CHAPTER LXXX.
IN WHICH TWO ACQUAINTANCES BECOME, ON A SUDDEN, MARVELLOUSLY FRIENDLY IN
THE CHURCH-YARD; AND MR. DANGERFIELD SMOKES A PIPE IN THE BRASS CASTLE, AND RESOLVES THAT THE DUMB SHALL SPEAK.
On Sunday, Mervyn, after the good doctor's sermon and benediction, wishing to make enquiry of the rector touching the movements of his clerk, whose place was provisionally supplied by a corpulent and unctuous mercenary from Dublin, whose fat presence and panting delivery were in signal contrast with the lank figure and deep cavernous tones of the absent official, loitered in the church-yard to allow time for the congregation to disperse, and the parson to disrobe and emerge.
He was reading an epitaph on an expansive black flag-stone, in the far
corner of the church-yard—it is still there—upon several ancestral
members of the family of Lowe, who slept beneath 'in hope,' as the
stone-cutter informed the upper world; and musing, as sad men will, upon
the dates and vanities of the record, when a thin white hand was lightly
laid upon his sleeve from behind; and looking round, in expectation of
seeing the rector's grave, simple, kindly countenance, he beheld, instead, with a sort of odd thrill, the white glittering face of Mr. Paul Dangerfield.
'Hamlet in the church-yard!' said the white gentleman, with an ambiguous
playfulness, very like a sneer. 'I'm too old to play Horatio; but
standing at his elbow, if the Prince permits, I have a friendly word or
two to say, in my own dry way.'
There was in Mervyn's nature something that revolted instinctively from
the singular person who stood at his shoulder. Their organisations and
appetites were different, I suppose, and repellent. Cold and glittering
was the 'gelidus anguis in herbâ'—the churchyard grass—who had lifted
his baleful crest close to his ear.
There was a slight flush on 'Hamlet's' forehead, and a glimmer of
something dangerous in his eye, as he glanced on his stark acquaintance. But the feeling was transitory and unreasonable, and he greeted him with a cold and sad civility.
'I was thinking, Mr. Mervyn,' said Mr. Dangerfield, politely, 'of
walking up to the Tiled House, after church, to pay my respects, and ask
the favour of five minutes' discourse with you; and seeing you here, I
ventured to present myself.'
'If I can do anything to serve Mr. Dangerfield,' began Mervyn.
Dangerfield smiled and bowed. He was very courteous; but in his smile
there was a character of superiority which Mervyn felt almost like an
insult.
'You mistake me, Sir. I'm all gratitude; but I don't mean to trouble you
further than to ask your attention for two or three minutes. I've a
thing to tell you, Sir. I'''m really anxious to serve you. I wish I
could. And 'tis only that I've recollected since I saw you, a
circumstance of which possibly you may make some use.'
'I'm deeply obliged, Sir—deeply,' said Mervyn, eagerly.
'I'm only, Sir, too happy. It relates to Charles Archer. I've
recollected, since I saw you, a document concerning his death. It had a
legal bearing of some sort, and was signed by at least three gentlemen. One was Sir Philip Drayton, of Drayton Hall, who was with him at Florence in his last illness. I may have signed it myself, but I don't recollect. It was by his express desire, to quiet, as I remember, some proceedings which might have made a noise, and compromised his family.'
'Can you bring to mind the nature of the document?'
'Why, thus much. I'm quite sure it began with a certificate of his
death; and then, I think, was added a statement, at his last request, which surprised, or perhaps, shocked us. I only say I think—for though I remember that such a statement was solemnly made, I can't bring to mind whether it was set out in the writing of which I speak. Only I am confident it referred to some crime—a confession of something; but for the life o' me I can't recollect what. If you could let me know the subject of your suspicion it might help me. I should never have remembered this occurrence, for instance, had it not been for our meeting t'other day. I can't exactly—in fact, at all—bring to mind what the crime was: forgery, or perjury—eh?'
'Why, Sir, 'twas this,' said Mervyn, and stopped short, not knowing how
far even this innocent confidence might compromise Irons. Dangerfield, his head slightly inclined, was disconcertingly silent and attentive.
'I—I suspect,' resumed Mervyn, 'I suspect, Sir, 'twas perjury,' said
Mervyn.