
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| adv.异常地，惊人地，巨大地 | |
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remains
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| n.剩余物，残留物；遗体，遗迹 | |
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implore
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| vt.乞求，恳求，哀求 | |
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positively
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| adv.明确地，断然，坚决地；实在，确实 | |
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imputation
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| n.归罪，责难 | |
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bloody
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| adj.非常的的；流血的；残忍的；adv.很；vt.血染 | |
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labyrinth
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| n.迷宫；难解的事物；迷路 | |
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pious
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| adj.虔诚的；道貌岸然的 | |
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prudent
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| adj.谨慎的，有远见的，精打细算的 | |
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sneer
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| v.轻蔑；嘲笑；n.嘲笑，讥讽的言语 | |
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38
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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ascertaining
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| v.弄清，确定，查明( ascertain的现在分词 ) | |
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harry
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| vt.掠夺，蹂躏，使苦恼 | |
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41
lodgings
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| n. 出租的房舍, 寄宿舍 | |
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scrutiny
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| n.详细检查，仔细观察 | |
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consolatory
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| adj.慰问的，可藉慰的 | |
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interpretation
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| n.解释，说明，描述；艺术处理 | |
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outspoken
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| adj.直言无讳的，坦率的，坦白无隐的 | |
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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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stunned
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| adj. 震惊的，惊讶的 动词stun的过去式和过去分词 | |
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tenement
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| n.公寓；房屋 | |
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erect
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| n./v.树立，建立，使竖立；adj.直立的，垂直的 | |
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peculiar
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| adj.古怪的，异常的；特殊的，特有的 | |
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scowl
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| vi.(at)生气地皱眉，沉下脸，怒视；n.怒容 | |
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52
poltroon
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| n.胆怯者；懦夫 | |
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53
mischief
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| n.损害，伤害，危害；恶作剧，捣蛋，胡闹 | |
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vista
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| n.远景，深景，展望，回想 | |
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55
literally
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| adv.照字面意义，逐字地；确实 | |
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corpse
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| n.尸体，死尸 | |
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vampire
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| n.吸血鬼 | |
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tiresome
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| adj.令人疲劳的，令人厌倦的 | |
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judgment
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| n.审判；判断力，识别力，看法，意见 | |
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mere
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| adj.纯粹的；仅仅，只不过 | |
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whim
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| n.一时的兴致，突然的念头；奇想，幻想 | |
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vouchers
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| n.凭证( voucher的名词复数 )；证人；证件；收据 | |
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smirk
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| n.得意地笑；v.傻笑；假笑着说 | |
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