HOW A GENTLEMAN PAID A VISIT AT THE BRASS CASTLE, AND THERE READ A
PARAGRAPH IN AN OLD NEWSPAPER.
Dangerfield was, after his wont, seated at his desk, writing letters,
after his early breakfast, with his neatly-labelled accounts at his
elbow. There was a pleasant frosty sun glittering through the twigs of
the leafless shrubs, and flashing on the ripples and undulations of the
Liffey, and the redbreasts and sparrows were picking up the crumbs which
the housekeeper had thrown for them outside. He had just sealed the last
of half-a-dozen letters, when the maid opened his parlour-door, and told
him that a gentleman was at the hall-step, who wished to see him.
Dangerfield looked up with a quick glance--
'Eh?--to be sure. Show him in.'
And in a few seconds more, Mr. Mervyn, his countenance more than usually
pale and sad, entered the room. He bowed low and gravely, as the servant
announced him.
Dangerfield rose with a prompt smile, bowing also, and advanced with his
hand extended, which, as a matter of form rather than of cordiality, his
visitor took, coldly enough, in his.
'Happy to see you here, Mr. Mervyn--pray, take a chair--a charming
morning for a turn by the river, Sir.'
'I have taken the liberty of visiting you, Mr. Dangerfield--'
'Your visit, Sir, I esteem an honour,' interposed the lord of the Brass
Castle.
A slight and ceremonious bow from Mervyn, who continued--'For the
purpose of asking you directly and plainly for some light upon a matter
in which it is in the highest degree important I should be informed.'
'You may command me, Mr. Mervyn,' said Dangerfield, crossing his legs,
throwing himself back, and adjusting himself to attention.
Mervyn fixed his dark eyes full and sternly upon that white and
enigmatical face, with its round glass eyes and silver setting, and
those delicate lines of scorn he had never observed before, traced about
the mouth and nostril.
'Then, Sir, I venture to ask you for all you can disclose or relate
about one Charles Archer.'
Dangerfield cocked his head on one side, quizzically, and smiled the
faintest imaginable cynical smile.
'I can't _disclose_ anything, for the gentleman never told me his
secrets; but all I can relate is heartily at your service.'
'Can you point him out, Sir?' asked Mervyn, a little less sternly, for
he saw no traces of a guilty knowledge in the severe countenance and
prompt, unembarrassed manner of the gentleman who leaned back in his
chair, with the clear bright light full on him, and his leg crossed so
carelessly.
Dangerfield smiled, shook his head gently, and shrugged his shoulders
the least thing in the world.
'Don't you know him, Sir?' demanded Mervyn.
'Why,' said Dangerfield, with his chin a little elevated, and the tips
of his fingers all brought together, and his elbows resting easily upon
the arms of his chair, and altogether an involuntary air of hauteur,
'Charles Archer, perhaps you're not aware, was not exactly the most
reputable acquaintance in the world; and my knowledge of him was very
slight indeed--wholly accidental--and of very short duration.'
'May I ask you, if, without leaving this town, you can lay your finger
on him, Sir?'
'Why, not conveniently,' answered Dangerfield, with the same air of
cynical amusement. ''Twould reach in that case all the way to Florence,
and even then we should gain little by the discovery.'
'But you do know him?' pursued Mervyn.
'_I did_, Sir, though very slightly,' answered Dangerfield.
'And I'm given to understand, Sir, he's to be found occasionally in this
town?' continued his visitor.
'There's just one man who sees him, and that's the parish clerk--what's
his name?--Zekiel Irons--he sees him. Suppose we send down to his house,
and fetch him here, and learn all about it?' said Dangerfield, who
seemed mightily tickled by the whole thing.
'He left the town, Sir, last night; and I've reason to suspect, with a
resolution of returning no more. And I must speak plainly, Mr.
Dangerfield, 'tis no subject for trifling--the fame and fortune of a
noble family depend on searching out the truth; and I'll lose my life,
Sir, or I'll discover it.'
Still the old cynical, quizzical smile on Dangerfield's white face, who
said encouragingly--
'Nobly resolved, Sir, upon my honour!'
'And Mr. Dangerfield, if you'll only lay yourself out to help me, with
your great knowledge and subtlety--disclosing everything you know or
conjecture, and putting me in train to discover the rest--so that I may
fully clear this dreadful mystery up--there is no sacrifice of fortune I
will not cheerfully make to recompense such immense services, and you
may name with confidence your own terms, and think nothing exorbitant.'
For the first time Dangerfield's countenance actually darkened and grew
stern, but Mervyn could not discern whether it was with anger or deep
thought, and the round spectacles returned his intense gaze with a white
reflected sheen, sightless as death.
But the stern mouth opened, and Dangerfield, in his harsh, brief tones,
said--
'You speak without reflection, Sir, and had nigh made me lose my temper;
but I pardon you; you're young, Sir, and besides, know probably little
or nothing of me. Who are you, Sir, who thus think fit to address me,
who am by blood and education as good a gentleman as any alive? The
inducements you are pleased to offer--you may address elsewhere--they
are not for me. I shall forget your imprudence, and answer frankly any
questions, within my knowledge, you please to ask.'
Mervyn bowed apologetically, and a silence ensued; after which he thus
availed himself of his host's permission to question him--
'You mentioned Irons, the clerk, Mr. Dangerfield, and said that he sees
Charles Archer. Do you mean it?'
'Why, thus I mean it. He _thinks_ he sees him; but, if he does, upon my
honour, he sees a ghost,' and Dangerfield chuckled merrily.
'Pray, Mr. Dangerfield, consider me, and be serious, and in Heaven's
name explain,' said Mervyn, speaking evidently in suppressed anguish.
'Why, you know--don't you? the poor fellow's not quite right here,' and
he tapped the centre of his own towering forehead with the delicate tip
of his white middle finger. 'I've seen a little of him; he's an angler,
so am I; and he showed me the fishing of the river, here, last summer,
and often amused me prodigiously. He's got some such very odd maggots! I
don't say, mind ye, he's _mad_, there are many degrees, and he's quite a
competent parish clerk. He's only wrong on a point or two, and one of
them is Charles Archer. I believe for a while he thought _you_ were he;
and Dangerfield laughed his dry, hard chuckle.
'Where, Sir, do you suppose Charles Archer is now to be found?' urged
Mervyn.
'Why, what remains of him, in Florence,' answered Dangerfield.
'You speak, Sir, as if you thought him dead.'
'Think? I know he's dead. I knew him but three weeks, and visited him in
his sickness--was in his room half an hour before he died, and attended
his funeral,' said Dangerfield.
'I implore of you, Sir, as you hope for mercy, don't trifle in this
matter,' cried Mervyn, whose face was white, like that of a man about to
swoon under an operation.
'Trifle! What d'ye mean, Sir?' barked out Dangerfield, rabidly.
'I mean, Sir, _this_--I've information he's positively living, and can
relieve my father's memory from the horrible imputation that rests upon
it. You know who I am!'
'Ay, Sir, Lord Castlemallard told me.'
'And my life I cheerfully devote to the task of seizing and tracing out
the bloody clue of the labyrinth in which I'm lost.'
'Good--'tis a pious as well as a prudent resolve,' said Dangerfield,
with a quiet sneer. 'And now, Sir, give me leave to say a word. Your
information that Charles Archer is living, is not worth the breath of
the madman that spoke it, as I'll presently show you. By an odd chance,
Sir, I required this file of newspapers, last week, to help me in
ascertaining the date of Sir Harry Wyatt's marriage. Well, only last
night, what should I hit on but this. Will you please to read?'
He had turned over the pages rapidly, and then he stopped at this little
piece of news packed up in a small paragraph at the bottom of a column,
and, pointing his finger to it, he slid the volume of newspapers over to
Mervyn, who read--
'Died on the 4th of August, of a lingering disease, at his lodgings in
Florence, whither he had gone for the improvement of his health, Charles
Archer, Esq., a gentleman who some three years since gave an exceeding
clear evidence against Lord Dunoran, for the murder of Mr. Beauclerc,
and was well known at Newmarket. His funeral, which was private, was
attended by several English gentlemen, who were then at Florence.'
Mervyn, deadly pale, with gleaming eyes, and hand laid along his
forehead, as if to screen off an insupportable light and concentrate his
gaze upon the words, read and re-read these sentences with an agony of
scrutiny such as no critic ever yet directed upon a disputed passage in
his favourite classic. But there was no possibility of fastening any
consolatory interpretation upon the paragraph. It was all too plain and
outspoken.
''Tis possible this may be true--_thus_ much. _A_ Charles Archer is
dead, and yet another Charles Archer, the object of my search, still
living,' said Mervyn.
'Hey! that didn't strike me,' said Dangerfield, as much amused as was
consistent with moderately good breeding. 'But I can quite account, Mr.
Mervyn,' he continued, with a sudden change of tone and manner, to
something almost of kindness, 'for your readiness to entertain any
theory not quite destructive of hopes, which, notwithstanding, I fear,
rest simply on the visions of that poor hypochondriac, Irons. But, for
all that, 'tis just possible that something may strike either you or me
in the matter not quite so romantic--hey? But still something.--You've
not told me how the plague Charles Archer could possibly have served
you. But on that point, perhaps, we can talk another time. I simply
desire to say, that any experience or ability I may possess are heartily
at your service whenever you please to task them, as my good wishes are
already.'
So, stunned, and like a man walking in a dream--all his hopes shivered
about his feet--Mervyn walked through the door of the little parlour in
the Brass Castle, and Dangerfield, accompanying him to the little gate
which gave admission from the high-road to that tenement, dismissed him
there, with a bow and a pleasant smile; and, standing, for a while, wiry
and erect, with his hands in his pockets, he followed him, as he paced
dejectedly away, with the same peculiar smile.
When he was out of sight, Dangerfield returned to his parlour, smiling
all the way, and stood on the hearthrug, with his back to the fire. When
he was alone, a shadow came over his face, and he looked down on the
fringe with a thoughtful scowl--his hands behind his back--and began
adjusting and smoothing it with the toe of his shoe.
'Sot, fool, and poltroon--triple qualification for mischief--I don't
know why he still lives. Irons--a new vista opens, and this d----d young
man!' All this was not, as we sometimes read, 'mentally ejaculated,' but
quite literally muttered, as I believe every one at times mutters to
himself. 'Charles Archer living--Charles Archer dead--or, as I sometimes
think, neither one nor t'other quite--half man, half corpse--a
vampire--there is no rest for thee: no sabbath in the days of thy week.
Blood, blood--blood--'tis tiresome. Why should I be a slave to these
d----d secrets. I don't think 'tis my judgment, so much as the devil,
holds me here. Irons has more brains than I--instinct--calculation--which
is oftener right? Miss Gertrude Chattesworth, a mere whim, I think
understood her game too. I'll deal with that to-morrow. I'll send Daxon
the account, vouchers, and cheque for Lord Castlemallard--tell Smith to
sell my horses, and, by the next packet--hey?' and he kissed his hand,
with an odd smirk, like a gentleman making his adieux, 'and so leave
those who court the acquaintance of Charles Archer, to find him out,
and catch their Tartar how they may.'