The House by the Church-Yard (41 page)

''Twas a darkish night—very little moon—and he made us turn off the road, into the moor—black and ugly it looked, stretching away four or five miles, all heath and black peat, stretches of little broken hillocks, and a pool or tarn every now and again. An' he kept looking back towards the road, and not a word out of him. Well, I did not like meeting him at all if I could help it, but I was in dread of him; and I thought he might suppose I was plotting mischief if I refused. So I made up my mind to do as he bid me for the nonce, and then have done with him.

'By this time we were in or about a mile from the road, and we got over a low rising ground, and back nor forward, nor no way could we see anything but the moor; and I stopped all of a sudden, and says I, "We’re far enough, I’ll go no further."

'"Good," says Mr. Archer; "but let’s go yonder, where the stones are—we can sit as we talk—for I’m tired."

'There was half–a–dozen white stones there by the side of one of these black tarns. We none of us talked much on that walk over the moor. We had enough to think of, each of us, I dare say.

'"This will do," says Mr. Archer, stopping beside the pool; but he did not sit, though the stones were there. "Now, Glascock, here I am, with the price of my horse in my pocket; what do you want?"

'Well, when it came to the point so sudden, Glascock looked a bit shy, and hung his head, and rowled his shoulders, and shuffled his feet a bit, thinking what he’d say.

'"Hang it, man; what are you afraid of? we’re friends," says Mr. Archer, cheerfully.

'"Surely, Sir," says Glascock, "I did not mean aught else."

'And with that Mr. Archer laughed, and says he—

'"Come—you beat about the bush—let’s hear your mind."

'"Well, Sir, 'tis in my letter," says he.

'"Ah, Glascock," says he, "that’s a threatening letter. I did not think you’d serve me so. Well, needs must when the devil drives." And he laughed again, and shrugs up his shoulders, and says he, putting his hand in his pocket, "there’s sixty pounds left; 'tis all I have; come, be modest—what do you say?"

'"You got a lot of gold off Mr. Beauclerc," says Glascock.

'"Not a doit more than I wanted," says he, laughing again. "And who, pray, had a better right—did not I murder him?"

'His talk and his laughing frightened me more and more.

'"Well, I stood to you then, Sir; didn’t I?" says Glascock.

'"Heart of oak, Sir—true as steel; and now, how much do you want? Remember, 'tis all I have—and I out at elbows; and here’s my friend Irons, too—eh?"

'"I want nothing, and I’ll take nothing," says I; "not a shilling—not a half–penny." You see there was something told me no good would come of it, and I was frightened besides.

'"What! you won’t go in for a share, Irons?" says he.

'"No; 'tis your money, Sir—I’ve no right to a sixpence—and I won’t have it," says I; "and there’s an end."

'"Well, Glascock, what say you?—you hear Irons."

'"Let Irons speak for himself—he’s nothing to me. You should have considered me when all that money was took from Mr. Beauclerc—one done as much as another—and if 'twas no more than holding my tongue, still 'tis worth a deal to you."

'"I don’t deny—a deal—everything. Come—there’s sixty pounds here—but, mark, 'tis all I have—how much?"

'"I’ll have thirty, and I’ll take no less," says Glascock, surly enough.

'"Thirty! 'tis a good deal—but all considered—perhaps not too much," says Mr. Archer.

'And with that he took his right hand from his breeches' pocket, and shot him through the heart with a pistol.

'Neither word, nor stir, nor groan, did Glascock 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 Glascock; and there was a trembling over me for a long time after.

'Now, you see, Glascock’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 shiny, 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.

But 'twas a transitory temptation only, and common sense seconded honour. For he was persuaded that whatever likelihood there was of leading Irons to the critical point, there was none of driving him thither; and that Irons, once restive and impracticable, all his hopes would fall to the ground.

'I am going,' said Irons, with quiet abruptness; 'and right glad the storm’s up still,' he added, in a haggard rumination, and with a strange smile of suffering. 'In dark an' storm—curse him!—I see his face everywhere. I don’t know how he’s got this hold over me,' and he cursed him again and groaned dismally. 'A night like this is my chance—and so here goes.'

'Remember, for Heaven’s sake, remember,' said Mervyn, with agonised urgency, as he followed him with a light along the passage to the back–door.

Irons made no answer; and walking straight on, without turning his head, only lifted his hand with a movement backward, like a man who silently warns another from danger.

So Irons went forth into the night and the roaring storm, dark and alone, like an evil spirit into desert places; and Mervyn barred the door after him, and returned to the cedar parlour, and remained there alone and long in profound and not unnatural agitation.

In the morning, though the wind had somewhat gone down, 'twas still dismal and wild enough; and to the consternation of poor Mrs. Macnamara, as she sat alone in her window after breakfast, Miss Mag and the major being both abroad, a hackney coach drew up at the door, which stood open. The maid was on the step, cheapening fish with a virulent lady who had a sieve–full to dispose of.

A gentleman, with a large, unwholesome face, and a patch over one eye, popped his unpleasant countenance, black wig, and three–cocked hat, out of the window, and called to the coachman to let him out.

Forth he came, somewhat slovenly, his coat not over–well brushed, having in his hand a small trunk, covered with gilt crimson leather, very dingy, and somewhat ceremoniously assisted a lady to alight. This dame, as she stepped with a long leg, in a black silk stocking, to the ground, swept the front windows of the house from under her velvet hood with a sharp and evil glance; and in fact she was Mistress Mary Matchwell.

As she beheld her, poor Mrs. Mack’s heart fluttered up to her mouth, and then dropped with a dreadful plump, into the pit of her stomach. The dingy, dismal gentleman, swinging the red trunk in his hand, swaggered lazily back and forward, to stretch his legs over the pavement, and air his large cadaverous countenance, and sniff the village breezes.

Mistress Matchwell in the meantime, exchanging a passing word with the servant, who darkened and drew back as if a ghost had crossed her, gathered her rustling silks about her, and with a few long steps noiselessly mounted the narrow stairs, and stood, sallow and terrible in her sables, before the poor gentlewoman.

With two efforts Mrs. Mack got up and made a little, and then a great courtesy, and then a little one again, and tried to speak, and felt very near fainting.

'See,' says Mary Matchwell, 'I must have twenty pounds—but don’t take on. You must make an effort, my dear—'tis the last. Come, don’t be cast down. I’ll pay you when I come to my property, in three weeks' time; but law expenses must be paid, and the money I must have.'

Hereupon Mrs. Mack clasped her hands together in an agony, and 'set up the pipes.'

M. M. was like to lose patience, and when she did she looked most feloniously, and in a way that made poor soft Mrs. Mack quiver.

''Tis but twenty pounds, woman,' she said, sternly. 'Hub–bub–bub–boo–hoo–hoo,' blubbered the fat and miserable Mrs. Macnamara. 'It will be all about—I may as well tell it myself. I’m ruined! My Venetian lace—my watch—the brocade not made up. It won’t do. I must tell my brother; I’d rather go out for a charwoman and starve myself to a skeleton, than try to borrow more money.'

Mrs. Matchwell advanced her face towards the widow’s tearful countenance, and held her in the spell of her dreadful gaze as a cat does a bird.

'Why, curse you, woman, do you think 'tis to rob you I mean?—'tisn’t a present even—only a loan. Stop that blubbering, you great old mouth! or I’ll have you posted all over the town in five minutes. A
loan
, Madam; and you need not pay it for three months—three whole months—
there
!'

Well, this time it ended as heretofore—poor Mrs. Mack gave way. She had not a crown–piece, indeed, that she could call her own; but M. M. was obliging, and let her off for a bill of exchange, the nature of which, to her dying day, the unhappy widow could never comprehend, although it caused her considerable affliction some short time subsequently.

Away went Mary Matchwell with her prize, leaving an odour of brandy behind her. Her dingy and sinister squire performed his clumsy courtesies, and without looking to the right or left, climbed into the coach after her, with his red trunk in his hand; and the vehicle was again in motion, and jingling on at a fair pace in the direction of Nutter’s house, The Mills, where her last visit had ended so tragically.

Now, it so happened that just as this coach, with its sombre occupants, drew up at The Mills, Doctor Toole was standing on the steps, giving Moggy a parting injunction, after his wont; for poor little Mrs. Nutter had been thrown into a new paroxysm by the dreadful tidings of her Charlie’s death, and was now lying on her bed, and bathing the pillow in her tears.

'Is this the tenement called the Mills, formerly in the occupation of the late Charles Nutter—eh?' demanded the gentleman, thrusting his face from the window, before the coachman had got to the door.

'It is, Sir,' replied Toole, putting Moggy aside, and suspecting, he could not tell what amiss, and determined to show front, and not averse from hearing what the visit was about. 'But Mrs. Nutter is very far from well, Sir; in fact, in her bed–chamber, Sir, and laid upon her bed.'

'Mrs. Nutter’s
here
, Sir,' said the man phlegmatically. He had just got out on the ground before the door, and extended his hand toward Mary Matchwell, whom he assisted to alight.

'
This
is Mrs. Nutter, relict of the late Charles Nutter, of The Mills, Knockmaroon, in the parish of Chapelizod.'

'At your service, Sir,' said Mary Matchwell, dropping a demure courtesy, and preparing to sail by him.

'Not so fast, Ma’am, if you please,' said Toole, astonished, but still sternly and promptly enough. 'In with you, Moggy, and bar the kitchen door.'

And shoving the maid back, he swung the door to, with a slam. He was barely in time, and Mary Matchwell, baffled and pale, confronted the doctor, with the devil gleaming from her face.

'Who are you, man, that dare shut my own door in my face?' said the beldame.

'Toole’s my name, Madam,' said the little doctor, with a lofty look and a bow. 'I have the honour to attend here in a professional capacity.'

'Ho! a village attorney,' cried the fortune–teller, plainly without having consulted the cards or the planets. 'Well, Sir, you’d better stand aside, for I am the Widow Nutter, and this is my house; and burn me, but one way or another, in I’ll get.'

'You’d do well to avoid a trespass, Ma’am, and better to abstain from house breaking; and you may hammer at the knocker till you’re tired, but they’ll not let you in,' rejoined Toole. 'And as to you being the Widow Nutter, Ma’am, that is widow of poor Charles Nutter, lately found drowned, I’ll be glad to know, Ma’am, how you make
that
out.'

'Stay, Madam, by your leave,' said the cadaverous, large–faced man, interposing. 'We are here, Sir, to claim possession of this tenement and the appurtenances, as also of all the money, furniture, and other chattels whatsoever of the late Charles Nutter; and being denied admission, we shall then serve certain cautionary and other notices, in such a manner as the court will, under the circumstances, and in your presence, being, by your admission, the attorney of Sarah Hearty, calling herself Nutter—'

'I did not say I was,' said Toole, with a little toss of his chin.

The gentleman’s large face here assumed a cunning leer.

'Well, we have our thoughts about that, Sir,' he said. 'But by your leave, we’ll knock at the hall–door.'

'I tell you what, Sir,' said Toole, who had no reliance upon the wisdom of the female garrison, and had serious misgivings lest at the first stout summons the maids should open the door, and the ill–favoured pair establish themselves in occupation of poor Mrs. Nutter’s domicile, 'I’ll not object to the notices being received. There’s the servant up at the window there—but you must not make a noise; Mrs. Nutter, poor woman, is sick and hypochondriac, and can’t bear a noise; but I’ll permit the service of the notices, because, you see, we can afford to snap our fingers at you. I say, Moggy, open a bit of that window, and take in the papers that this gentleman will hand you.
There
, Sir, on the end of your cane, if you please—very good.'

''Twill do, she has them. Thank you, Miss,' said the legal practitioner, with a grin. 'Now, Ma’am, we’d best go to the Prerogative Court.'

Mary Matchwell laughed one of her pale malevolent laughs up at the maid in the window, who stood there, with the papers in her hand, in a sort of horror.

'Never mind,' said Mary Matchwell, to herself, and, getting swiftly into the coach, she gleamed another ugly smile up at the window of The Mills, as she adjusted her black attire.

'To the Prerogative Court,' said the attorney to the coachman.

'In that house I’ll lie to–night,' said Mary Matchwell, with a terrible mildness, as they drove away, still glancing back upon it, with her peculiar smile; and then she leaned back, with a sneer of superiority on her pallid features, and the dismal fatigue of the spirit that rests not, looked savagely out from the deep, haggard windows of her eyes.

When Toole saw the vehicle fairly off, you may be sure he did not lose time in getting into the house, and there conning over the papers, which puzzled him unspeakably.