The House by the Churchyard, Page 42

  'I don’t know whether Glascock was in the room or not all this while, maybe he was; at any rate, he swore to it afterwards; but you’ve read the trial, I warrant. The room was soon full of people. The dead man was still warm—'twas well for us. So they raised him up; and one was for trying one thing, and another; and my lord was sitting stupid–like all this time by the wall; and up he gets, and says he, "I hope he’s not dead, but if he be, upon my honour, 'tis an accident—no more. I call Heaven to witness, and the persons who are now present; and pledge my sacred honour, as a peer, I meant no more than a blow or two."

  "You hear, gentlemen, what my lord says, he meant only a blow or two, and not to take his life," cries Mr. Archer.

  'So my lord repeats it again, cursing and swearing, like St. Peter in the judgment hall.

  'So, as nobody was meddling with my lord, out he goes, intending, I suppose, to get away altogether, if he could. But Mr. Underwood missed him, and he says, "Gentlemen, where’s my Lord Dunoran? we must not suffer him to depart;" and he followed him—two or three others going along with him, and they met him with his hat and cloak on, in the lobby, and he says, stepping between him and the stairs,—

  '"My lord, you must not go, until we see how this matter ends."

  '"Twill end well enough," says he, and without more ado he walks back again.

  'So you know the rest—how that business ended, at least for him.'

  'And you are that very Zekiel Irons who was a witness on the trial?' said Mervyn, with a peculiar look of fear and loathing fixed on him.

  'The same,' said Irons, doggedly; and after a pause, 'but I swore to very little; and all I said was true—though it wasn’t the whole truth. Look to the trial, Sir, and you’ll see 'twas Mr. Archer and Glascock that swore home against my lord—not I. And I don’t think myself, Glascock was in the room at all when it happened—so I don’t.'

  'And where is that wretch, Glascock, and that double murderer Archer; where is he?'

  'Well, Glascock’s making clay.'

  'What do you mean?'

  'Under ground, this many a day. Listen: Mr. Archer went up to London, and he was staying at the Hummums, and Glascock agreed with me to leave the "Pied Horse." We were both uneasy, and planned to go up to London together; and what does he do—nothing less would serve him—but he writes a sort of letter, asking money of Mr. Archer under a threat. This, you know, was after the trial. Well, there came no answer; but after a while—all on a sudden—Mr. Archer arrives himself at the "Pied Horse;" I did not know then that Glascock had writ to him—for he meant to keep whatever he might get to himself. "So," says Mr. Archer to me, meeting me by the pump in the stable–yard, "that was a clever letter you and Glascock wrote to me in town."

  'So I told him 'twas the first I heard of it.

  '"Why," says he, "do you mean to tell me you don’t want money?"

  'I don’t know why it was, but a sort of a turn came over me and I said, "No."

  '"Well," says he, "I’m going to sell a horse, and I expect to be paid to–morrow; you and Glascock must wait for me outside"—I think the name of the village was Merton—I’m not sure, for I never seen it before or since—"and I’ll give you some money then."

  '"I’ll have none," says I.

  '"What, no money?" says he. "Come, come."

  '"I tell you, Sir, I’ll have none," says I. Something, you see, came over me, and I was more determined than ever. I was always afeard of him, but I feared him like Beelzebub now. "I’ve had enough of your money, Sir; and I tell you what, Mr. Archer, I think 'tis best to end our dealings, and I’d rather, if you please, Sir, never trouble you more."

  '"You’re a queer dog," says he, with his eye fast on me, and musing for a while—as if he could see into my brain, and was diverted by what he found there;—"you’re a queer dog, Irons. Glascock knows the world better, you see; and as you and he are going up to London together, and I must give the poor devil a lift, I’ll meet you at the other side of Merton, beyond the quarry—you know the moor—on Friday evening, after dark—say seven o’clock—we must be quiet, you know, or people will be talking."

  'Well, Sir, we met him, sure enough, at the time and place.'

  CHAPTER LXXII.

  IN WHICH THE APPARITION OF MR. IRONS IS SWALLOWED IN DARKNESS.

  ''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 mak
e; 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.

  CHAPTER LXXIII.

  CONCERNING A CERTAIN GENTLEMAN, WITH A BLACK PATCH OVER HIS EYE, WHO MADE SOME VISITS WITH A LADY, IN CHAPELIZOD AND ITS NEIGHBOURHOOD.

  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 darke
ned 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.