ORNAMENTAL CAPITAL 'W'
ell, I did as he bid me, and set the glass of rum before him, and in place of drinking it, he follows me out. "I told you," says he, "I'd find a way, and I'm going to give you fifty guineas apiece. Stand you at the stair-head," says he to Glascock, "and listen; and if you hear anyone coming, step into Mr. Beauclerc's room with his boots, do you see, for I'm going to rob him." I thought I'd a fainted, and Glascock, that was a tougher lad than me, was staggered; but Mr. Archer had a way of taking you by surprise, and getting you into a business before you knew where you were going. "I see, Sir," says Glascock. "And come you in, and I'll do it," says Mr. Archer, and in we went, and Mr. Beauclerc was fast asleep.
'I don't like talking about it,' said Irons, suddenly and savagely, and he got up and walked, with a sort of a shrug of the shoulders, to and fro half-a-dozen times, like a man who has a chill, and tries to make his blood circulate.
Mervyn commanded himself, for he knew the man would return to his tale, and probably all the sooner for being left to work off his transient horror how he might.
'Well, he did rob him, and I often thought how cunningly, for he took no more than about half his gold, well knowing, I'm now sure, neither he nor my lord, your father, kept any count; and there was a bundle of notes in his pocket-book, which Mr. Archer was thinning swiftly, when all of a sudden, like a ghost rising, up sits Mr. Beauclerc, an unlucky rising it was for him, and taking him by the collar—he was a powerful strong man—"You've robbed me, Archer," says he. I was behind Mr. Archer, and I could not see what happened, but Mr. Beauclerc made a sort of a start and a kick out with his foot, and seemed taken with a tremble all over, for while you count three, and he fell back in the bed with his eyes open, and Mr. Archer drew a thin long dagger out of the dead man's breast, for dead he was.
"What are you afraid of, you —— fool?" says he, shaking me up; "I know what I'm about; I'll carry you through; your life's in my hands, mine in yours, only be cool." He was that himself, if ever man was, and quick as light he closed the dead man's eyes, saying, "in for a penny in for a pound," and he threw a bit of the coverlet over his breast, and his mouth and chin, just as a man might draw it rolling round in the bed, for I suppose he thought it best to hide the mouth that was open, and told its tale too plainly, and out he was on the lobby the nextinstant. "Don't tell Glascock what's happened, 'twill make him look queer; let him put in the boots, and if he's asked, say Mr. Beauclerc made a turn in the bed, and a grumbling, like a man turning over in his sleep, while he was doing so, d'ye see, and divide this, 'twill settle your little trouble, you know." 'Twas a little paper roll of a hundred guineas. An' that's the way Mr. Beauclerc came by his death.'
This to Mervyn was the sort of shock that might have killed an older man. The dreadful calamity that had stigmatised and beggared his family—the horror and shame of which he well remembered, when first revealed to him, had held him trembling and tongue-tied for more than an hour before tears came to his relief, and which had ever since blackened his sky, with a monotony of storm and thunder, was in a moment shown to be a chimera. No wonder that he was for a while silent, stunned, and bewildered. At last he was able—pale and cold—to lift up his clasped hands, his eyes, and his heart, in awful gratitude, to the Author of Mercy, the Revealer of Secrets, the Lord of Life and Truth.
'And where is this Charles Archer—is he dead or living?' urged Mervyn with an awful adjuration.
'Ay, where to catch him, and how—Dead? Well, he's dead to some, you see, and living to others; and living or dead, I'll put you on his track some fine day, if you're true to me; but not yet awhile, and if you turn a stag, or name my name to living soul (and here Mr. Irons swore an oath such as I hope parish clerks don't often swear, and which would have opened good Dr. Walsingham's eyes with wonder and horror), you'll never hear word more from me, and I think, Sir, you'll lose your life beside.'
'Your threats of violence are lost on me, I can take care of myself,' said Mervyn, haughtily.
The clerk smiled a strange sort of smile.
'But I've already pledged my sacred honour not to mention your name or betray your secret.'
'Well, just have patience, and maybe I'll not keep you long; but 'tis no trifle for a man to make up his mind to what's beforeme, maybe.'
After a pause, Irons resumed—
'Well, Sir, you see, Mr. Archer sat down by the fire and smoked a pipe, and was as easy and pleased, you'd say, to look on him, as a man need be; and he called for cards when my lord wanted them, and whatever else he needed, making himself busy and bustling—as I afterwards thought to make them both remember well that he was in the room with them.
'In and out of the chamber I went with one thing or another, and every time I passed Mr. Beauclerc's room I grew more and more frightened; and, truth to say, I was a scared man, and Idon't know how I got through my business; every minute expecting to hear the outcry from the dead man's room.
'Mr. Edwards had an appointment, he said—nothing good, you may be sure—they were a rake-helly set—saving your presence. Neither he nor my lord had lost, I believe, anything to signify to one another; and my lord, your father, made no difficulty about his going away, but began to call again for Mr. Beauclerc, and to curse him—as a half-drunk man will, making a power of noise; and, "Where's he gone to?" and, "Where's his room?" and, "—— him, he shall play, or fight me." You see, Sir, he had lost right and left that time, and was an angry man, and the liquor made him half mad; and I don't think he knew rightly what he was doing. And out on the lobby with him swearing he should give him his revenge, or he'd know the reason why.
"Where's Mr. Beauclerc's room?" he shouts to me, as if he'd strike me; I did not care a rush about that, but I was afraid to say—it stuck in my throat like—and I stared at Mr. Archer; and he calls to the chamber-maid, that was going up stairs, "Where does Mr. Beauclerc lie?" and she, knowing him, says at once, "The Flower de luce," and pointed to the room; and with that, my lord staggered up to the door, with his drawn sword in hand, bawling on him to come out, and fumbling with the pin; he could not open it; so he knocked it open with a kick, and in with him, and Mr. Archer at his elbow, soothing him like; and I, I don't know how—behind him.
'By this time he had worked himself into a mad passion, and says he, "Curse your foxing—if you won't play like a man, you may die like a dog." I think 'twas them words ruined him; the chamber-maid heard them outside; and he struck Mr. Beauclerc half-a-dozen blows with the side of the small-sword across the body, here and there, quite unsteady; and "Hold, my lord, you've hurt him," cries Mr. Archer, as loud as he could cry. "Put up your sword for Heaven's sake," and he makes a sort of scuffle with my lord, in a friendly way, to disarm him, and push him away, and "Throw down the coverlet and see where he's wounded," says he to me; and so I did, and there was a great pool of blood—weknew all about that—and my lord looked shocked when he seen it. "I did not mean that," says my lord; "but," says he, with a sulky curse, "he's well served."
'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—howthat 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 whereisthat wretch, Glascock, and that double murderer Archer; where ishe?'
'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.'
ORNAMENTAL CAPITAL 'T'
was 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 anythingthatbad 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.Idid 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'rehere, and hethere."
'"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 youthe 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 Archerhasbeen 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 faceso 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.
ORNAMENTAL CAPITAL 'I'
n 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. Aloan, 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'shere, 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.
'Thisis 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 makethatout.'
'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.
ORNAMENTAL CAPITAL 'H'
ere's a conspiracy with a vengeance!' muttered Toole, 'if a body could only make head or tail of it. Widow!—Eh!—We'll see: why, she's like no woman everIsaw. Mrs. Nutter, forsooth!' and he could not forbear laughing at the conceit. 'Poor Charles! 'tis ridiculous—though upon my life, I don't like it. It's just possible it may be all as true as gospel—they're the most devilish looking pair I've seen out of the dock—curse them—for many a day. I would not wonder if they were robbers. Thewidowlooks consumedly like a man in petticoats—hey!—devilish like. I think I'll send Moran and Brien up to sleep to-night in the house. But, hang it! if they were, they would not come out in the daytime to give an alarm. Hollo! Moggy, throw me out one of them papers till I see what it's about.'
So he conned over the notice which provoked him, for he could not half understand it, and he was very curious.
'Well, keep it safe, Moggy,' said he. 'H'm—itdoeslook like law business, after all, and I believe itis. No—they're nothousebreakers, but robbers of another stamp—and a worse, I'll take my davy.'
'See,' said he, as a thought struck him, 'throw me down both of them papers again—there's a good girl. They ought to be looked after, I dare say, and I'll see the poor master's attorney to-day, d'ye mind? and we'll put our heads together—and, that's right—relictindeed!'
And, with a solemn injunction to keep doors locked and windows fast, and a nod and a wave of his hand to Mistress Moggy, and muttering half a sentence or an oath to himself, and wearying his imagination in search of a clue to this new perplexity, he buttoned his pocket over the legal documents, and strutted down to the village, where his nag awaited him saddled, and Jimmey walking him up and down before the doctor's hall-door.
Toole was bound upon a melancholy mission that morning. But though properly a minister of life, a doctor is also conversant with death, and inured to the sight of familiar faces in that remarkable disguise. So he spurred away with more coolness, though not less regret than another man, to throw what light he could upon the subject of the inquest which was to sit upon the body of poor Charles Nutter.
The little doctor, on his way to Ringsend, without the necessity of diverging to the right or left, drew bridle at the door of Mr. Luke Gamble, on the Blind Quay, attorney to the late Charles Nutter, and jumping to the ground, delivered a rattling summons thereupon.
It was a dusty, dreary, wainscoted old house—indeed, two old houses intermarried—with doors broken through the partition walls—the floors not all of a level—joined by steps up and down—and having three great staircases, that made it confusing. Through the windows it was not easy to see, such a fantastic mapping of thick dust and dirt coated the glass.
Luke Gamble, like the house, had seen better days. It was not his fault; but an absconding partner had well nigh been his ruin: and, though he paid their liabilities, it was with a strain, and left him a poor man, shattered his connexion, and made the house too large by a great deal for his business.
Doctor Toole came into the clerk's room, and was ushered by one of these gentlemen through an empty chamber into the attorney's sanctum. Up two steps stumbled the physician, cursing the house for a place where a gentleman was so much more likely to break his neck than his fast, and found old Gamble in his velvet cap and dressing-gown, in conference with a hard-faced, pale, and pock-marked elderly man, squinting unpleasantly under a black wig, who was narrating something slowly, and with effort, like a man whose memory is labouring to give up its dead, while the attorney, with his spectacles on his nose, was making notes. The speaker ceased abruptly, and turned his pallid visage and jealous, oblique eyes on the intruder.
Luke Gamble looked embarrassed, and shot one devilish angry glance at his clerk, and then made Doctor Toole very welcome.
When Toole had ended his narrative, and the attorney read the notices through, Mr. Gamble's countenance brightened, and darkened and brightened again, and with a very significant look, he said to the pale, unpleasant face, pitted with small-pox—
'M. M.,' and nodded.
His companion extended his hand toward the papers.
'Never mind,' said the attorney; 'there's that here will fix M. M. in a mighty tight vice.'
'And who's M. M., pray?' enquired Toole.
'When were these notices served, doctor?' asked Mr. Gamble.
'Not an hour ago; but, I say, who the plague's M. M.?' answered Toole.
'M. M.,' repeated the attorney, smiling grimly on the backs of the notices which lay on the table; 'why there's many queer things to be heard of M. M.; and the town, and the country, too, for that matter, is like to know a good deal more of her before long; and who served them—a process-server, or who?'
'Why, a fat, broad, bull-necked rascal, with a double chin, and a great round face, the colour of a bad suet-dumplin', and a black patch over his eye,' answered Toole.
'Very like—was he alone?' said Gamble.
'No—a long, sly she-devil in black, that looked as if she'd cut your windpipe, like a cat in the dark, as pale as paper, and mighty large, black, hollow eyes.'
'Ay—that's it,' said Gamble, who, during this dialogue, had thrown his morning-gown over the back of the chair, and got on his coat, and opened a little press in the wall, from which he took his wig, and so completed his toilet.
'That's it?' repeated Toole: 'what's it?—what'swhat?'
'Why, 'tis David O'Regan—Dirty Davy, as we call him. I never knew him yet in an honest case; and the woman's M. M.'
'Hey! to be sure—a woman—I know—I remember; and he was on the point of breaking out with poor Mrs. Macnamara's secret, but recovered in time. 'That's the she fortune-teller, the witch, M. M., Mary Matchwell; 'twas one of her printed cards, you know, was found lying in Sturk's blood. Dr. Sturk, you remember, that they issued a warrant for, against our poor friend, you know.'
'Ay, ay—poor Charles—poor Nutter. Are you going to the inquest?' said Gamble; and, on a sudden, stopped short, with a look of great fear, and a little beckon of his hand forward, as if he had seen something.
There was that in Gamble's change of countenance which startled Toole, who, seeing that his glance was directed through an open door at the other end of the room, skipped from his chairand peeped through it. There was nothing, however, visible but a tenebrose and empty passage.
'What did you see—eh? What frightens you?' said Toole. 'One would think you saw Nutter—like—like.'
Gamble looked horribly perturbed at these words.
'Shut it,' said he, nearing the door, on which Toole's hand rested. Toole took another peep, and did so.
'Why, there's nothing there—like—like the women down at the Mills there,' continued the doctor.
'What about the women?' enquired Gamble, not seeming to know very well what he was saying, agitated still—perhaps, intending to keep Toole talking.
'Why, the women—the maids, you know—poor Nutter's servants, down at the Mills. They swear he walks the house, and they'll have it they saw him last night.'
'Pish! Sir—'tis all conceit and vapours—women's fancies—a plague o' them all. And where's poor Mrs. Nutter?' said Gamble, clapping on his cocked-hat, and taking his cane, and stuffing two or three bundles of law papers into his coat pockets.
'At home—at the Mills. She slept at the village and so missed the ghost. The Macnamaras have been mighty kind. But when the news was told her this morning, poor thing, she would not stay, and went home; and there she is, poor little soul, breaking her heart.'
Mr. Gamble was not ceremonious; so he just threw a cursory and anxious glance round the room, clapped his hands on his coat pockets, making a bunch of keys ring somewhere deep in their caverns. And all being right—
'Come along, gentlemen,' says he, 'I'm going to lock the door;' and without looking behind him, he bolted forth abstractedly into his dusty ante-room.
'Get your cloak about you, Sir—remember yourcough, you know—the air of the streets is sharp,' said he with a sly wink, to his ugly client, who hastily took the hint.
'Is thatcoachat the door?' bawled Gamble to his clerks in the next room, while he locked the door of his own snuggery behind him; and being satisfied it was so, he conducted the party out by a side door, avoiding the clerks' room, and so down stairs.
'Drive to the courts,' said the attorney to the coachman; and that was all Toole learned about it that day. So he mounted his nag, and resumed his journey to Ringsend at a brisk trot.
I suppose, when he turned the key in his door, and dropped it into his breeches' pocket, the gentleman attorney assumed that he had made everything perfectly safe in his private chamber, though Toole thought he had not looked quite the same again after that sudden change of countenance he had remarked.
Now, it was a darksome day, and the windows of Mr. Gamble's room were so obscured with cobwebs, dust, and dirt,that even on a sunny day they boasted no more than a dim religious light. But on this day a cheerful man would have asked for a pair of candles, to dissipate the twilight and sustain his spirits.
He had not been gone, and the room empty ten minutes, when the door through which he had seemed to look on that unknown something that dismayed him, opened softly—at first a little—then a little more—then came a knock at it—then it opened more, and the dark shape of Charles Nutter, with rigid features and white eye-balls, glided stealthily and crouching into the chamber, and halted at the table, and seemed to read the endorsements of the notices that lay there.