The House by the Churchyard, Page 44

  'May I ask you, if, without leaving this town, you can lay your finger on him, Sir?'

  'Why, not conveniently,' answered Dangerfield, with the same air of cynical amusement. ''Twould reach in that case all the way to Florence, and even then we should gain little by the discovery.'

  'But you do know him?' pursued Mervyn.

  'I did, Sir, though very slightly,' answered Dangerfield.

  'And I’m given to understand, Sir, he’s to be found occasionally in this town?' continued his visitor.

  'There’s just one man who sees him, and that’s the parish clerk—what’s his name?—Zekiel Irons—he sees him. Suppose we send down to his house, and fetch him here, and learn all about it?' said Dangerfield, who seemed mightily tickled by the whole thing.

  'He left the town, Sir, last night; and I’ve reason to suspect, with a resolution of returning no more. And I must speak plainly, Mr. Dangerfield, 'tis no subject for trifling—the fame and fortune of a noble family depend on searching out the truth; and I’ll lose my life, Sir, or I’ll discover it.'

  Still the old cynical, quizzical smile on Dangerfield’s white face, who said encouragingly—

  'Nobly resolved, Sir, upon my honour!'

  'And Mr. Dangerfield, if you’ll only lay yourself out to help me, with your great knowledge and subtlety—disclosing everything you know or conjecture, and putting me in train to discover the rest—so that I may fully clear this dreadful mystery up—there is no sacrifice of fortune I will not cheerfully make to recompense such immense services, and you may name with confidence your own terms, and think nothing exorbitant.'

  For the first time Dangerfield’s countenance actually darkened and grew stern, but Mervyn could not discern whether it was with anger or deep thought, and the round spectacles returned his intense gaze with a white reflected sheen, sightless as death.

  But the stern mouth opened, and Dangerfield, in his harsh, brief tones, said—

  'You speak without reflection, Sir, and had nigh made me lose my temper; but I pardon you; you’re young, Sir, and besides, know probably little or nothing of me. Who are you, Sir, who thus think fit to address me, who am by blood and education as good a gentleman as any alive? The inducements you are pleased to offer—you may address elsewhere—they are not for me. I shall forget your imprudence, and answer frankly any questions, within my knowledge, you please to ask.'

  Mervyn bowed apologetically, and a silence ensued; after which he thus availed himself of his host’s permission to question him—

  'You mentioned Irons, the clerk, Mr. Dangerfield, and said that he sees Charles Archer. Do you mean it?'

  'Why, thus I mean it. He thinks he sees him; but, if he does, upon my honour, he sees a ghost,' and Dangerfield chuckled merrily.

  'Pray, Mr. Dangerfield, consider me, and be serious, and in Heaven’s name explain,' said Mervyn, speaking evidently in suppressed anguish.

  'Why, you know—don’t you? the poor fellow’s not quite right here,' and he tapped the centre of his own towering forehead with the delicate tip of his white middle finger. 'I’ve seen a little of him; he’s an angler, so am I; and he showed me the fishing of the river, here, last summer, and often amused me prodigiously. He’s got some such very odd maggots! I don’t say, mind ye, he’s mad, there are many degrees, and he’s quite a competent parish clerk. He’s only wrong on a point or two, and one of them is Charles Archer. I believe for a while he thought you were he; and Dangerfield laughed his dry, hard chuckle.

  'Where, Sir, do you suppose Charles Archer is now to be found?' urged Mervyn.

  'Why, what remains of him, in Florence,' answered Dangerfield.

  'You speak, Sir, as if you thought him dead.'

  'Think? I know he’s dead. I knew him but three weeks, and visited him in his sickness—was in his room half an hour before he died, and attended his funeral,' said Dangerfield.

  'I implore of you, Sir, as you hope for mercy, don’t trifle in this matter,' cried Mervyn, whose face was white, like that of a man about to swoon under an operation.

  'Trifle! What d’ye mean, Sir?' barked out Dangerfield, rabidly.

  'I mean, Sir, this—I’ve information he’s positively living, and can relieve my father’s memory from the horrible imputation that rests upon it. You know who I am!'

  'Ay, Sir, Lord Castlemallard told me.'

  'And my life I cheerfully devote to the task of seizing and tracing out the bloody clue of the labyrinth in which I’m lost.'

  'Good—'tis a pious as well as a prudent resolve,' said Dangerfield, with a quiet sneer. 'And now, Sir, give me leave to say a word. Your information that Charles Archer is living, is not worth the breath of the madman that spoke it, as I’ll presently show you. By an odd chance, Sir, I required this file of newspapers, last week, to help me in ascertaining the date of Sir Harry Wyatt’s marriage. Well, only last night, what should I hit on but this. Will you please to read?'

  He had turned over the pages rapidly, and then he stopped at this little piece of news packed up in a small paragraph at the bottom of a column, and, pointing his finger to it, he slid the volume of newspapers over to Mervyn, who read—

  'Died on the 4th of August, of a lingering disease, at his lodgings in Florence, whither he had gone for the improvement of his health, Charles Archer, Esq., a gentleman who some three years since gave an exceeding clear evidence against Lord Dunoran, for the murder of Mr. Beauclerc, and was well known at Newmarket. His funeral, which was private, was attended by several English gentlemen, who were then at Florence.'

  Mervyn, deadly pale, with gleaming eyes, and hand laid along his forehead, as if to screen off an insupportable light and concentrate his gaze upon the words, read and re–read these sentences with an agony of scrutiny such as no critic ever yet directed upon a disputed passage in his favourite classic. But there was no possibility of fastening any consolatory interpretation upon the paragraph. It was all too plain and outspoken.

  ''Tis possible this may be true—thus much. A Charles Archer is dead, and yet another Charles Archer, the object of my search, still living,' said Mervyn.

  'Hey! that didn’t strike me,' said Dangerfield, as much amused as was consistent with moderately good breeding. 'But I can quite account, Mr. Mervyn,' he continued, with a sudden change of tone and manner, to something almost of kindness, 'for your readiness to entertain any theory not quite destructive of hopes, which, notwithstanding, I fear, rest simply on the visions of that poor hypochondriac, Irons. But, for all that, 'tis just possible that something may strike either you or me in the matter not quite so romantic—hey? But still something.—You’ve not told me how the plague Charles Archer could possibly have served you. But on that point, perhaps, we can talk another time. I simply desire to say, that any experience or ability I may possess are heartily at your service whenever you please to task them, as my good wishes are already.'

  So, stunned, and like a man walking in a dream—all his hopes shivered about his feet—Mervyn walked through the door of the little parlour in the Brass Castle, and Dangerfield, accompanying him to the little gate which gave admission from the high–road to that tenement, dismissed him there, with a bow and a pleasant smile; and, standing, for a while, wiry and erect, with his hands in his pockets, he followed him, as he paced dejectedly away, with the same peculiar smile.

  When he was out of sight, Dangerfield returned to his parlour, smiling all the way, and stood on the hearthrug, with his back to the fire. When he was alone, a shadow came over his face, and he looked down on the fringe with a thoughtful scowl—his hands behind his back—and began adjusting and smoothing it with the toe of his shoe.

  'Sot, fool, and poltroon—triple qualification for mischief—I don’t know why he still lives. Irons—a new vista opens, and this d——d young man!' All this was not, as we sometimes read, 'mentally ejaculated,' but quite literally muttered, as I believe every one at times mutters to himself. 'Charles Archer living—Charles Archer dead—or, as I sometimes think, neither
one nor t’other quite—half man, half corpse—a vampire—there is no rest for thee: no sabbath in the days of thy week. Blood, blood—blood—'tis tiresome. Why should I be a slave to these d——d secrets. I don’t think 'tis my judgment, so much as the devil, holds me here. Irons has more brains than I—instinct—calculation—which is oftener right? Miss Gertrude Chattesworth, a mere whim, I think understood her game too. I’ll deal with that to–morrow. I’ll send Daxon the account, vouchers, and cheque for Lord Castlemallard—tell Smith to sell my horses, and, by the next packet—hey?' and he kissed his hand, with an odd smirk, like a gentleman making his adieux, 'and so leave those who court the acquaintance of Charles Archer, to find him out, and catch their Tartar how they may.'

  CHAPTER LXXVI.

  RELATING HOW THE CASTLE WAS TAKEN, AND HOW MISTRESS MOGGY TOOK HEART OF GRACE.

  That evening there came to the door of the Mills, a damsel, with a wide basket on her arm, the covering of which being removed, a goodly show of laces, caps, fans, wash–balls, buckles, and other attractions, came out like a parterre of flowers, with such a glow as dazzled the eyes of Moggy, at the study window.

  'Would you plaze to want any, my lady?' enquired the pedlar.

  Moggy thought they were, perhaps, a little bit too fine for her purse, but she could not forbear longing and looking, and asking the prices of this bit of finery and that, at the window; and she called Betty, and the two maids conned over the whole contents of the basket.

  At last she made an offer for an irresistible stay–hook of pinchbeck, set with half–a–dozen resplendent jewels of cut glass, and after considerable chaffering, and a keen encounter of their wits, they came at last to terms, and Moggy ran out to the kitchen for her money, which lay in a brass snuff–box, in a pewter goblet, on the dresser.

  As she was counting her coin, and putting back what she did not want, the latch of the kitchen door was lifted from without, and the door itself pushed and shaken. Though the last red gleam of a stormy sunset was glittering among the ivy leaves round the kitchen window, the terrors of last night’s apparition were revived in a moment, and, with a blanched face, she gazed on the door, expecting, breathlessly, what would come.

  The door was bolted and locked on the inside, in accordance with Doctor Toole’s solemn injunction; and there was no attempt to use violence. But a brisk knocking began thereat and Moggy, encouraged by hearing the voices of Betty and the vender of splendours at the little parlour window, and also by the amber sunlight on the rustling ivy leaves, and the loud evening gossip of the sparrows, took heart of grace, and demanded shrilly—

  'Who’s there?'

  A whining beggar’s voice asked admission.

  'But you can’t come in, for the house is shut up for the night, replied the cook.

  ''Tis a quare hour you lock your doors at,' said the besieger.

  'Mighty quare, but so it is,' she answered.

  'But 'tis a message for the misthress I have,' answered the applicant.

  'Who from?' demanded the porteress.

  ''Tis a present o' some wine, acushla.'

  'Who from?' repeated she, growing more uneasy.

  'Auch! woman, are you going to take it in, or no?'

  'Come in the morning, my good man,' said she, 'for sorrow a foot you’ll put inside the house to–night.'

  'An' that’s what I’m to tell them that sent me.'

  'Neither more nor less,' replied she.

  And so she heard a heavy foot clank along the pavement, and she tried to catch a glimpse of the returning figure, but she could not, though she laid her cheek against the window–pane. However, she heard him whistling as he went, which gave her a better opinion of him, and she thought she heard the road gate shut after him.

  So feeling relieved, and with a great sigh, she counted her money over; and answering Betty’s shrill summons to the study, as the woman was in haste, with a 'Coming, coming this minute,' she replaced her treasure, and got swiftly into poor Charles Nutter’s little chamber. There was his pipe over the chimney, and his green, and gold–laced Sunday waistcoat folded on the little walnut table by the fire, and his small folio, 'Maison Rustique, the Country Farme,' with his old green worsted purse set for a marker in it where he had left off reading the night before all their troubles began; and his silk dressing–gown was hanging by the window–frame, and his velvet morning–cap on the same peg—the dust had settled on them now. And after her fright in the kitchen, all these mementoes smote her with a grim sort of reproach and menace, and she wished the window barred, and the door of the ominous little chamber locked for the night.

  ''Tis growing late,' said the dealer from without, 'and I daren’t be on the road after dark. Gi' me my money, good girl; and here, take your stay–hook.'

  And so saying, she looked a little puzzled up and down, as not well knowing how they were to make their exchange.

  'Here,' says Moggy, 'give it in here.' And removing the fastening, she shoved the window up a little bit. 'Hould it, Betty; hould it up,' said she. And in came the woman’s hard, brown hand, palm open, for her money, and the other containing the jewel, after which the vain soul of Moggy lusted.

  'That’ll do,' said she; and crying shrilly, 'Give us a lift, sweetheart,' in a twinkling she shoved the window up, at the same time kneeling, with a spring, upon the sill, and getting her long leg into the room, with her shoulder under the window–sash, her foot firmly planted on the floor, and her face and head in the apartment. Almost at the same instant she was followed by an ill–looking fellow, buttoned up in a surtout, whose stature seemed enormous, and at sight of whom the two women shrieked as if soul and body were parting.

  The lady was now quite in the room, and standing upright showed the tall shape and stern lineaments of Mary Matchwell. And as she stood she laughed a sort of shuddering laugh, like a person who had just had a plunge in cold water.

  'Stop that noise,' said she, recognising Betty, who saw her with unspeakable terror. 'I’m the lady that came here, you know, some months ago, with Mrs. Macnamara; and I’m Mrs. Nutter, which the woman up stairs is not. I’m Mrs. Nutter, and you’re my servants, do ye mind? and I’ll act a fair mistress by you, if you do me honest service. Open the hall–door,' she said to the man, who was by this time also in the room. And forth he went to do her bidding, and a gentleman, who turned out to be that respectable pillar of the law whom Mr. Gamble in the morning had referred to as 'Dirty Davy,' entered. He was followed by Mrs. Mary Matchwell’s maid, a giggling, cat–like gipsy, with a lot of gaudy finery about her, and a withered, devilment leering in her face; and a hackney–coach drove up to the door, which had conveyed the party from town; and the driver railing in loud tones, after the manner of his kind in old times, at all things, reeking of whiskey and stale tobacco, and cursing freely, pitched in several trunks, one after the other; and, in fact, it became perfectly clear that M. M. was taking possession. And Betty and Moggy, at their wits' end between terror and bewilderment, were altogether powerless to resist, and could only whimper a protest against the monstrous invasion, while poor little Sally Nutter up stairs, roused by the wild chorus of strange voices from the lethargy of her grief, and even spurred into active alarm, locked her door, and then hammered with a chair upon the floor, under a maniacal hallucination that she was calling I know not what or whom to the rescue.

  Then Dirty Davy read aloud, with due emphasis, to the maids, copies, as he stated, of the affidavits sworn to that day by Mistress Mary Matchwell, or as he called her, Mrs. Nutter, relict of the late Charles Nutter, gentleman, of the Mills, in the parish of Chapelizod, barony of Castleknock, and county of Dublin, deposing to her marriage with the said Charles Nutter having been celebrated in the Church of St. Clement Danes, in London, on the 7th of April, 1750. And then came a copy of the marriage certificate, and then a statement how, believing that deceased had left no 'will' making any disposition of his property, or naming an executor, she applied to the Court of Prerogative for letters of administration to t
he deceased, which letters would be granted in a few days; and in the meantime the bereaved lady would remain in possession of the house and chattels of her late husband.

  All this, of course, was so much 'Hebrew–Greek,' as honest Father Roach was wont to phrase it, to the scared women. But M. M.—νυκτί εοικως—fixing them both with her cold and terrible gaze, said quite intelligibly—

  'What’s your name?'

  'Moggy Sullivan, if you please, Ma’am.'

  'And what’s yours?'

  'Lizabet—Betty they call me—Madam; Lizabet Burke, if you please, Madam.'

  'Well, then, Moggy Sullivan and Elizabeth Burke, harkee both, while I tell you a thing. I’m mistress here by law, as you’ve just heard, and you’re my servants; and if you so much as wind the jack or move a tea–cup, except as I tell you, I’ll find a way to punish you; and if I miss to the value of a pin’s head, I’ll indict you for a felony, and have you whipped and burnt in the hand—you know what that means. And now, where’s Mistress Sarah Harty? for she must pack and away.'

  'Oh! Ma’am, jewel, the poor misthress.'

  'I’m the mistress, slut.'

  'Ma’am, dear, she’s very bad.'

  'Where is she?'

  'In her room, Ma’am,' answered Betty, with blubbered cheeks.

  'Where are you going, minx?' cried M. M., with a terrible voice and look, and striding toward the door, from which Moggy was about to escape.

  Now, Moggy was a sort of heroine, not in the vain matter of beauty, for she had high cheek bones, a snub nose, and her figure had no more waist, or other feminine undulations, than the clock in the hall; but like that useful piece of furniture, presented an oblong parallelogram, unassisted by art; for, except on gala days, these homely maidens never sported hoops. But she was, nevertheless, a heroine of the Amazonian species. She tripped up Pat Morgan, and laid that athlete suddenly on his back, upon the grass plot before the hall door, to his eternal disgrace, when he 'offered' to kiss her, while the fiddler and tambourine–man were playing. She used to wring big boys by the ears; overawe fishwives with her voluble invective; put dangerous dogs to rout with sticks and stones, and evince, in all emergencies, an adventurous spirit and an alacrity for battle.