The excitement was high in Chapelizod when the news reached that a true bill was found against Charles Archer1 for the murder of Barnabas Sturk. Everywhere, indeed, the case was watched with uncommon2 interest; and when the decisive day arrived, and the old judge, furrowed3, yellow, and cross, mounted the bench, and the jury were called over, and the challenges began, and the grim, gentlemanlike person with the white hair, and his right arm in a black silk sling4, whispering to his attorney and now and again pencilling, with his left hand, a line to his counsel with that indescribable air of confidence and almost defiance5, pleaded to the indictment6 ‘not guilty,’ and the dreadful business of the day began, the court was crowded as it seldom had been before.
A short, clear, horrible statement unfolded the case for the crown. Then the dying deposition8 of Sturk was put in evidence; then Irons the clerk was put up, and told his tale doggedly9 and distinctly, and was not to be shaken. ‘No, it was not true that he had ever been confined in a mad house.’ ‘He had never had delirium10 tremens.’ ‘He had never heard that his wife thought him mad.’ ‘Yes, it was true he had pledged silver of his master’s at the Pied Horse at Newmarket’ ‘He knew it was a felony, but it was the prisoner who put it into his head and encouraged him to do it.’ ‘Yes, he would swear to that.’ ‘He had several times spoken to Lord Dunoran, when passing under the name of Mervyn, on the subject of his father being wronged.’ ‘He never had any promise from my lord, in case he should fix the guilt7 of that murder on some other than his father.’ Our friend, Captain Cluffe, was called, and delivered his evidence in a somewhat bluff12 and peremptory13, but on the whole effective way.
Charles Nutter14, after some whispered consultation15, was also called, and related what we have heard. ‘Yes, he had been arrested for the murder of Dr. Sturk, and now stood out on bail16 to answer that charge.’ Then followed some circumstances, one of which, the discovery of a piece of what was presumed to be the weapon with which the murder was perpetrated, I have already mentioned. Then came some evidence, curious but quite clear, to show that the Charles Archer who had died at Florence was not the Charles Archer who had murdered Beauclerc, but a gentleman who had served in the army, and had afterwards been for two years in Italy, in the employment of a London firm who dealt in works of art, and was actually resident in Italy at the time when the Newmarket murder occurred, and that the attempt to represent him as the person who had given evidence against the late Lord Dunoran was an elaborate and cunning contrivance of the prisoner at the bar. Then came the medical evidence.
Pell was examined, and delivered only half a dozen learned sentences; Toole, more at length, made a damaging comparison of the fragment of iron already mentioned, and the outline of the fractures in the deceased man’s head; and Dillon was questioned generally, and was not cross-examined. Then came the defence.
The points were, that Sturk was restored to speech by the determined17 interposition of the prisoner at the bar, an unlikely thing if he was ruining himself thereby18! That Sturk’s brain had been shattered, and not cleared from hallucinations before he died; that having uttered the monstrous19 dream, in all its parts incredible, which was the sole foundation of the indictment against that every way respectable and eminent20 gentleman who stood there, the clerk, Irons, having heard something of it, had conceived the plan of swearing to the same story, for the manifest purpose of securing thereby the favour of the young Lord Dunoran, with whom he had been in conference upon this very subject without ever once having hinted a syllable21 against Mr. Paul Dangerfield until after Doctor Sturk’s dream had been divulged22; and the idea of fixing the guilt of Beauclerc’s murder upon that gentleman of wealth, family, and station, occurred to his intriguing23 and unscrupulous mind.
Mr. Dangerfield, in the dock nodded sometimes, or sneered24 or smirked25 with hollow cheeks, or shook his head in unison27 with the passing sentiment of the speaker, directing, through that hot atmosphere, now darkening into twilight28, a quick glance from time to time upon the aspect of the jury, the weather-gauge of his fate, but altogether with a manly29, sarcastic30, and at times a somewhat offended air, as though he should say, ‘’Tis somewhat too good a jest that I, Paul Dangerfield, Esq., a man of fashion, with my known character, and worth nigh two hundred thousand pounds sterling31, should stand here, charged with murdering a miserable32 Chapelizod doctor!’ The minutes had stolen away; the judge read his notes by candle-light, and charged, with dry and cranky emphasis, dead against that man of integrity, fashion, and guineas; and did not appear a bit disturbed at the idea of hanging him.
When the jury went in he had some soup upon the bench, and sipped33 it with great noise. Mr. Dangerfield shook hands with his counsel, and smirked and whispered. Many people there felt queer, and grew pale in the suspense34, and the general gaze was fixed35 upon the prisoner with a coarse curiosity, of which he seemed resolutely36 unconscious; and five minutes passed by and a minute or two more — it seemed a very long time — the minute-hands of the watches hardly got on at all — and then the door of the jury-room opened, and the gentlemen came stumbling in, taking off their hats, and silence was called. There was no need; and the foreman, with a very pale and frightened face, handed down the paper.
And the simple message sounded through the court —
‘Guilty!’
And Mr. Dangerfield bowed, and lifted up a white, smiling countenance37, all over shining now with a slight moisture.
Then there was some whispering among the conductors of the prosecution38; and the leader stood up to say, that, in consequence of a communication from the law officers in England, where the prisoner was to be arraigned39 on a capital indictment, involving serious consequences to others — for the murder, he meant, of Mr. Beauclerc — the crown wished that he should stand over for judgment40 until certain steps in that case had been taken at the other side. Then the court enquired41 whether they had considered so and so; and the leader explained and satisfied his lordship, who made an order accordingly. And Mr. Dangerfield made a low bow, with a smirk26, to his lordship, and a nod, with the same, to his counsel; and he turned, and the turnkey and darkness received him.
Mr. Dangerfield, or shall we say the villain42, Charles Archer, with characteristic promptitude and coolness, availed himself of the interval43 to try every influence he could once have set in motion, and as it were to gather his strength for a mighty44 tussle45 with the king of terrors, when his pale fingers should tap at his cell door. I have seen two of his letters, written with consummate46 plausibility47 and adroitness48, and which have given me altogether a very high idea of his powers. But they were all received with a terrifying coldness or with absolute silence. There was no reasoning against an intuition. Every human being felt that the verdict was true, and that the judgment, when it came would be right: and recoiled49 from the smiling gentleman, over whose white head the hempen50 circle hung like a diabolical51 glory Dangerfield, who had something of the Napoleonic faculty52 of never ‘making pictures’ to himself, saw this fact in its literality, and acquiesced53 in it.
He was a great favourite with the gaoler, whom, so long as he had the command of his money, he had treated with a frank and convivial54 magnificence, and who often sat up to one o’clock with him, and enjoyed his stories prodigiously55, for the sarcastic man of the world lost none of his amusing qualities: and — the fatigues56 of his barren correspondence ended — slept, and eat, and drank, pretty much as usual.
This Giant Despair, who carried the keys at his girdle, did not often get so swell57 a pilgrim into his castle, and was secretly flattered by his familiarity, and cheered by his devilish gaiety, and was quite willing to make rules bend a little, and the place as pleasant as possible to his distinguished58 guest, and give him in fact, all his heart could desire, except a chance of escape.
‘I’ve one move left — nothing very excellent — but sometimes, you know, a scurvy59 card enough will win the trick. Between you and me, my good friend, I have a thing to tell that ’twill oblige my Lord Dunoran very much to hear. My Lord Townshend will want his vote. He means to prove his peerage immediately and he may give a poor devil a lift, you see — hey?
So next day there came my Lord Dunoran and a magistrate61, not Mr. Lowe — Mr. Dangerfield professed62 a contempt for him, and preferred any other. So it was Mr. Armstrong this time, and that is all I know of him.
Lord Dunoran was more pale than usual; indeed he felt like to faint on coming into the presence of the man who had made his life so indescribably miserable, and throughout the interview he scarcely spoke11 six sentences, and not one word of reproach. The villain was down. It was enough.
Mr. Dangerfield was, perhaps, a little excited. He talked more volubly than usual, and once or twice there came a little flush over his pallid63 forehead and temples. But, on the whole, he was very much the same brisk, sardonic64 talker and polite gentleman whom Mr. Mervyn had so often discoursed65 with in Chapelizod. On this occasion, his narrative66 ran on uninterruptedly and easily, but full of horrors, like a satanic reverie.
‘Upon my honour, Sir,’ said Paul Dangerfield, with his head erect67, ‘I bear Mr. Lowe no ill-will. He is, you’ll excuse me, a thief-catcher by nature. He can’t help it. He thinks he works from duty, public spirit, and other fine influences; I know it is simply from an irrepressible instinct. I do assure you, I never yet bore any man the least ill-will. I’ve had to remove two or three, not because I hated them — I did not care a button for any — but because their existence was incompatible68 with my safety, which, Sir, is the first thing to me, as yours is to you. Human laws we respect — ha, ha!— you and I, because they subserve our convenience, and just so long. When they tend to our destruction, ’tis, of course, another thing.’
This, it must be allowed, was frank enough; there was no bargain here; and what ever Mr. Dangerfield’s plan might have been, it certainly did not involve making terms with Lord Dunoran beforehand, or palliating or disguising what he had done. So on he went.
‘I believe in luck, Sir, and there’s the sum of my creed69. I was wrong in taking that money from Beauclerc when I did, ’twas in the midst of a dismal70 run of ill-fortune. There was nothing unfair in taking it, though. The man was a cheat. It was not really his, and no one could tell to whom it belonged; ’twas no more his because I had found it in his pocket than if I had found it in a barrel on the high seas. I killed him to prevent his killing71 me. Precisely72 the same motive73, though in your case neither so reasonable nor so justifiable74, as that on which, in the name of justice, which means only the collective selfishness of my fellow-creatures, you design in cool blood to put me publicly to death. ’Tis only that you, gentlemen, think it contributes to your safety. That’s the spirit of human laws. I applaud and I adopt it in my own case. Pray, Sir’ (to Mr. Armstrong), ‘do me the honour to try this snuff, ’tis real French rappee.
‘But, Sir, though I have had to do these things, which you or any other man of nerve would do with a sufficient motive, I never hurt any man without a necessity for it. My money I’ve made fairly, though in great measure by play, and no man can say I ever promised that which I did not perform. ’Tis quite true I killed Beauclerc in the manner described by Irons. That was put upon me, and I could not help it. I did right. ’Tis also true, I killed that scoundrel Glascock, as Irons related. Shortly after, being in trouble about money and in danger of arrest, I went abroad, and changed my name and disguised my person.
‘At Florence I was surprised to find a letter directed to Charles Archer. You may suppose it was not agreeable. But, of course, I would not claim it; and it went after all to him for whom it was intended. There was actually there a Mr. Charles Archer, dying of a decline. Three respectable English residents had made his acquaintance, knowing nothing of him but that he was a sick countryman. When I learned all about it, I, too, got an introduction to him; and when he died, I prevailed with one of them to send a note signed by himself and two more to the London lawyer who was pursuing me, simply stating that Charles Archer had died in Florence, to their knowledge, they having seen him during his last illness, and attended his funeral.
‘I told them that he had begged me to see this done, as family affairs made it necessary; ’twas as well to use the event — and they did it without difficulty. I do not know how the obituary75 announcement got into the newspapers — it was not my doing — and naming him as the evidence in the prosecution of my Lord Dunoran was a great risk, and challenged contradiction, but none came. Sir Philip Drayton was one of the signatures, and it satisfied the attorney.
‘When I came to Chapelizod, though, I soon found that the devil had not done with me, and that I was like to have some more unpleasant work on my hands. I did not know that Irons was above ground, nor he either that I was living. We had wandered far enough asunder76 in the interval to make the chances very many we should never meet again. Yet here we met, and I knew him, and he me. But he’s a nervous man, and whimsical.
‘He was afraid of me, and never used his secret to force money from me. Still it was not pleasant. I did not know but that if I went away he might tell it. I weighed the matter; ’tis true I thought there might have come a necessity to deal with him; but I would not engage in anything of the sort, without an absolute necessity. But Doctor Sturk was different — a bull-headed, conceited78 fool. I thought I remembered his face at Newmarket, and changed as it was, I was right, and learned all about him from Irons. I saw his mind was at work on me, though he could not find me out, and I could not well know what course a man like that might take, or how much he might have seen or remembered. That was not pleasant either.
‘I had taken a whim77 to marry; there’s no need to mention names; but I supposed I should have met no difficulty with the lady — relying on my wealth. Had I married, I should have left the country.
‘However, it was not to be. It might have been well for all had I never thought of it. For I’m a man who, when he once places an object before him, will not give it up without trying. I can wait as well as strike, and know what’s to be got by one and t’other. Well, what I’ve once proposed to myself I don’t forego, and that helped to hold me where I was.
‘The nature of the beast, Sturk, and his circumstances were dangerous. ’Twas necessary for my safety to make away with him. I tried it by several ways. I made a quarrel between him and Toole, but somehow it never came to a duel79; and a worse one between him and Nutter, but that too failed to come to a fight. It was to be, Sir, and my time had come. What I long suspected arrived, and he told me in his own study he knew me, and wanted money. The money didn’t matter; of that I could spare abundance, though ’tis the nature of such a tax to swell to confiscation80. But the man who gets a sixpence from you on such terms is a tyrant81 and your master, and I can’t brook82 slavery.
‘I owed the fellow no ill-will; upon my honour, as a gentleman; I forgive him, as I hope he has forgiven me. It was all fair he should try. We can’t help our instincts. There’s something wolfish in us all. I was vexed83 at his d —— d folly84, though, and sorry to have to put him out of the way. However, I saw I must be rid of him.
‘There was no immediate60 hurry. I could afford to wait a little. I thought he would walk home on the night I met him. He had gone into town in Colonel Strafford’s carriage. It returned early in the afternoon without him. I knew his habits; he dined at Keating’s ordinary at four o’clock; and Mercer, whom he had to speak with, would not see him, on his bill of exchange business, in his counting-house. Sturk told me so; and he must wait till half-past five at his lodgings85. What he had to say was satisfactory, and I allowed five minutes for that.
‘Then he might come home in a coach. But he was a close-fisted fellow and loved a shilling; so it was probable he would walk. His usual path was by the Star Fort, and through the thorn woods between that and the Magazine. So I met him. I said I was for town, and asked him how he had fared in his business; and turned with him, walking slowly as though to hear. I had that loaded whalebone in my pocket, and my sword, but no pistol. It was not the place for firearms; the noise would have made an alarm. So I turned sharp upon him and felled him. He knew by an intuition what was about to happen, for as the blow fell he yelled “murder.” That d —— d fellow, Nutter, in the wood at our right, scarce a hundred yards away, halloed in answer. I had but time to strike him two blows on the top of his head that might have killed an ox. I felt the metal sink at the second in his skull86, and would have pinked him through with my sword, but the fellow was close on me, and I thought I knew the voice for Nutter’s. I stole through the bushes swiftly, and got along into the hollow under the Magazine, and thence on.
‘There was a slight fog upon the park, and I met no one. I got across the park-wall, over the quarry87, and so down by the stream at Coyles, and on to the road near my house. No one was in sight, so I walked down to Chapelizod to show myself. Near the village tree I met Dr. Toole. I asked him if Nutter was in the club, and he said no — nor at home, he believed, for his boy had seen him more than half-an-hour ago leave his hall door, dressed for the road.
‘So I made as if disappointed, and turned back again, assured that Nutter was the man. I was not easy, for I could not be sure that Sturk was dead. Had I been allowed a second or two more, I’d have made sure work of it. Still I was nearly sure. I could not go back now and finish the business. I could not say whether he lay there any longer, and if he did, how many men Nutter might have about him by this time. So, Sir, the cast was made, I could not mend it, and must abide88 my fortune be it good or ill.
‘Not a servant saw me go out or return. I came in quietly, and went into my bed-room and lighted a candle. ’Twas a blunder, a blot89, but a thousand to one it was not hit. I washed my hands. There was some blood on the whalebone, and on my fingers. I rolled the loaded whalebone up in a red handkerchief, and locked it into my chest of drawers, designing to destroy it, which I did, so soon as the servants were in bed; and then I felt a chill and a slight shiver;—’twas only that I was an older man. I was cool enough, but a strain on the mind was more to me then than twenty years before. So I drank a dram, and I heard a noise outside my window. ’Twas then that stupid dog, Cluffe, saw me, as he swears.
‘Well, next day Sturk was brought home; Nutter was gone, and the suspicion attached to him. That was well. But, though Pell pronounced that he must die without recovering consciousness, and that the trepan would kill him instantaneously, I had a profound misgiving90 that he might recover speech and recollection. I wrote as exact a statement of the case to my London physician — a very great man — as I could collect, and had his answer, which agreed exactly with Doctor Pell’s. ’Twas agreed on all hands the trepan would be certain death. Days, weeks, or months — it mattered not what the interval — no returning glimmer91 of memory could light his death-bed. Still, Sir, I presaged92 evil. He was so long about dying.
‘I’m telling you everything, you see. I offered Irons what would have been a fortune to him — he was attending occasionally in Sturk’s sick-room, and assisting in dressing93 his wounds — to watch his opportunity and smother94 him with a wet handkerchief. I would have done it myself afterwards, on the sole opportunity that offered, had I not been interrupted.
‘I engaged, with Mrs. Sturk’s approval, Doctor Dillon. I promised him five hundred guineas to trepan him. That young villain, I could prove, bled Alderman Sherlock to death to please the alderman’s young wife. Who’d have thought the needy95 profligate96 would have hesitated to plunge97 his trepan into the brain of a dying man — a corpse98, you may say, already — for five hundred guineas? I was growing feverish99 under the protracted100 suspense. I was haunted by the apprehension101 of Sturk’s recovering his consciousness and speech, in which case I should have been reduced to my present rueful situation; and I was resolved to end that cursed uncertainty102.
‘When I thought Dillon had forgot his appointment in his swinish vices103, I turned my mind another way. I resolved to leave Sturk to nature, and clench104 the case against Nutter, by evidence I would have compelled Irons to swear. As it turned out, that would have been the better way. Had Sturk died without speaking, and Nutter hanged for his death, the question could have opened no more, and Irons would have been nailed to my interest.
‘I viewed the problem every way. I saw the danger from the first, and provided many expedients105, which, one after the other, fortune frustrated106. I can’t confidently say even now that it would have been wiser to leave Sturk to die, as the doctors said he must. I had a foreboding, in spite of all they could say, he would wake up before he died and denounce me. If ’twas a mistake, ’twas a fated one, and I could not help it.
‘So, Sir, you see I’ve nothing to blame myself for — though all has broken down.
‘I guessed when I heard the sound at the hall-door of my house that Sturk or Irons had spoken, and that they were come to take me. Had I broken through them, I might have made my escape. It was long odds107 against me, but still I had a chance — that’s all. And the matter affecting my Lord Dunoran’s innocence108, I’m ready to swear, if it can serve his son — having been the undesigned cause of some misfortunes to you, my lord, in my lifetime.’
Lord Dunoran said nothing, he only bowed his head.
So Dangerfield, when his statement respecting the murder of Beauclerc had been placed clearly in writing, made oath of its truth, and immediately when this was over (he had, while they were preparing the statement, been walking up and down his flagged chamber), he grew all on a sudden weak, and then very flushed, and they thought he was about to take a fit; but speedily he recovered himself, and in five minutes’ time was much as he had been at the commencement.
After my lord and Mr. Armstrong went away, he had the gaoler with him, and seemed very sanguine109 about getting his pardon, and was very brisk and chatty, and said he’d prepare his petition in the morning, and got in large paper for drafting it on, and said, ‘I suppose at the close of this commission they will bring me up for judgment; that will be the day after tomorrow, and I must have my petition ready.’ And he talked away like a man who had got a care off his mind, and is in high spirits; and when grinning, beetle-browed Giant Despair shook his hand, and wished him luck at parting, he stopped him, laying his white hand upon his herculean arm, and, said he, ‘I’ve a point to urge they don’t suspect. I’m sure of my liberty; what do you think of that — hey?’ and he laughed. ‘And when I get away what do you say to leaving this place and coming after me? Upon my life, you must, Sir. I like you, and if you don’t, rot me, but I’ll come and take you away myself.’
So they parted in a sprightly110, genial111 way; and in the morning the turnkey called the gaoler up at an unseasonable hour, and told him that Mr. Dangerfield was dead.
The gaoler lay in the passage outside the prisoner’s cell, with his bed across the door, which was locked, and visited him at certain intervals112. The first time he went in there was nothing remarkable113. It was but half-an-hour after the gaoler had left. Mr. Dangerfield, for so he chose to be called, was dozing114 very quietly in his bed, and just opened his eyes, and nodded on awaking, as though he would say, ‘Here I am,’ but did not speak.
When, three hours later, the officer entered, having lighted his candle at the lamp, he instantly recoiled. ‘The room felt so queer,’ said he, ‘I thought I’d a fainted, and I drew back. I tried it again a bit further in, and ’twas worse, and the candle almost went out —’twas as if the devil was there. I drew back quick, and I called the prisoner, but no word was there. Then I locks the door, and called Michael; and when he came we called the prisoner again, but to no purpose. Then we opened the door, and I made a rush, and smashed the glass of the window to let in air. We had to wait outside a good while before we could venture in; and when we did, there he was lying like a man asleep in his bed, with his nightcap on, and his hand under his cheek, and he smiling down on the flags, very sly, like a man who has won something cleverly. He was dead, and his limbs cold by this time.’
There was an inquest. Mr. Dangerfield ‘looked very composed in death,’ says an old letter, and he lay ‘very like sleep,’ in his bed, ‘his fingers under his cheek and temple,’ with the countenance turned ‘a little downward, as if looking upon something on the floor,’ with an ‘ironical smile;’ so that the ineffaceable lines of sarcasm115, I suppose, were traceable upon that jaundiced mask.
Some said it was a heart disease, and others an exhalation from the prison floor. He was dead, that was all the jury could say for certain, and they found ’twas ‘by a visitation of God.’ The gaoler, being a superstitious116 fellow, was plaguily nervous about Mr. Dangerfield’s valediction117, and took clerical advice upon it, and for several months after became a very serious and ascetic118 character; and I do believe that the words were spoken in reality with that sinister119 jocularity in which his wit sported like church-yard meteors, when crimes and horrors were most in his mind.
The niece of this gaoler said she well remembered her uncle, when a very old man, three years before the rebellion, relating that Mr. Dangerfield came by his death in consequence of some charcoal120 in a warming pan he had prevailed on him to allow him for his bed, he having complained of cold. He got it with a design to make away with himself, and it was forgotten in the room. He placed it under the bed, and waited until the first call of the turnkey was over, and then he stuffed his surtout into the flue of the small fire-place, which afforded the only ventilation of his cell, and so was smothered121. It was not till the winter following that the gaoler discovered, on lighting122 a fire there, that the chimney was stopped. He had a misgiving about the charcoal before, and now he was certain. Of course, he said nothing about his suspicions at first, nor of his discovery afterwards.
So, sometimes in my musings, when I hear of clever young fellows taking to wild courses, and audaciously rushing — where good Christians123 pray they may not be led — into temptation, there rises before me, with towering forehead and scoffing124 face, a white image smoking his pipe grimly by a plutonic fire; and I remember the words of the son of Sirach —‘The knowledge of wickedness is not wisdom, neither at any time the counsel of sinners prudence125.’
Mr. Irons, of course, left Chapelizod. He took with him the hundred guineas which Mr. Dangerfield had given him, as also, it was said, a handsome addition made to that fund by open-handed Dr. Walsingham; but somehow, being much pressed for time, he forgot good Mistress Irons, who remained behind and let lodgings pretty much as usual, and never heard from that time forth126 anything very distinct about him; and latterly it was thought was, on the whole, afraid rather than desirous of his turning up again.
Doctor Toole, indeed, related in his own fashion, at the Phoenix127, some years later, a rumour128 which, however, may have turned out to be no better than smoke.
‘News of Zekiel, by Jove! The prophet was found, Sir, with a friend in the neighbourhood of Hounslow, with a brace129 of pistols, a mask, a handful of slugs, and a powder-horn in his pocket, which he first gave to a constable130, and then made his compliments to a justice o’ the peace, who gave him and his friend a note of commendation to my Lord Chief Justice, and his lordship took such a fancy to both that, by George, he sent them in a procession in his best one-horse coach, with a guard of honour and a chaplain, the high-sheriff dutifully attending, through the City, where, by the king’s commands, they were invested with the grand collar of the order of the hempen cravat131, Sir, and with such an attention to their comfort they were not required to descend132 from their carriage, by George, and when it drove away they remained in an easy, genteel posture133, with their hands behind their backs, in a sort of an ecstasy134, and showed their good humour by dancing a reel together with singular lightness and agility135, and keeping it up till they were both out of breath, when they remained quiet for about half an hour to cool, and then went off to pay their respects to the President of the College of Surgeons,’ and so forth; but I don’t think Irons had pluck for a highwayman, and I can’t, therefore, altogether, believe the story.
We all know Aunt Rebecca pretty well by this time. And looking back upon her rigorous treatment of Puddock, recorded in past chapters of this tale, I think I can now refer it all to its true source.
She was queer, quarrelsome, and sometimes nearly intolerable; but she was generous and off-handed, and made a settlement, reserving only a life interest, and nearly all afterwards to Puddock.
‘But in a marriage settlement,’ said the attorney (so they called themselves in those days), ‘it is usual; and here his tone became so gentle that I can’t say positively136 what he uttered.’
‘Oh — a — that,’ she said, ‘a — well, you can speak to Lieutenant137 Puddock, if you wish. I only say for myself a life estate; Lieutenant Puddock can deal with the remainder as he pleases.’ And Aunt Rebecca actually blushed a pretty little pink blush. I believe she did not think there was much practical utility in the attorney’s suggestion, and if an angel in her hearing had said of her what he once said of Sarah, she would not have laughed indeed, but I think she would have shaken her head.
She was twenty years and upwards138 his senior; but I don’t know which survived the other, for in this life the battle is not always to the strong.
Their wedding was a very quiet affair, and the talk of the village was soon directed from it to the approaching splendours of the union of Miss Gertrude and my Lord Dunoran.
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archer
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uncommon
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| adj.罕见的，非凡的，不平常的 | |
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furrowed
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| v.犁田，开沟( furrow的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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sling
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defiance
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indictment
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guilt
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| n.犯罪；内疚；过失，罪责 | |
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deposition
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| n.免职，罢官；作证；沉淀；沉淀物 | |
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9
doggedly
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| adv.顽强地，固执地 | |
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10
delirium
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| n. 神智昏迷,说胡话;极度兴奋 | |
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11
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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12
bluff
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| v.虚张声势，用假象骗人；n.虚张声势，欺骗 | |
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13
peremptory
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| adj.紧急的，专横的，断然的 | |
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14
nutter
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| n.疯子 | |
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15
consultation
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| n.咨询；商量；商议；会议 | |
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16
bail
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| v.舀（水），保释；n.保证金，保释，保释人 | |
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17
determined
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| adj.坚定的；有决心的 | |
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18
thereby
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| adv.因此，从而 | |
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19
monstrous
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| adj.巨大的；恐怖的；可耻的，丢脸的 | |
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20
eminent
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| adj.显赫的，杰出的，有名的，优良的 | |
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21
syllable
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| n.音节；vt.分音节 | |
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22
divulged
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| v.吐露，泄露( divulge的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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23
intriguing
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| adj.有趣的；迷人的v.搞阴谋诡计(intrigue的现在分词)；激起…的好奇心 | |
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24
sneered
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| 讥笑，冷笑( sneer的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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25
smirked
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| v.傻笑( smirk的过去分词 ) | |
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26
smirk
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| n.得意地笑；v.傻笑；假笑着说 | |
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27
unison
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| n.步调一致，行动一致 | |
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28
twilight
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| n.暮光，黄昏；暮年，晚期，衰落时期 | |
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29
manly
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| adj.有男子气概的；adv.男子般地，果断地 | |
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30
sarcastic
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| adj.讥讽的，讽刺的，嘲弄的 | |
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31
sterling
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| adj.英币的(纯粹的，货真价实的)；n.英国货币(英镑) | |
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32
miserable
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| adj.悲惨的，痛苦的；可怜的，糟糕的 | |
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33
sipped
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| v.小口喝，呷，抿( sip的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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34
suspense
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| n.（对可能发生的事）紧张感，担心，挂虑 | |
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35
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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36
resolutely
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| adj.坚决地，果断地 | |
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37
countenance
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| n.脸色，面容；面部表情；vt.支持，赞同 | |
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38
prosecution
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| n.起诉，告发，检举，执行，经营 | |
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39
arraigned
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| v.告发( arraign的过去式和过去分词 )；控告；传讯；指责 | |
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40
judgment
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| n.审判；判断力，识别力，看法，意见 | |
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41
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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42
villain
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| n.反派演员，反面人物；恶棍；问题的起因 | |
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43
interval
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| n.间隔，间距；幕间休息，中场休息 | |
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44
mighty
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| adj.强有力的；巨大的 | |
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45
tussle
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| n.&v.扭打，搏斗，争辩 | |
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46
consummate
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| adj.完美的；v.成婚；使完美 [反]baffle | |
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47
plausibility
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| n. 似有道理, 能言善辩 | |
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48
adroitness
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49
recoiled
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| v.畏缩( recoil的过去式和过去分词 )；退缩；报应；返回 | |
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50
hempen
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| adj. 大麻制的, 大麻的 | |
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51
diabolical
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| adj.恶魔似的，凶暴的 | |
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52
faculty
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| n.才能；学院，系；(学院或系的)全体教学人员 | |
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53
acquiesced
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| v.默认，默许( acquiesce的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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54
convivial
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| adj.狂欢的，欢乐的 | |
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55
prodigiously
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| adv.异常地，惊人地，巨大地 | |
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56
fatigues
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| n.疲劳( fatigue的名词复数 )；杂役；厌倦；（士兵穿的）工作服 | |
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57
swell
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| vi.膨胀，肿胀；增长，增强 | |
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58
distinguished
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| adj.卓越的，杰出的，著名的 | |
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59
scurvy
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| adj.下流的，卑鄙的，无礼的；n.坏血病 | |
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60
immediate
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| adj.立即的；直接的，最接近的；紧靠的 | |
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61
magistrate
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| n.地方行政官，地方法官，治安官 | |
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62
professed
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| 公开声称的，伪称的，已立誓信教的 | |
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63
pallid
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| adj.苍白的，呆板的 | |
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64
sardonic
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| adj.嘲笑的，冷笑的，讥讽的 | |
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65
discoursed
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| 演说（discourse的过去式与过去分词形式） | |
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66
narrative
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| n.叙述，故事；adj.叙事的，故事体的 | |
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67
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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68
incompatible
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| adj.不相容的，不协调的，不相配的 | |
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69
creed
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| n.信条；信念，纲领 | |
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70
dismal
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|
| adj.阴沉的，凄凉的，令人忧郁的，差劲的 | |
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71
killing
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| n.巨额利润；突然赚大钱，发大财 | |
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72
precisely
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| adv.恰好，正好，精确地，细致地 | |
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73
motive
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| n.动机，目的；adv.发动的，运动的 | |
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74
justifiable
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| adj.有理由的，无可非议的 | |
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75
obituary
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| n.讣告，死亡公告；adj.死亡的 | |
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76
asunder
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| adj.分离的，化为碎片 | |
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77
whim
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| n.一时的兴致，突然的念头；奇想，幻想 | |
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78
conceited
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| adj.自负的，骄傲自满的 | |
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79
duel
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| n./v.决斗；(双方的)斗争 | |
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80
confiscation
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| n. 没收, 充公, 征收 | |
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81
tyrant
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| n.暴君，专制的君主，残暴的人 | |
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82
brook
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| n.小河，溪；v.忍受，容让 | |
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83
vexed
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| adj.争论不休的；（指问题等）棘手的；争论不休的问题；烦恼的v.使烦恼( vex的过去式和过去分词 )；使苦恼；使生气；详细讨论 | |
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84
folly
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| n.愚笨，愚蠢，蠢事，蠢行，傻话 | |
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85
lodgings
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| n. 出租的房舍, 寄宿舍 | |
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86
skull
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| n.头骨；颅骨 | |
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87
quarry
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| n.采石场；v.采石；费力地找 | |
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88
abide
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| vi.遵守；坚持；vt.忍受 | |
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89
blot
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| vt.弄脏（用吸墨纸）吸干；n.污点，污渍 | |
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90
misgiving
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| n.疑虑，担忧，害怕 | |
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91
glimmer
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| v.发出闪烁的微光；n.微光，微弱的闪光 | |
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92
presaged
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| v.预示，预兆( presage的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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93
dressing
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| n.(食物)调料；包扎伤口的用品，敷料 | |
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94
smother
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| vt./vi.使窒息；抑制；闷死；n.浓烟；窒息 | |
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95
needy
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| adj.贫穷的，贫困的，生活艰苦的 | |
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96
profligate
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| adj.行为不检的；n.放荡的人，浪子，肆意挥霍者 | |
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97
plunge
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| v.跳入，(使)投入，(使)陷入；猛冲 | |
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98
corpse
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| n.尸体，死尸 | |
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99
feverish
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| adj.发烧的，狂热的，兴奋的 | |
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100
protracted
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| adj.拖延的；延长的v.拖延“protract”的过去式和过去分词 | |
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101
apprehension
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| n.理解，领悟；逮捕，拘捕；忧虑 | |
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102
uncertainty
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| n.易变，靠不住，不确知，不确定的事物 | |
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103
vices
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| 缺陷( vice的名词复数 )； 恶习； 不道德行为； 台钳 | |
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104
clench
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| vt.捏紧（拳头等），咬紧（牙齿等），紧紧握住 | |
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105
expedients
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| n.应急有效的，权宜之计的( expedient的名词复数 ) | |
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106
frustrated
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| adj.挫败的，失意的，泄气的v.使不成功( frustrate的过去式和过去分词 )；挫败；使受挫折；令人沮丧 | |
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107
odds
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| n.让步，机率，可能性，比率；胜败优劣之别 | |
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108
innocence
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| n.无罪；天真；无害 | |
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109
sanguine
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| adj.充满希望的，乐观的，血红色的 | |
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110
sprightly
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| adj.愉快的，活泼的 | |
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111
genial
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| adj.亲切的，和蔼的，愉快的，脾气好的 | |
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112
intervals
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| n.[军事]间隔( interval的名词复数 )；间隔时间；[数学]区间；（戏剧、电影或音乐会的）幕间休息 | |
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113
remarkable
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| adj.显著的，异常的，非凡的，值得注意的 | |
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114
dozing
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| v.打瞌睡,假寐 n.瞌睡 | |
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115
sarcasm
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| n.讥讽，讽刺，嘲弄，反话 （adj.sarcastic） | |
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116
superstitious
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| adj.迷信的 | |
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117
valediction
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| n．告别演说，告别词 | |
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118
ascetic
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| adj.禁欲的；严肃的 | |
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119
sinister
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| adj.不吉利的，凶恶的，左边的 | |
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120
charcoal
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| n.炭，木炭，生物炭 | |
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121
smothered
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| （使）窒息， （使）透不过气( smother的过去式和过去分词 )； 覆盖； 忍住； 抑制 | |
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122
lighting
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| n.照明，光线的明暗，舞台灯光 | |
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123
Christians
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| n.基督教徒( Christian的名词复数 ) | |
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124
scoffing
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| n. 嘲笑, 笑柄, 愚弄 v. 嘲笑, 嘲弄, 愚弄, 狼吞虎咽 | |
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125
prudence
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| n.谨慎，精明，节俭 | |
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126
forth
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| adv.向前；向外，往外 | |
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127
phoenix
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| n.凤凰，长生(不死)鸟；引申为重生 | |
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128
rumour
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| n.谣言，谣传，传闻 | |
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129
brace
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| n. 支柱,曲柄,大括号; v. 绷紧,顶住,(为困难或坏事)做准备 | |
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130
constable
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| n.(英国)警察，警官 | |
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131
cravat
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| n.领巾，领结；v.使穿有领结的服装，使结领结 | |
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132
descend
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| vt./vi.传下来，下来，下降 | |
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133
posture
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| n.姿势，姿态，心态，态度；v.作出某种姿势 | |
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134
ecstasy
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| n.狂喜，心醉神怡，入迷 | |
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135
agility
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| n.敏捷，活泼 | |
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136
positively
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| adv.明确地，断然，坚决地；实在，确实 | |
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137
lieutenant
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| n.陆军中尉，海军上尉；代理官员，副职官员 | |
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upwards
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| adv.向上，在更高处...以上 | |
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