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A Rogue's Life-Part12_WILKIE COLLINS (1824-1899)_English Literature(文学名著)-第2页

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Whichever way I answered that question in my own mind, I could be

no longer at any loss for an explanation of her behavior in the



meadow by the stream, or of that unnaturally gloomy, downcast

look which overspread her face when her father's pursuits were



the subject of conversation. Did I falter in my resolution to

marry her, now that I had discovered what the obstacle was which



had made mystery and wretchedness between us? Certainly not. I

was above all prejudices. I was the least particular of mankind.



I had no family affection in my way--and, greatest fact of all, I

was in love. Under those circumstances what Rogue of any spirit



would have faltered? After the first shock of the discovery was

over, my resolution to be Alicia's husband was settled more



firmly than ever.

There was a little round table in a corner of the room furthest



from the door, which I had not yet examined. A feverish longing

to look at everything within my reach--to penetrate to the



innermost recesses of the labyrinth in which I had involved

myself--consumed me. I went to the table, and saw upon it, ranged



symmetrically side by side, four objects which looked like thick

rulers wrapped up in silver paper. I opened the paper at the end



of one of the rulers, and found that it was composed of

half-crowns. I had closed the paper again, and was just raising



my head from the table over which it had been bent, when my right

cheek came in contact with something hard and cold. I started



back--looked up--and confronted Doctor Dulcifer, holding a pistol

at my right temple.



CHAPTER IX.

THE doctor (like me) had his shoes off. The doctor (like me) had



come in without making the least noise. He cocked the pistol

without saying a word. I felt that I was probably standing face



to face with death, and I too said not a word. We two Rogues

looked each other steadily and silently in the face--he, the



mighty and prosperousvillain, with my life in his hands: I, the

abject and poor scamp, waiting his mercy.



It must have been at least a minute after I heard the click of

the cocked pistol before he spoke.



"How did you get here?" he asked.

The quiet commonplace terms in which he put his question, and the



perfect composure and politeness of his manner, reminded me a

little of Gentleman Jones. But the doctor was much the more



respectable-looking man of the two; his baldness was more

intellectual and benevolent; there was a delicacy and propriety



in the pulpiness of his fat white chin, a bland bagginess in his

unwhiskered cheeks, a reverent roughness about his eyebrows and a



fullness in his lower eyelids, which raised him far higher,

physiognomically speaking, in the social scale, than my old



prison acquaintance. Put a shovel-hat on Gentleman Jones, and the

effect would only have been eccentric; put the same covering on



the head of Doctor Dulcifer, and the effect would have been

strictly episcopal.



"How did you get here?" he repeated, still without showing the

least irritation.



I told him how I had got in at the second-floor window, without

concealing a word of the truth. The gravity of the situation, and



the sharpness of the doctor's intellects, as expressed in his

eyes, made anything like a suppression of facts on my part a



desperately dangerous experiment.

"You wanted to see what I was about up here, did you?" said he,



when I had ended my confession. "Do you know?"

The pistolbarrel touched my cheek as he said the last words. I



thought of all the suspicious objects scattered about the room,

of the probability that he was only putting this question to try



my courage, of the very likely chance that he would shoot me

forthwith, if I began to prevaricate. I thought of these things,



and boldly answered:

"Yes, I do know."



He looked at me reflectively; then said, in low, thoughtful

tones, speaking, not to me, but entirely to himself:



"Suppose I shoot him?"

I saw in his eye, that if I flinched, he would draw the trigger.



"Suppose you trust me?" I said, without moving a muscle.




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