Mr. Paul Dangerfield has Something on His Mind, and Captain Devereux Receives a Message.
Mr. Dangerfield having parted with Irons, entered the little garden or shrubbery, which skirted on either side the short gravel1 walk, which expanded to a miniature court-yard before the door of the Brass2 Castle. He flung the little iron gate to with a bitter clang; so violent that the latch3 sprang from its hold, and the screaking iron swung quivering open again behind him.
Like other men who have little religion, Mr. Paul Dangerfield had a sort of vague superstition5. He was impressible by omens6, though he scorned his own weakness, and sneered7 at, and quizzed it sometimes in the monologues8 of his ugly solitude9. The swinging open of the outer gate of his castle sounded uncomfortably behind him, like an invitation to shapeless danger to step in after him. The further he left it behind him, the more in his spirit was the gaping10 void between his two little piers11 associated with the idea of exposure, defencelessness, and rashness. This feeling grew so strong, that he turned about before he reached his hall-door, and, with a sensation akin4 to fury, retraced12 the fifteen or twenty steps that intervened, and grasped the cold iron with the fiercest tension of his sinews, as if it had resented his first violence by a dogged defiance13 of his wishes, and spluttering a curse between his teeth, he dashed it to again — and again, as once more it sprang open from the shock.
‘Who’s master now?’ snarled14 Mr. Paul Dangerfield, through his clenched15 teeth, and smiting16 the senseless iron with a vindictive17 swoop18 of his cane19. I fancy his face at this moment had some of the peculiar20 lines and corrugations which we observe in that of Retzsch’s Mephistopheles, when he gripes the arm of Faust to drag him from Margaret’s cell. So he stood behind his iron grating, glaring and grinning defiance into the darkness, with his fingers clenched hard upon his cane.
Black Dillon’s failure was a blow to the progress of his plans. It incensed21 him. ‘That d —— d outcast! That he should presume so to treat a man who could master him so easily at any game, and buy and sell him body and soul, and had actually bargained to give him five hundred guineas — the needy22, swinish miscreant23! and paid him earnest beside — the stupid cheat! Drink — dice24 — women! Why, five hundred guineas made him free of his filthy25 paradise for a twelvemonth, and the leprous oaf could not quit his impurities26 for an hour, and keep the appointment that was to have made him master of his heart’s desires.’
At his hall-door he paused, listening intently, with his spectacles glimmering27 toward Chapelizod, for the sound of a distant step; but there was no messenger afoot. He heard only the chill sigh of the air through the leafless branches.
Mr. Dangerfield had not his key with him; and he beat an unnecessarily loud and long tattoo28 upon his door, and before it could possibly have been answered, he thundered a second through the passages.
Mrs. Jukes knew the meaning of that harsh and rabid summons. ‘There was something on the master’s mind.’ His anxieties never depressed29 him as they did other men, but strung up his energies to a point of mental tension and exasperation30 which made him terrible to his domestics. It was not his acts — his conduct was always under control, but chiefly his looks, and accents, and an influence that seemed to take possession of him at such times that rendered him undefinably formidable to his servants.
‘Ha!— mighty31 obleeging (he so pronounced the word)— let in at last — cold outside, Ma’am. You’ve let out the fire I suppose?’
His tones were like the bark of a wolf, and there was a devilish smirk32 in his white face, as he made her a mock salutation, and glided33 into his parlour. The fire was bright enough, however, as Mrs. Jukes was much relieved to see; and dropping a courtesy she enquired34 whether he would like a dish of tea, or anything?
‘No, Ma’am!’ he snarled.
‘Would he like his dressing-gown and slippers36?’
‘No, Ma’am,’ again. So she dropped another courtesy, and sneaked37 away to the kitchen, with short, noiseless steps, and heard Mr. Dangerfield shut the door sharply.
His servants were afraid of him. They could not quite comprehend him. They knew it was vain trying to deceive him, and had quite given up lying and prevaricating38. Neither would he stand much talking. When they prattled39 he brought them to the point sternly; and whenever a real anxiety rested on his mind he became pretty nearly diabolical40. On the whole, however, they had a strange sort of liking41 for him. They were proud of his wealth, and of his influence with great people. And though he would not allow them to rob, disobey, or deceive him, yet he used them handsomely, paid like a prince, was a considerate master, and made them comfortable.
Now Mr. Dangerfield poked42 up his fire and lighted his candles. Somehow, the room looked smaller he thought than it had ever seemed before. He was not nervous — nothing could bring him to that; but his little altercation43 with the iron gate, and some uncomfortable thoughts had excited him. It was an illusion merely — but the walls seemed to have closed in a foot or two, and the ceiling to have dropped down proportionably, and he felt himself confined and oppressed.
‘My head’s a little bit heated — ira furo brevis,’ and he sneered a solitary45 laugh, more like himself, and went out into his tiny hall, and opened the door, and stood on the step for air, enjoying the cold wind that played about his temples. Presently he heard the hollow clink of two pair of feet walking toward the village. The pedestrians46 were talking eagerly; and he thought, as they passed the little iron gate of his domain47, he heard his own name mentioned, and then that of Mervyn. I dare say it was mere44 fancy; but, somehow, he did not like it, and he walked swiftly down to the little gate by the road side — it was only some twenty yards — keeping upon the grass that bounded it, to muffle48 the sound of his steps. This white phantom49 noiselessly stood in the shadow of the road side. The interlocutors had got a good way on, and were talking loud and volubly. But he heard nothing that concerned him from either again, though he waited until their steps and voices were lost in the distance.
The cool air was pleasant about his bare temples, and Mr. Paul Dangerfield waited a while longer, and listened, for any sound of footsteps approaching from the village, but none such was audible; and beginning to feel a little chilly50, he entered his domicile again, shut the hall-door, and once more found himself in the little parlour of the Brass Castle.
His housekeeper51 heard his harsh voice barking down the passage at her, and rising with a start from her seat, cried,
‘At your service, Sir.’
‘At a quarter to twelve o’clock fetch me a sandwich, and a glass of absynthe, and meanwhile, don’t disturb me.’
And she heard him enter his little parlour, and shut the door.
‘There’s something to vex52, but nothing to threaten — nothing. It’s all that comical dream — curse it! What tricks the brain plays us! ’Tis fair it should though. We work it while we please, and it plays when it may. The slave has his saturnalia, and flouts53 his tyrant54. Ha, ha! ’tis time these follies55 were ended. I’ve something to do to-night.’
So Mr. Dangerfield became himself again, and applied56 himself keenly to his business.
When I first thought of framing the materials which had accumulated in my hands into a narrative57, dear little Lily Walsingham’s death was a sore trouble to me. ‘Little’ Lily I call her, but though slight, she was not little — rather tall, indeed.
It was, however, the term I always heard connected with her pretty name in my boyhood, when the old people, who had remembered her very long ago, mentioned her, as they used, very kindly58, a term of endearment59 that had belonged to her, and in virtue60 of the childlike charm that was about her, had grown up with her from childhood. I had plans for mending this part of the record, and marrying her to handsome Captain Devereux, and making him worthy61 of her; but somehow I could not. From very early times I had known the sad story. I had heard her beauty talked about in my childhood; the rich, clear tints62, the delicate outlines, those tender and pleasant dimples, like the wimpling of a well; an image so pure, and merry, and melancholy63 withal, had grown before me, and in twilight64 shadows visited the now lonely haunts of her brief hours; even the old church, in my evening rambles65 along the uplands of the park, had in my eyes so saddened a grace in the knowledge that those slender bones lay beneath its shadows, and all about her was so linked in my mind with truth, and melancholy, and altogether so sacred, that I could not trifle with the story, and felt, even when I imagined it, a pang66, and a reproach, as if I had mocked the sadness of little Lily’s fate; so, after some ponderings and trouble of mind I gave it up, and quite renounced67 the thought.
And, after all, what difference should it make? Is not the generation among whom her girlish lot was cast long passed away? A few years more or less of life. What of them now? When honest Dan Loftus cited those lines from the ‘Song of Songs,’ did he not make her sweet epitaph? Had she married Captain Devereux, what would her lot have been? She was not one of those potent68 and stoical spirits, who can survive the wreck69 of their best affections, and retort injury with scorn. In forming that simple spirit, Nature had forgotten arrogance70 and wrath71. She would never have fought against the cruelty of changed affections if that or the treasons of an unprincipled husband had come. His love would have been her light and life, and when that was turned away, like a northern flower that has lost its sun, she would have only hung her pretty head, and died, in her long winter. So viewing now the ways of wisdom from a distance, I think I can see they were the best, and how that fair, young mortal, who seemed a sacrifice, was really a conqueror72.
Puddock and Devereux on this eventful night, as we remember, having shaken hands at the door-steps, turned and went up stairs together, very amicably73 again, to the captain’s drawing-room.
So Devereux, when they returned to his lodgings74, had lost much of his reserve, and once on the theme of his grief, stormed on in gusts75, and lulls76, and thunder, and wild upbraidings, and sudden calms; and the good-natured soul of little Puddock was touched, and though he did not speak, he often dried his eyes quietly, for grief is conversant77 not with self, but with the dead, and whatever is generous moves us.
‘There’s no one stirring now, Puddock — I’ll put my cloak about me and walk over to the Elms, to ask how the rector is to-night,’ said Devereux, muffling78 himself in his military mantle79.
It was only the restlessness of grief. Like all other pain, grief is haunted with the illusion that change means relief; motion is the instinct of escape. Puddock walked beside him, and they went swiftly and silently together.
When they reached the other side of the bridge, and stood under the thorn-hedge fronting the leafless elms, Devereux was irresolute80.
‘Would you wish me to enquire35?’ asked Puddock. Devereux held him doubtfully by the arm for a moment or two, and then said gently —
‘No, I thank you, Puddock — I’ll go — yes — I’ll go myself;’ and so Captain Devereux went up to the door.
John Tracy, at the steps, told him that he thought his master wished to speak with him; but he was not quite sure. The tall muffled81 figure therefore waited at the door while John went in to tell his master, and soon returned to say that Doctor Walsingham would be much obliged to him to step into the study.
When the doctor saw Devereux, he stood up to meet him.
‘I hope, Sir,’ said Devereux, very humbly82, ‘you have forgiven me.’
The doctor took his hand and shook it very hard, and said, ‘There’s nothing — we’re both in sorrow. Everyone — everyone is sorry, Sir, but you more.’
Devereux did not say anything, being moved, as I suppose. But he had drawn83 his cloak about his face, and was looking down.
‘There was a little message — only a word or two,’ said the doctor; ‘but everything of hers is sacred.’
He turned over some papers in his desk, and chose one. It was in Lily’s pretty handwriting.
‘I am charged with this little message. Oh, my darling!’ and the old man cried bitterly.
‘Pray, read it — you will understand it —’tis easily read. What a pretty hand it was!’
So Devereux took the little paper, and read just the words which follow:—
‘My beloved father will, I hope, if he thinks it right, tell Captain Richard Devereux that I was not so unkind and thankless as I may have seemed, but very grateful for his preference, of which I know, in many ways, how unworthy I was. But I do not think we could have been happy; and being all over, it is a great comfort to friends who are separated here, that there is a place where all may meet again, if God will; and as I did not see or speak with him since my dear father brought his message, I wished that so much should be said, and also to say a kind good-bye, and give him all good wishes.
‘LILIAS.’
‘Friday evening.’
Captain Richard Devereux read this simple little record through, and then he said:—
‘Oh, Sir, may I have it — isn’t it mine?’
We who have heard those wondrous84 a?rial echoes of Killarney, when the breath has left the bugle85 and its cadences86 are silent, take up the broken links of the lost melody with an answer far away, sad and celestial87, real, yet unreal, the fleeting88 yet lingering spirit of music, that is past and over, have something in memory by which we can illustrate89 the effect of these true voices of the thoughts and affections that have perished, returning for a few charmed moments regretfully and sweetly from the sea of eternal silence.
And so that sad and clear farewell, never repeated, was long after, in many a lonely night, answered by the voice of Devereux.
‘Did she — did she know how I loved her? Oh, never, never! I’ll never love any but you. Darling, darling — you can’t die. Oh, no, no, no! Your place knows you still; your place is here — here — here.’
And he smote90 his breast over that heart which, such as it was, cherished a pure affection for her.
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gravel
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| n.砂跞；砂砾层；结石 | |
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brass
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| n.黄铜；黄铜器，铜管乐器 | |
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latch
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| n.门闩，窗闩；弹簧锁 | |
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akin
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| adj.同族的，类似的 | |
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superstition
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| n.迷信，迷信行为 | |
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omens
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| n.前兆，预兆( omen的名词复数 ) | |
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sneered
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| 讥笑，冷笑( sneer的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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monologues
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| n.（戏剧）长篇独白( monologue的名词复数 )；滔滔不绝的讲话；独角戏 | |
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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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gaping
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| adj.口的；张口的；敞口的；多洞穴的v.目瞪口呆地凝视( gape的现在分词 )；张开，张大 | |
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piers
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| n.水上平台( pier的名词复数 )；（常设有娱乐场所的）突堤；柱子；墙墩 | |
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retraced
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| v.折回( retrace的过去式和过去分词 )；回忆；回顾；追溯 | |
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defiance
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| n.挑战，挑衅，蔑视，违抗 | |
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snarled
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| v.（指狗）吠，嗥叫， （人）咆哮( snarl的过去式和过去分词 )；咆哮着说，厉声地说 | |
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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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smiting
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| v.猛打，重击，打击( smite的现在分词 ) | |
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vindictive
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| adj.有报仇心的，怀恨的，惩罚的 | |
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swoop
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| n.俯冲，攫取；v.抓取，突然袭击 | |
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cane
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| n.手杖，细长的茎，藤条；v.以杖击，以藤编制的 | |
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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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incensed
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| 盛怒的 | |
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needy
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| adj.贫穷的，贫困的，生活艰苦的 | |
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miscreant
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| n.恶棍 | |
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dice
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| n.骰子；vt.把（食物）切成小方块，冒险 | |
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filthy
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| adj.卑劣的；恶劣的，肮脏的 | |
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impurities
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| 不纯( impurity的名词复数 )； 不洁； 淫秽； 杂质 | |
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glimmering
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| n.微光，隐约的一瞥adj.薄弱地发光的v.发闪光，发微光( glimmer的现在分词 ) | |
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tattoo
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| n.纹身，(皮肤上的)刺花纹；vt.刺花纹于 | |
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depressed
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| adj.沮丧的，抑郁的，不景气的，萧条的 | |
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exasperation
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| n.愤慨 | |
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mighty
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| adj.强有力的；巨大的 | |
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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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glided
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| v.滑动( glide的过去式和过去分词 )；掠过；（鸟或飞机 ） 滑翔 | |
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enquired
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| 打听( enquire的过去式和过去分词 )； 询问； 问问题； 查问 | |
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enquire
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| v.打听，询问；调查，查问 | |
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slippers
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| n. 拖鞋 | |
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sneaked
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| v.潜行( sneak的过去式和过去分词 )；偷偷溜走；（儿童向成人）打小报告；告状 | |
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prevaricating
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| v.支吾( prevaricate的现在分词 )；搪塞；说谎 | |
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prattled
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| v.（小孩般）天真无邪地说话( prattle的过去式和过去分词 )；发出连续而无意义的声音；闲扯；东拉西扯 | |
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diabolical
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| adj.恶魔似的，凶暴的 | |
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liking
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| n.爱好；嗜好；喜欢 | |
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poked
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| v.伸出( poke的过去式和过去分词 )；戳出；拨弄；与（某人）性交 | |
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altercation
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| n.争吵，争论 | |
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mere
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| adj.纯粹的；仅仅，只不过 | |
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solitary
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| adj.孤独的，独立的，荒凉的；n.隐士 | |
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pedestrians
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| n.步行者( pedestrian的名词复数 ) | |
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domain
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| n.(活动等)领域，范围；领地，势力范围 | |
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muffle
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| v.围裹；抑制；发低沉的声音 | |
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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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chilly
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| adj.凉快的，寒冷的 | |
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housekeeper
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| n.管理家务的主妇，女管家 | |
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vex
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| vt.使烦恼，使苦恼 | |
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flouts
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| v.藐视，轻视( flout的第三人称单数 ) | |
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tyrant
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| n.暴君，专制的君主，残暴的人 | |
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follies
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| 罪恶，时事讽刺剧； 愚蠢，蠢笨，愚蠢的行为、思想或做法( folly的名词复数 ) | |
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applied
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| adj.应用的；v.应用，适用 | |
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narrative
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| n.叙述，故事；adj.叙事的，故事体的 | |
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kindly
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| adj.和蔼的，温和的，爽快的；adv.温和地，亲切地 | |
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endearment
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| n.表示亲爱的行为 | |
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virtue
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| n.德行，美德；贞操；优点；功效，效力 | |
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worthy
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| adj.(of)值得的，配得上的；有价值的 | |
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tints
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| 色彩( tint的名词复数 )； 带白的颜色； （淡色）染发剂； 痕迹 | |
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melancholy
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| n.忧郁，愁思；adj.令人感伤（沮丧）的，忧郁的 | |
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twilight
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| n.暮光，黄昏；暮年，晚期，衰落时期 | |
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rambles
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| （无目的地）漫游( ramble的第三人称单数 )； （喻）漫谈； 扯淡； 长篇大论 | |
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pang
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| n.剧痛，悲痛，苦闷 | |
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renounced
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| v.声明放弃( renounce的过去式和过去分词 )；宣布放弃；宣布与…决裂；宣布摒弃 | |
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potent
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| adj.强有力的，有权势的；有效力的 | |
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wreck
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| n.失事，遇难；沉船；vt.(船等)失事，遇难 | |
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arrogance
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| n.傲慢，自大 | |
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wrath
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| n.愤怒，愤慨，暴怒 | |
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conqueror
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| n.征服者，胜利者 | |
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amicably
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| adv.友善地 | |
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lodgings
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| n. 出租的房舍, 寄宿舍 | |
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gusts
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| 一阵强风( gust的名词复数 )； （怒、笑等的）爆发； （感情的）迸发； 发作 | |
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lulls
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| n.间歇期（lull的复数形式）vt.使镇静，使安静（lull的第三人称单数形式） | |
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conversant
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| adj.亲近的，有交情的，熟悉的 | |
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muffling
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| v.压抑，捂住( muffle的现在分词 )；用厚厚的衣帽包着（自己） | |
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mantle
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| n.斗篷，覆罩之物，罩子；v.罩住，覆盖，脸红 | |
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irresolute
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| adj.无决断的，优柔寡断的，踌躇不定的 | |
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muffled
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| adj.（声音）被隔的；听不太清的；（衣服）裹严的；蒙住的v.压抑，捂住( muffle的过去式和过去分词 )；用厚厚的衣帽包着（自己） | |
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humbly
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| adv. 恭顺地，谦卑地 | |
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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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wondrous
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| adj.令人惊奇的，奇妙的；adv.惊人地；异乎寻常地；令人惊叹地 | |
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bugle
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| n.军号，号角，喇叭；v.吹号，吹号召集 | |
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cadences
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| n.（声音的）抑扬顿挫( cadence的名词复数 )；节奏；韵律；调子 | |
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celestial
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| adj.天体的；天上的 | |
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fleeting
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| adj.短暂的，飞逝的 | |
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illustrate
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| v.举例说明，阐明；图解，加插图 | |
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smote
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| v.猛打，重击，打击( smite的过去式 ) | |
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