In which Captain Devereux Hears the News; and Mr. Dangerfield Meets an Old Friend After Dinner.
‘On the night when this great sorrow visited the Elms, Captain Richard Devereux, who had heard nothing of it, was strangely saddened and disturbed in mind. They say that a distant death is sometimes felt like the shadow and chill of a passing iceberg1; and if this ominous2 feeling crosses a mind already saddened and embittered3, it overcasts4 it with a feeling akin5 to despair.
Mrs. Irons knocked at his door, and with the eagerness of a messenger of news, opened it without awaiting his answer.
‘Oh, captain, jewel, do you know what? There’s poor Miss Lily Walsingham; and what do you think but she’s dead — the poor little thing; gone to-night, Sir — not half an hour ago.’
He staggered a little, and put his hand toward his sword, like a man struck by a robber, and looked at her with a blank stare. She thought he was out of his mind, and was frightened.
‘’Tis only me, Sir, Mrs. Irons.’
‘A— thank you;’ and he walked towards the chimney, and then towards the door, like a man looking for something; and on a sudden clasping his forehead in his hands, he cried a wild and terrible appeal to the Maker7 and Judge of all things.
‘’Tis impossible — oh, no — oh, no — it’s not true.’
He was in the open air, he could not tell how, and across the bridge, and before the Elms — a dream — the dark Elms — dark everything.
‘Oh, no — it can’t be-oh, no — oh, no;’ and he went on saying as he stared on the old house, dark against the sky, ‘Oh, no — oh, no.’
Two or three times he would have gone over to the hall-door to make enquiry, but he sickened at the thought. He clung to that hope, which was yet not a hope, and he turned and walked quickly down the river’s side by the Inchicore-road. But the anguish8 of suspense9 soon drew him back again; and now his speech was changed, and he said —
‘Yes, she’s gone — she’s gone — oh, she’s gone — she’s certainly gone.’
He found himself at the drawing-room window that looked into the little garden at the front of the house, and tapping at the window-pane. He remembered, all on a sudden — it was like waking — how strange was such a summons. A little after he saw a light crossing the hall, and he rang the door-bell. John Tracy opened the door. Yes, it was all true.
The captain was looking very pale, John thought, but otherwise much as usual. He stared at the old servant for some seconds after he told him all, but said nothing, not even good-night, and turned away. Old John was crying; but he called after the captain to take care of the step at the gate: and as he shut the hall-door his eye caught, by the light of his candle, a scribbling10 in red chalk, on the white door-post, and he stooped to read it, and muttered, ‘Them mischievous11 young blackguards!’ and began rubbing it with the cuff12 of his coat, his cheek still wet with tears. For even our grief is volatile13; or, rather, it is two tunes14 that are in our ears together, the requiem15 of the organ, and, with it, the faint hurdy-gurdy jig16 of our vulgar daily life; and now and then this latter uppermost.
It was not till he had got nearly across the bridge that Captain Devereux, as it were, waked up. It was no good waking. He broke forth17 into sheer fury. It is not my business to note down the horrors of this impious frenzy18. It was near five o’clock when he came back to his lodgings19; and then, not to rest. To sit down, to rise again, to walk round the room and round, and stop on a sudden at the window, leaning his elbows on the sash, with hands clenched20 together, and teeth set; and so those demoniac hours of night and solitude21 wore slowly away, and the cold gray stole over the east, and Devereux drank a deep draught22 of his fiery23 Lethe, and cast himself down on his bed, and fell at once into a deep, exhausted24 lethargy.
When his servant came to his bed-side at seven o’clock, he was lying motionless, with flushed cheeks, and he could not rouse him. Perhaps it was well, and saved him from brain-fever or madness.
But after such paroxysms comes often a reaction, a still, stony25, awful despondency. It is only the oscillation between active and passive despair. Poor Leonora, after she had worked out her fit, tearing ‘her raven26 hair,’ and reviling27 heaven, was visited in sadder and tenderer guise28 by the vision of the past; but with that phantom29 went down in fear and isolation30 to the grave.
This morning several of the neighbours went into Dublin, for the bills were to be presented against Charles Nutter31 for a murderous assault, with intent to kill, made upon the person of Barnabas Sturk, Esq., Doctor of Medicine, and Surgeon to the Royal Irish Artillery32. As the day wore on, the honest gossips of Chapelizod looked out anxiously for news. And everybody who met any one else asked him —‘Any news about Nutter, eh?’— and then they would stop to speculate — and then one would wonder that Dr. Walsingham’s man, Clinton, had not yet returned — and the other would look at his watch, and say ’twas one o’clock — and then both agreed that Spaight, at all events, must soon come — for he has appointed two o’clock for looking at that brood mare34 of Fagan’s.
At last, sure enough, Spaight appeared. Toole, who had been detained by business in another quarter, had ridden into the town from Leixlip, and was now dismounted and talking with Major O’Neill upon the absorbing topic. These cronies saw Spaight at the turnpike, and as he showed his ticket, he talked with the man. Of course, the news was come. The turnpike-man knew it by this time; and off scampered35 Toole, and the major followed close at his heels, at double-quick. He made a dismal36 shake or two of his head, and lifted his hand as they drew near. Toole’s heart misgave37 him.
‘Well, how is it?— what’s the news?’ he panted.
‘A true bill,’ answered Spaight, with a solemn stare; ‘a true bill, Sir.’
Toole uttered an oath of consternation38, and taking the words out of Spaight’s mouth, told the news to the major.
‘Do you tell me so?’ exclaimed the major. ‘Bedad, Sir, I’m uncommon39 sorry.’
‘A bad business, Sir,’ observed Spaight.
‘No worse,’ said Toole. ‘If they convict him on this, you know — in case Sturk dies, and die he will — they’ll indict40 and convict him on the more serious charge,’ and he winked41 gloomily, ‘the evidence is all one.’
‘That poor little Sally Nutter!’ ejaculated the major. ‘She’s to be pitied, the crature!’
‘’Tis mighty42 slender evidence to take a man’s life on,’ said Toole, with some disgust. ‘Be the law, Sir, the whole thing gives me a complete turn. Are you to dine with Colonel Strafford today?’
‘I am, Sir,’ said the major; ‘an’ it goes again’ the colonel’s grain to have a party at all just now, with the respect he has for the family up there,’ and he nodded his head, pensively43, toward the Elms. ‘But he asked Lowe ten days ago, and Mr. Dangerfield, and two or three more; and you know he could not put them off on that ground — there being no relationship, you see — and, ‘pon my oath, Sir, I’d rather not go myself, just now.’
That evening, at five o’clock, Colonel Stafford’s dinner party assembled at the King’s House. The colonel was a serene44 man, and hospitality — even had he been in the dumps — demands her sacrifices. He, therefore, did the honours as beseemed a genial45 and courteous46 old officer of the Royal Irish Artillery, who, if his conversation was not very remarkable47 in quality, and certainly not exorbitant48 in quantity, made up by listening a great deal, and supplying no end of civility, and an affluence49 of very pretty claret. Mr. Justice Lowe was there, and Mr. Dangerfield, and old Colonel Bligh, of the Magazine, and honest Major O’Neill, notwithstanding his low spirits. Perhaps they required keeping up; and claret like Colonel Stafford’s is consoling.
The talk turned, of course, a good deal on Charles Nutter; and Mr. Dangerfield, who was in great force, and, indeed, in particularly pleasant spirits, except when unfortunate Nutter was actually under discussion — when he grew grave and properly saddened — told, in his clear, biting way, a curious rosary of Newgate stories — of highwaymen’s disguises — of clever constables50 — of circumstantial evidence, marvellously elicited51, and exquisitely52 put together — of monsters, long concealed53, drawn54 from the deep by the finest tackle, into upper light, and dropped deftly55 into the landing-net of Justice. These curious anecdotes57 of Bow-street dexterity58 and Bagshot dodges59 — thrust and parry — mine and counter-mine — ending, for the most part, in the triumph of Bow-street, Justice crowned, and a Tyburn speech — tickled60 Lowe mightily61, who quite enjoyed himself, and laughed more than his friend Colonel Stafford ever remembered to have heard him before, over some of the ingenious stratagems62 described so neatly63 by Dangerfield, and the gay irony64 with which he pointed33 his catastrophes65. And Lowe actually, having obtained Colonel Stafford’s leave, proposed that gallant66 officer’s health in a bumper67, and took occasion to mention their obligations to him for having afforded them the opportunity of enjoying Mr. Dangerfield’s sprightly68 and instructive sallies; and hoped, with all his heart, that the neighbourhood was long to enjoy the advantage and pleasure of his residence among them. And Mr. Dangerfield replied gaily69, that all that was needed to make such sweet scenery and charming company as the place commanded absolutely irresistible70, was the sense of safety conferred by the presence of such a magistrate71 as Mr. Lowe, and the convivial72 inspiration of such wine as their gallant host provided; and that, for his part, being somewhat of an old boy, and having had enough of rambling73, nothing would better please him than to spend the residue74 of his days amidst the lively quietude of their virtuous75 and hilarious76 neighbourhood; and some more to the like purpose, which pleased the good company highly, who all agreed that the white gentleman — fluent, easy, and pointed in his delivery — was a mighty fine speaker, indeed. Though there was a lurking77 consciousness in each, which none cared to publish, that there was, at times, an indefinable flavour of burlesque78 and irony in Mr. Dangerfield’s compliments, which excited momentary79 suspicions and qualms80, which the speaker waived81 off, however, easily with his jewelled fingers, and smiled mockingly away.
Lowe was mightily taken with him. There was little warmth or veneration82 in that hard justice’s nature. But Mr. Dangerfield had a way with him that few men with any sort of taste for the knowledge of evil could resist; and the cold-eyed justice of the peace hung on his words with an attentive83 rapture84, and felt that he was drinking deep and pleasant draughts85 from the sparkling fountains of knowledge; and was really sorry, and shook him admiringly by the hand, when Dangerfield, who had special business at home, rose up in his brisk way, and flashed a farewell over the company from his spectacles.
‘If Mr. Dangerfield really means to stay here, he must apply for the commission of the peace,’ said Mr. Lowe, so soon as the door shut. ‘We must put it upon him. I protest I never met a man so fitted by nature and acquirements to make a perfectly86 useful magistrate. He and I, Sir, between us, we’d give a good account of this part of the county; and there’s plenty of work, Sir, if ’twere only between this and Dublin; and, by George, Sir, he’s a wonderful diverting fellow, full of anecdote56. Wonderful place London, to be sure.’
‘And a good man, too, in a quiet way,’ said Colonel Strafford, who could state a fact. ‘‘Tisn’t every rich man has the heart to part with his money as he does; he has done many charities here, and especially he has been most bountiful to poor Sturk’s family.’
‘I know that,’ said Lowe.
‘And he sent a fifty pound note by the major there to poor Sally Nutter o’ Monday last; he’ll tell you.’
And thus it is, as the foul87 fiend, when he vanishes, leaves a smell of brimstone after him, a good man leaves a fragrance88; and the company in the parlour enjoyed the aroma89 of Mr. Dangerfield’s virtues90, as he buttoned his white surtout over his breast, and dropped his vails into the palms of the carbuncled butler and fuddled footman in the hall.
It was a clear, frosty, starlit night. White and stern was the face which he turned upward for a moment to the sky. He paused for a second in the ray of candle-light that gleamed through Puddock’s window-shutter, and glanced on the pale dial of his large gold watch. It was only half-past eight o’clock. He walked on, glancing back over his shoulder, along the Dublin road.
‘The drunken beast. My mind misgives91 me he’ll disappoint,’ muttered the silver spectacles, gliding92 briskly onward93.
When he reached the main street he peered curiously94 before him under the village tree, in quest of carriage lights.
‘A lawless brute95 like that may be before his time as well as after.’ So he walked briskly forward, and up Sturk’s door-steps, and knocked.
‘The Dublin doctor hasn’t come, eh?’— he asked.
‘No, Sir, he isn’t come yet —’twas nine o’clock, the mistress told me.’
‘Very good. Tell Mrs. Sturk, pray, that I, Mr. Dangerfield, you know, will call, as I promised, at nine o’clock precisely96.’
And he turned again and walked briskly over the bridge, and away along the Inchicore road overhanging the river. All was silent there. Not a step but his own was stirring, and the road in places so overhung with old trees that it was difficult to see a yard before one.
He slackened his pace, and listened, like a man who keeps an assignation, and listened again, and laughed under his breath; and sure enough, before long, the clink of a footstep was heard approaching swiftly from the Dublin direction.
Mr. Dangerfield drew aside under the deep shadow of a high hawthorn97 hedge, overhung by trees; and watching intently, he saw a tall, lank6 figure, with a peculiar98 gait and stoop of its own, glide99 stealthily by. He smiled after it in the dark.
The tall figure was that of our old friend, Zekiel Irons, the clerk. A sable100 form, as beseemed his ecclesiastical calling — and now a white figure was gliding without noise swiftly after him.
Suddenly, as he reached an open part of the road, a thin hand was laid on his shoulder, and, with a start, and a ‘hollo,’ he sprung round.
‘Hey! why, you’re as frightened as if you had seen Charles — Charles Nutter. Hey?— don’t be uneasy. I heard from the parson yesterday morning you were to be with him to-night before nine o’clock, about that money you left in his hands, and I’ve chanced to meet you; and this I want you to understand, Charles Nutter is in gaol101, and we must not let him get out — do you see? That business settled, we’re at rest. So, Mr. Irons, you must not show the white feather. Be bold — speak out what you know — now’s the time to strike. I’ll put your evidence, as you reported it to me, into shape, and you come to me tomorrow morning at eight o’clock; and mind you, I’ll reward you this time, and better than ever you’ve fared before. Go on. Or stay — I’ll go before.’
And Mr. Dangerfield laughed one of his chilly102 laughs — and, with a nod to Irons, repeated —‘eight o’clock’— and so walked on a little bit.
The clerk had not said a word. A perspiration103 broke forth on his forehead, and, wiping the drops away, he said —
‘Lord have mercy upon us — Lord deliver us — Lord have mercy upon us,’ like a man dying.
Mr. Dangerfield’s bold proposition seemed quite to overpower and unman him.
The white figure turned short, facing the clerk, and said he —
‘See you, Mr. Irons, I’m serious — there must be no shirking. If you undertake, you must go through; and, hark! in your ear — you shall have five hundred pounds. I put no constraint104 — say yes or no — if you don’t like you needn’t. Justice, I think, will be done even without your help. But till he’s quiet — you understand — nothing sure. He has been dead and alive again — curse him; and till he’s at rest, and on the surgeon’s table — ha! ha!— we sha’n’t feel quite comfortable.’
‘Lord have mercy upon us!’ muttered Irons, with a groan105.
‘Amen,’ said Dangerfield, with a sneering106 imitation.
‘There, ’tis enough — if you have nerve to speak truth and do justice, you may have the money. We’re men of business — you and I. If not, I sha’n’t trouble you any more. If you like it, come to me at eight o’clock in the morning; if not, why, stay away, and no harm’s done.’
And with these words, Mr. Dangerfield turned on his heel once more, and started at a lively pace for Chapelizod.
收听单词发音 |
1
iceberg
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| n.冰山，流冰，冷冰冰的人 | |
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ominous
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| adj.不祥的，不吉的，预兆的，预示的 | |
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embittered
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| v.使怨恨，激怒( embitter的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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overcasts
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| v.天阴的，多云的( overcast的第三人称单数 ) | |
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akin
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| adj.同族的，类似的 | |
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lank
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| adj.瘦削的；稀疏的 | |
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maker
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| n.制造者，制造商 | |
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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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suspense
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| n.（对可能发生的事）紧张感，担心，挂虑 | |
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scribbling
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| n.乱涂[写]胡[乱]写的文章[作品]v.潦草的书写( scribble的现在分词 )；乱画；草草地写；匆匆记下 | |
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mischievous
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| adj.调皮的，恶作剧的，有害的，伤人的 | |
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cuff
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| n.袖口；手铐；护腕；vt.用手铐铐；上袖口 | |
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volatile
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| adj.反复无常的，挥发性的，稍纵即逝的，脾气火爆的；n.挥发性物质 | |
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tunes
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| n.曲调，曲子( tune的名词复数 )v.调音( tune的第三人称单数 )；调整；（给收音机、电视等）调谐；使协调 | |
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requiem
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| n.安魂曲，安灵曲 | |
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jig
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| n.快步舞（曲）；v.上下晃动；用夹具辅助加工；蹦蹦跳跳 | |
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forth
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| adv.向前；向外，往外 | |
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frenzy
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| n.疯狂，狂热，极度的激动 | |
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lodgings
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| n. 出租的房舍, 寄宿舍 | |
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clenched
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| v.紧握，抓紧，咬紧( clench的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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solitude
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| n. 孤独; 独居,荒僻之地,幽静的地方 | |
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draught
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| n.拉，牵引，拖；一网（饮，吸，阵)；顿服药量，通风；v.起草，设计 | |
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fiery
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| adj.燃烧着的，火红的；暴躁的；激烈的 | |
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exhausted
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| adj.极其疲惫的，精疲力尽的 | |
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stony
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| adj.石头的，多石头的，冷酷的，无情的 | |
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raven
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| n.渡鸟，乌鸦；adj.乌亮的 | |
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reviling
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| v.辱骂，痛斥( revile的现在分词 ) | |
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guise
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| n.外表，伪装的姿态 | |
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phantom
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| n.幻影，虚位，幽灵；adj.错觉的，幻影的，幽灵的 | |
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isolation
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| n.隔离，孤立，分解，分离 | |
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nutter
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| n.疯子 | |
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artillery
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| n.(军)火炮，大炮；炮兵(部队) | |
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pointed
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| adj.尖的，直截了当的 | |
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mare
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| n.母马，母驴 | |
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scampered
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| v.蹦蹦跳跳地跑，惊惶奔跑( scamper的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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dismal
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| adj.阴沉的，凄凉的，令人忧郁的，差劲的 | |
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misgave
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| v.使（某人的情绪、精神等）疑虑，担忧，害怕( misgive的过去式 ) | |
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consternation
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| n.大为吃惊，惊骇 | |
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uncommon
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| adj.罕见的，非凡的，不平常的 | |
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indict
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| v.起诉，控告，指控 | |
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winked
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| v.使眼色( wink的过去式和过去分词 )；递眼色（表示友好或高兴等）；（指光）闪烁；闪亮 | |
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mighty
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| adj.强有力的；巨大的 | |
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pensively
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| adv.沉思地，焦虑地 | |
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serene
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| adj. 安详的，宁静的，平静的 | |
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genial
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| adj.亲切的，和蔼的，愉快的，脾气好的 | |
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courteous
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| adj.彬彬有礼的，客气的 | |
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remarkable
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| adj.显著的，异常的，非凡的，值得注意的 | |
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exorbitant
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| adj.过分的；过度的 | |
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affluence
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| n.充裕，富足 | |
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constables
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| n.警察( constable的名词复数 ) | |
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elicited
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| 引出，探出( elicit的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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exquisitely
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| adv.精致地；强烈地；剧烈地；异常地 | |
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concealed
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| a.隐藏的，隐蔽的 | |
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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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deftly
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| adv.灵巧地，熟练地，敏捷地 | |
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anecdote
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| n.轶事，趣闻，短故事 | |
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anecdotes
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| n.掌故，趣闻，轶事( anecdote的名词复数 ) | |
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dexterity
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| n.(手的)灵巧，灵活 | |
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dodges
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| n.闪躲( dodge的名词复数 )；躲避；伎俩；妙计v.闪躲( dodge的第三人称单数 )；回避 | |
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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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mightily
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| ad.强烈地；非常地 | |
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62
stratagems
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| n.诡计，计谋( stratagem的名词复数 )；花招 | |
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neatly
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| adv.整洁地，干净地，灵巧地，熟练地 | |
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irony
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| n.反语，冷嘲；具有讽刺意味的事，嘲弄 | |
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catastrophes
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| n.灾祸( catastrophe的名词复数 )；灾难；不幸事件；困难 | |
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gallant
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| adj.英勇的，豪侠的；(向女人)献殷勤的 | |
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bumper
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| n.(汽车上的)保险杠；adj.特大的，丰盛的 | |
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sprightly
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| adj.愉快的，活泼的 | |
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gaily
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| adv.欢乐地，高兴地 | |
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irresistible
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| adj.非常诱人的，无法拒绝的，无法抗拒的 | |
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magistrate
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| n.地方行政官，地方法官，治安官 | |
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convivial
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| adj.狂欢的，欢乐的 | |
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73
rambling
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| adj.[建]凌乱的，杂乱的 | |
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74
residue
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| n.残余，剩余，残渣 | |
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75
virtuous
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| adj.有品德的，善良的，贞洁的，有效力的 | |
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76
hilarious
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| adj.充满笑声的，欢闹的；[反]depressed | |
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lurking
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| 潜在 | |
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burlesque
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| v.嘲弄，戏仿；n.嘲弄，取笑，滑稽模仿 | |
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momentary
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| adj.片刻的，瞬息的；短暂的 | |
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qualms
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| n.不安；内疚 | |
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81
waived
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| v.宣布放弃( waive的过去式和过去分词 )；搁置；推迟；放弃（权利、要求等） | |
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veneration
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| n.尊敬，崇拜 | |
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83
attentive
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| adj.注意的，专心的；关心(别人)的，殷勤的 | |
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rapture
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| n.狂喜；全神贯注；着迷；v.使狂喜 | |
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85
draughts
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| n. <英>国际跳棋 | |
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86
perfectly
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| adv.完美地，无可非议地，彻底地 | |
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foul
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| adj.污秽的；邪恶的；v.弄脏；妨害；犯规；n.犯规 | |
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fragrance
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| n.芬芳，香味，香气 | |
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aroma
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| n.香气，芬芳，芳香 | |
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virtues
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| 美德( virtue的名词复数 )； 德行； 优点； 长处 | |
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misgives
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| v.使（某人的情绪、精神等）疑虑，担忧，害怕( misgive的第三人称单数 ) | |
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gliding
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| v. 滑翔 adj. 滑动的 | |
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onward
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| adj.向前的，前进的；adv.向前，前进，在先 | |
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curiously
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| adv.有求知欲地；好问地；奇特地 | |
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brute
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| n.野兽，兽性 | |
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precisely
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| adv.恰好，正好，精确地，细致地 | |
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hawthorn
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| 山楂 | |
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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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99
glide
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| n./v.溜，滑行；(时间)消逝 | |
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100
sable
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| n.黑貂；adj.黑色的 | |
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101
gaol
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| n.(jail)监狱；(不加冠词)监禁；vt.使…坐牢 | |
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102
chilly
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| adj.凉快的，寒冷的 | |
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103
perspiration
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| n.汗水；出汗 | |
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104
constraint
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| n.(on)约束，限制；限制(或约束)性的事物 | |
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105
groan
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| vi./n.呻吟，抱怨；(发出)呻吟般的声音 | |
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106
sneering
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| 嘲笑的，轻蔑的 | |
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