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THE HOUSE BY THE CHURCHYARD
‘”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.’
471
CHAPTER LXXII.
IN WHICH THE APPARITION
OF MR. IRONS IS SWALLOWED
IN DARK NESS
‘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 fi ve 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,
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THE HOUSE BY THE CHURCHYARD
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 shuffl ed 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
473
JOSEPH SHERIDAN LE FANU
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, fl at 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,
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THE HOUSE BY THE CHURCHYARD
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.’
475
JOSEPH SHERIDAN LE FANU
‘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. Dangerfi eld knows something of him,’ cried Mervyn.
Irons made no answer, but sat quite silent for some seconds,
by the fi re, 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 . Dangerfi eld 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
476
THE HOUSE BY THE CHURCHYARD
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 fi gure by the fi re, and denouncing him as, by his own confession, an accessory to the murder of
Beauclerc. The thought that he would slip through his fi ngers,
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.
477
CHAPTER LXXIII.
CONCERNING A CERTAIN GENTLEMAN,
WITH A BLACK PATCH OVER H IS
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 fi sh with a virulent lady who had a sievefull 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.
478
THE HOUSE BY THE CHURCHYARD
As she beheld her, poor Mrs. Mack’s heart fl uttered 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 felonious ly, and in a way that made poor soft Mrs. Mack
quiver.
‘’Tis but twenty pounds, woman,’ she said, sternly. ‘Hub-bubbub-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.
479
JOSEPH SHERIDAN LE FANU
‘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
fi ve 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 affl iction 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.’
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