The House by the Churchyard

by J. Sheridan le Fanu

  Dr. Walsingham, with the aid of his guide, in the meantime, had reached the little garden in front of the old house, and the gay tinkle of a harpsichord and the notes of a sweet contralto suddenly ceased as he did so; and he said—smiling in the dark, in a pleasant soliloquy, for he did not mind John Tracy,—old John was not in the way—'She always hears my step—always—little Lily, no matter how she’s employed,' and the hall–door opened, and a voice that was gentle, and yet somehow very spirited and sweet, cried a loving and playful welcome to the old man.

  CHAPTER III.

  MR. MERVYN IN HIS INN.

  The morning was fine—the sun shone out with a yellow splendour—all nature was refreshed—a pleasant smell rose up from tree, and flower, and earth. The now dry pavement and all the row of village windows were glittering merrily—the sparrows twittered their lively morning gossip among the thick ivy of the old church tower—here and there the village cock challenged his neighbour with high and vaunting crow, and the bugle notes soared sweetly into the air from the artillery ground beside the river.

  Moore, the barber, was already busy making his morning circuit, servant men and maids were dropping in and out at the baker’s, and old Poll Delany, in her weather–stained red hood, and neat little Kitty Lane, with her bright young careful face and white basket, were calling at the doors of their customers with new laid eggs. Through half–opened hall doors you might see the powdered servant, or the sprightly maid in her mob–cap in hot haste steaming away with the red japanned 'tea kitchen' into the parlour. The town of Chapelizod, in short, was just sitting down to its breakfast.

  Mervyn, in the meantime, had had his solitary meal in the famous back parlour of the Phoenix, where the newspapers lay, and all comers were welcome. He was by no means a bad hero to look at, if such a thing were needed. His face was pale, melancholy, statuesque—and his large enthusiastic eyes, suggested a story and a secret—perhaps a horror. Most men, had they known all, would have wondered with good Doctor Walsingham, why, of all places in the world, he should have chosen the little town where he now stood for even a temporary residence. It was not a perversity, but rather a fascination. His whole life had been a flight and a pursuit—a vain endeavour to escape from the evil spirit that pursued him—and a chase of a chimera.

  He was standing at the window, not indeed enjoying, as another man might, the quiet verdure of the scene, and the fragrant air, and all the mellowed sounds of village life, but lost in a sad and dreadful reverie, when in bounced little red–faced bustling Dr. Toole—the joke and the chuckle with which he had just requited the fat old barmaid still ringing in the passage—'Stay there, sweetheart,' addressed to a dog squeezing by him, and which screeched out as he kicked it neatly round the door–post.

  'Hey, your most obedient, Sir,' cried the doctor, with a short but grand bow, affecting surprise, though his chief object in visiting the back parlour at that moment was precisely to make a personal inspection of the stranger. 'Pray, don’t mind me, Sir,—your—ho! Breakfast ended, eh? Coffee not so bad, Sir; rather good coffee, I hold it, at the Phoenix. Cream very choice, Sir?—I don’t tell 'em so though (a wink); it might not improve it, you know. I hope they gave you—eh?—eh? (he peeped into the cream–ewer, which he turned towards the light, with a whisk). And no disputing the eggs—forty–eight hens in the poultry yard, and ninety ducks in Tresham’s little garden, next door to Sturk’s. They make a precious noise, I can tell you, when it showers. Sturk threatens to shoot 'em. He’s the artillery surgeon here; and Tom Larkin said, last night, it’s because they only dabble and quack—and two of a trade, you know—ha! ha! ha! And what a night we had—dark as Erebus—pouring like pumps, by Jove. I’ll remember it, I warrant you. Out on business—a medical man, you know, can’t always choose—and near meeting a bad accident too. Anything in the paper, eh? ho! I see, Sir, haven’t read it. Well, and what do you think—a queer night for the purpose, eh? you’ll say—we had a funeral in the town last night, Sir—some one from Dublin. It was Tressel’s men came out. The turnpike rogue—just round the corner there—one of the talkingest gossips in the town—and a confounded prying, tattling place it is, I can tell you—knows the driver; and Bob Martin, the sexton, you know—tells me there were two parsons, no less—hey! Cauliflowers in season, by Jove. Old Dr. Walsingham, our rector, a pious man, Sir, and does a world of good—that is to say, relieves half the blackguards in the parish—ha! ha! when we’re on the point of getting rid of them—but means well, only he’s a little bit lazy, and queer, you know; and that rancid, raw–boned parson, Gillespie—how the plague did they pick him up?—one of the mutes told Bob 'twas he. He’s from Donegal; I know all about him; the sourest dog I ever broke bread with—and mason, if you please, by Jove—a prince pelican! He supped at the Grand Lodge after labour, one night—you’re not a mason, I see; tipt you the sign—and his face was so pinched, and so yellow, by Jupiter, I was near squeezing it into the punch–bowl for a lemon—ha! ha! hey?'

  Mervyn’s large eyes expressed a well–bred surprise. Dr. Toole paused for nearly a minute, as if expecting something in return; but it did not come.

  So the doctor started afresh, never caring for Mervyn’s somewhat dangerous looks.

  'Mighty pretty prospects about here, Sir. The painters come out by dozens in the summer, with their books and pencils, and scratch away like so many Scotchmen. Ha! ha! ha! If you draw, Sir, there’s one prospect up the river, by the mills—upon my conscience—but you don’t draw?'

  No answer.

  'A little, Sir, maybe? Just for a maggot, I’ll wager—like my good lady, Mrs. Toole.' A nearer glance at his dress had satisfied Toole that he was too much of a maccaroni for an artist, and he was thinking of placing him upon the lord lieutenant’s staff. 'We’ve capital horses here, if you want to go on to Leixlip,' (where—this between ourselves and the reader—during the summer months His Excellency and Lady Townshend resided, and where, the old newspapers tell us, they 'kept a public day every Monday,' and he 'had a levée, as usual, every Thursday.') But this had no better success.

  'If you design to stay over the day, and care for shooting, we’ll have some ball practice on Palmerstown fair–green to–day. Seven baronies to shoot for ten and five guineas. One o’clock, hey?'

  At this moment entered Major O’Neill, of the Royal Irish Artillery, a small man, very neatly got up, and with a decidedly Milesian cast of countenance, who said little, but smiled agreeably—

  'Gentlemen, your most obedient. Ha, doctor; how goes it?—anything new—anything on the Freeman?'

  Toole had scanned that paper, and hummed out, as he rumpled it over,—'nothing—very—particular. Here’s Lady Moira’s ball: fancy dresses—all Irish; no masks; a numerous appearance of the nobility and gentry—upwards of five hundred persons. A good many of your corps there, major?'

  'Ay, Lord Blackwater, of course, and the general, and Devereux, and little Puddock, and——'

  'Sturk wasn’t,' with a grin, interrupted Toole, who bore that practitioner no good–will. 'A gentleman robbed, by two foot–pads, on Chapelizod–road, on Wednesday night, of his watch and money, together with his hat, wig and cane, and lies now in a dangerous state, having been much abused; one of them dressed in an old light–coloured coat, wore a wig. By Jupiter, major, if I was in General Chattesworth’s place, with two hundred strapping fellows at my orders, I’d get a commission from Government to clear that road. It’s too bad, Sir, we can’t go in and out of town, unless in a body, after night–fall, but at the risk of our lives. [The convivial doctor felt this public scandal acutely.] The bloody–minded miscreants, I’d catch every living soul of them, and burn them alive in tar–barrels. By Jove! here’s old Joe Napper, of Dirty–lane’s dead. Plenty of dry eyes after him. And stay, here’s another row.' And so he read on.

  In the meantime, stout, tightly–braced Captain Cluffe of the same corps, and little dark, hard–faced, and solemn Mr. Nutter, of the Mills, Lord Castlemallard’s agents, came in, and half a
dozen more, chiefly members of the club, which met by night in the front parlour on the left, opposite the bar, where they entertained themselves with agreeable conversation, cards, backgammon, draughts, and an occasional song by Dr. Toole, who was a florid tenor, and used to give them, 'While gentlefolks strut in silver and satins,' or 'A maiden of late had a merry design,' or some other such ditty, with a recitation by plump little stage–stricken Ensign Puddock, who, in 'thpite of hith lithp,' gave rather spirited imitations of some of the players—Mossop, Sheridan, Macklin, Barry, and the rest. So Mervyn, the stranger, by no means affecting this agreeable society, took his cane and cocked–hat, and went out—the dark and handsome apparition—followed by curious glances from two or three pairs of eyes, and a whispered commentary and criticism from Toole.

  So, taking a meditative ramble in 'His Majesty’s Park, the Phoenix;' and passing out at Castleknock gate, he walked up the river, between the wooded slopes, which make the valley of the Liffey so pleasant and picturesque, until he reached the ferry, which crossing, he at the other side found himself not very far from Palmerstown, through which village his return route to Chapelizod lay.

  CHAPTER IV.

  THE FAIR–GREEN OF PALMERSTOWN.

  There were half–a–dozen carriages, and a score of led horses outside the fair–green, a precious lot of ragamuffins, and a good resort to the public–house opposite; and the gate being open, the artillery band, rousing all the echoes round with harmonious and exhilarating thunder, within—an occasional crack of a 'Brown Bess,' with a puff of white smoke over the hedge, being heard, and the cheers of the spectators, and sometimes a jolly chorus of many–toned laughter, all mixed together, and carried on with a pleasant running hum of voices—Mervyn, the stranger, reckoning on being unobserved in the crowd, and weary of the very solitude he courted, turned to his right, and so found himself upon the renowned fair–green of Palmerstown.

  It was really a gay rural sight. The circular target stood, with its bright concentric rings, in conspicuous isolation, about a hundred yards away, against the green slope of the hill. The competitors in their best Sunday suits, some armed with muskets and some with fowling pieces—for they were not particular—and with bunches of ribbons fluttering in their three–cornered hats, and sprigs of gay flowers in their breasts, stood in the foreground, in an irregular cluster, while the spectators, in pleasant disorder, formed two broad, and many–coloured parterres, broken into little groups, and separated by a wide, clear sweep of green sward, running up from the marksmen to the target.

  In the luminous atmosphere the men of those days showed bright and gay. Such fine scarlet and gold waistcoats—such sky–blue and silver—such pea–green lutestrings—and pink silk linings—and flashing buckles—and courtly wigs—or becoming powder—went pleasantly with the brilliant costume of the stately dames and smiling lasses. There was a pretty sprinkling of uniforms, too—the whole picture in gentle motion, and the bugles and drums of the Royal Irish Artillery filling the air with inspiring music.

  All the neighbours were there—merry little Dr. Toole in his grandest wig and gold–headed cane, with three dogs at his heels,—he seldom appeared without this sort of train—sometimes three—sometimes five—sometimes as many as seven—and his hearty voice was heard bawling at them by name, as he sauntered through the town of a morning, and theirs occasionally in short screeches, responsive to the touch of his cane. Now it was, 'Fairy, you savage, let that pig alone!' a yell and a scuffle—'Juno, drop it, you slut'—or 'Cæsar, you blackguard, where are you going?'

  'Look at Sturk there, with his lordship,' said Toole, to the fair Magnolia, with a wink and a nod, and a sneering grin. 'Good natured dog that—ha! ha! You’ll find he’ll oust Nutter at last, and get the agency; that’s what he’s driving at—always undermining somebody.' Doctor Sturk and Lord Castlemallard were talking apart on the high ground, and the artillery surgeon was pointing with his cane at distant objects. 'I’ll lay you fifty he’s picking holes in Nutter’s management this moment.'

  I’m afraid there was some truth in the theory, and Toole—though he did not remember to mention it—had an instinctive notion that Sturk had an eye upon the civil practice of the neighbourhood, and was meditating a retirement from the army, and a serious invasion of his domain.

  Sturk and Toole, behind backs, did not spare one another. Toole called Sturk a 'horse doctor,' and 'the smuggler'—in reference to some affair about French brandy, never made quite clear to me, but in which, I believe, Sturk was really not to blame; and Sturk called him 'that drunken little apothecary'—for Toole had a boy who compounded, under the rose, his draughts, pills, and powders in the back parlour—and sometimes, 'that smutty little ballad singer,' or 'that whiskeyfied dog–fancier, Toole.' There was no actual quarrel, however; they met freely—told one another the news—their mutual disagreeabilities were administered guardedly—and, on the whole, they hated one another in a neighbourly way.

  Fat, short, radiant, General Chattesworth—in full, artillery uniform—was there, smiling, and making little speeches to the ladies, and bowing stiffly from his hips upward—his great cue playing all the time up and down his back, and sometimes so near the ground when he stood erect and threw back his head, that Toole, seeing Juno eyeing the appendage rather viciously, thought it prudent to cut her speculations short with a smart kick.

  His sister Rebecca—tall, erect, with grand lace, in a splendid stiff brocade, and with a fine fan—was certainly five–and–fifty, but still wonderfully fresh, and sometimes had quite a pretty little pink colour—perfectly genuine—in her cheeks; command sat in her eye and energy on her lip—but though it was imperious and restless, there was something provokingly likeable and even pleasant in her face. Her niece, Gertrude, the general’s daughter, was also tall, graceful—and, I am told, perfectly handsome.

  'Be the powers, she’s mighty handsome!' observed 'Lieutenant Fireworker' O’Flaherty, who, being a little stupid, did not remember that such a remark was not likely to pleasure the charming Magnolia Macnamara, to whom he had transferred the adoration of a passionate, but somewhat battered heart.

  'They must not see with my eyes that think so,' said Mag, with a disdainful toss of her head.

  'They say she’s not twenty, but I’ll wager a pipe of claret she’s something to the back of it,' said O’Flaherty, mending his hand.

  'Why, bless your innocence, she’ll never see five–and–twenty, and a bit to spare,' sneered Miss Mag, who might more truly have told that tale of herself. 'Who’s that pretty young man my Lord Castlemallard is introducing to her and old Chattesworth?' The commendation was a shot at poor O’Flaherty.

  'Hey—so, my Lord knows him!' says Toole, very much interested. 'Why that’s Mr. Mervyn, that’s stopping at the Phoenix. A. Mervyn,—I saw it on his dressing case. See how she smiles.'

  'Ay, she simpers like a firmity kettle,' said scornful Miss Mag.

  'They’re very grand to–day, the Chattesworths, with them two livery footmen behind them,' threw in O’Flaherty, accommodating his remarks to the spirit of his lady–love.

  'That young buck’s a man of consequence,' Toole rattled on; 'Miss does not smile on everybody.'

  'Ay, she looks as if butter would not melt in her mouth, but I warrant cheese won’t choke her,' Magnolia laughed out with angry eyes.

  Magnolia’s fat and highly painted parent—poor bragging, good–natured, cunning, foolish Mrs. Macnamara, the widow—joined, with a venemous wheeze in the laugh.

  Those who suppose that all this rancour was produced by mere feminine emulations and jealousy do these ladies of the ancient sept Macnamara foul wrong. Mrs. Mack, on the contrary, had a fat and genial soul of her own, and Magnolia was by no means a particularly ungenerous rival in the lists of love. But Aunt Rebecca was hoitytoity upon the Macnamaras, whom she would never consent to more than half–know, seeing them with difficulty, often failing to see them altogether—though Magnolia’s stature and activity did not always render that ea
sy. To–day, for instance, when the firing was brisk, and some of the ladies uttered pretty little timid squalls, Miss Magnolia not only stood fire like brick, but with her own fair hands cracked off a firelock, and was more complimented and applauded than all the marksmen beside, although she shot most dangerously wide, and was much nearer hitting old Arthur Slowe than that respectable gentleman, who waved his hat and smirked gallantly, was at all aware. Aunt Rebecca, notwithstanding all this, and although she looked straight at her from a distance of only ten steps, yet she could not see that large and highly–coloured heroine; and Magnolia was so incensed at her serene impertinence that when Gertrude afterwards smiled and courtesied twice, she only held her head the higher and flung a flashing defiance from her fine eyes right at that unoffending virgin.

  Everybody knew that Miss Rebecca Chattesworth ruled supreme at Belmont. With a docile old general and a niece so young, she had less resistance to encounter than, perhaps, her ardent soul would have relished. Fortunately for the general it was only now and then that Aunt Becky took a whim to command the Royal Irish Artillery. She had other hobbies just as odd, though not quite so scandalous. It had struck her active mind that such of the ancient women of Chapelizod as were destitute of letters—mendicants and the like—should learn to read. Twice a week her 'old women’s school,' under that energetic lady’s presidency, brought together its muster–roll of rheumatism, paralysis, dim eyes, bothered ears, and invincible stupidity. Over the fire–place in large black letters, was the legend, 'BETTER LATE THAN NEVER!' and out came the horn–books and spectacles, and to it they went with their A–B ab, etc., and plenty of wheezing and coughing. Aunt Becky kept good fires, and served out a mess of bread and broth, along with some pungent ethics, to each of her hopeful old girls. In winter she further encouraged them with a flannel petticoat apiece, and there was besides a monthly dole. So that although after a year there was, perhaps, on the whole, no progress in learning, the affair wore a tolerably encouraging aspect; for the academy had increased in numbers, and two old fellows, liking the notion of the broth and the 6d. a month—one a barber, Will Potts, ruined by a shake in his right hand, the other a drunken pensioner, Phil Doolan, with a wooden leg—petitioned to be enrolled, and were, accordingly, admitted. Then Aunt Becky visited the gaols, and had a knack of picking up the worst characters there, and had generally two or three discharged felons on her hands. Some people said she was a bit of a Voltarian, but unjustly; for though she now and then came out with a bouncing social paradox, she was a good bitter Church–woman. So she was liberal and troublesome—off–handed and dictatorial—not without good nature, but administering her benevolences somewhat tyrannically, and, for the most part, doing more or less of positive mischief in the process.