Part 57 (2/2)

'Neither word, nor stir, nor groan, did Glasc.o.c.k make; but with a sort of a jerk, flat on his back he fell, with his head on the verge of the tarn.

'I believe I said something--I don't know--I was almost as dead as himself--for I did not think anything _that_ bad was near at all.

'”Come, Irons--what ails you--steady, Sir--lend me a hand, and you'll take no harm.”

'He had the pistol he discharged in his left hand by this time, and a loaded one in his right.

'”'Tis his own act, Irons. _I_ did not want it; but I'll protect myself, and won't hold my life on ransom, at the hands of a Jew or a Judas,”

said he, smiling through his black hair, as white as a tombstone.

'”I am neither,” says I.

'”I know it,” says he; ”and so you're _here_, and he _there_.”

'”Well, 'tis over now, I suppose,” says I. I was thinking of making off.

'”Don't go yet,” says he, like a man asking a favour; but he lifted the pistol an inch or two, with a jerk of his wrist, ”you must help me to hide away this dead fool.”

'Well, Sir, we had three or four hours cold work of it--we tied stones in his clothes, and sunk him close under the bank, and walled him over with more. 'Twas no light job, I can tell you the water was near four feet deep, though 'twas a dry season; and then we slipped out a handsome slice of the bank over him; and, making him all smooth, we left him to take his chance; and I never heard any talk of a body being found there; and I suppose he's now where we left him.'

And Irons groaned.

'So we returned silent and tired enough, and I in mortal fear of him.

But he designed me no hurt. There's luckily some risk in making away with a fellow, and 'tisn't done by any but a fool without good cause; and when we got on the road again, I took the London road, and he turned his back on me, and I don't know where he went; but no doubt his plans were well shaped.

''Twas an ugly walk for me, all alone, over that heath, I can tell you.

'Twas mortal dark; and there was places on the road where my footsteps echoed back, and I could not tell but 'twas Mr. Archer following me, having changed his mind, maybe, or something as bad, if that could be; and many's the time I turned short round, expecting to see him, or may be that other lad, behind, for you see I got a start like when he shot Glasc.o.c.k; and there was a trembling over me for a long time after.

'Now, you see, Glasc.o.c.k's dead, and can't tell tales no more nor Mr.

Beauclerc, and Dr. Sturk's a dead man too, you may say; and I think he knew--that is--brought to mind somewhat. He lay, you see, on the night Mr. Beauclerc lost his life, in a sort of a dressing-room, off his chamber, and the door was open; but he was bad with a fall he had, and his arm in splints, and he under laudanum--in a trance like--and on the inquest he could tell nothing; but I think he remembered something more or less concerning it after.' And Mr. Irons took a turn, and came back very close to Mervyn, and said very gently, 'and I think Charles Archer murdered him.'

'Then Charles Archer _has_ been in Dublin, perhaps in Chapelizod, within the last few months,' exclaimed Mervyn, in a sort of agony.

'I didn't say so,' answered Irons. 'I've told you the truth--'tis the truth--but there's no catching a ghost--and who'd believe my story? and them things is so long ago. And suppose I make a clean breast of it, and that I could bring you face to face with him, the world would not believe my tale, and I'd then be a lost man, one way or another--no one, mayhap, could tell how--I'd lose my life before a year, and all the world could not save me.'

'Perhaps--perhaps Charles Nutter's the man; and Mr. Dangerfield knows something of him,' cried Mervyn.

Irons made no answer, but sat quite silent for some seconds, by the fire, the living image of apathy.

'If you name me, or blab one word I told you, I hold my peace for ever,'

said he, slowly, with a quiet oath, but very pale, and how blue his chin looked--how grim his smile, with his face so s.h.i.+ny, and his eyelids closed. You're to suppose, Sir, 'tis possible Mr. Dangerfield has a guess at him. Well, he's a clever man, and knows how to put this and that together; and has been kind to Dr. Sturk and his family. He's a good man, you know; and he's a long-headed gentleman, they say; and if he takes a thing in hand, he'll be as like as another to bring it about.

But sink or swim my mind's made up. Charles Archer, wherever he is, will not like my going--he'll sniff danger in the wind, Sir. I could not stay--he'd have had me--you see, body and soul. 'Twas time for me to go--and go or stay, I see nothing but bad before me. 'Twas an evil day I ever saw his face; and 'twould be better for me to have a cast for my life at any rate, and that I'm nigh-hand resolved on; only you see my heart misgives me--and that's how it is. I can't quite make up my mind.'

For a little while Mervyn stood in an agony of irresolution. I'm sure I cannot understand all he felt, having never been, thank Heaven! in a like situation. I only know how much depended on it, and I don't wonder that for some seconds he thought of arresting that lank, pale, sinister figure by the fire, and denouncing him as, by his own confession, an accessory to the murder of Beauclerc. The thought that he would slip through his fingers, and the clue to vindication, fortune, and happiness, be for ever lost, was altogether so dreadful that we must excuse his forgetting for a moment his promise, and dismissing patience, and even policy, from his thoughts.

<script>