The wild bursts of supernatural fury and agony which swell and mingle in a hurricane, I dare say, led his imagination a strange aërial journey through the dark. Now it was the baying of hell hounds, and the long shriek of the spirit that flies before them. Anon it was the bellowing thunder of an ocean, and the myriad voices of shipwreck. And the old house quivering from base to cornice under the strain; and then there would come a pause, like a gasp, and the tempest once more rolled up, and the same mad hubbub shook and clamoured at the windows.
So he let his Pegasus spread his pinions on the blast, and mingled with the wild rout that peopled the darkness; or, in plainer words, he abandoned his fancy to the haunted associations of the hour, the storm, and the house, with a not unpleasant horror. In one of these momentary lulls of the wind, there came a sharp, distinct knocking on the window–pane. He remembered with a thrill the old story of the supernatural hand which had troubled that house, and began its pranks at this very window.
Ay, ay, 'twas the impatient rapping of a knuckle on the glass quite indisputably.
It is all very well weaving the sort of dream or poem with which Mervyn was half amusing and half awing himself, but the sensation is quite different when a questionable sound or sight comes uninvited to take the matter out of the province of our fancy and the control of our will. Mervyn found himself on his legs, and listening in a less comfortable sort of horror, with his gaze fixed in the direction of that small sharp knocking. But the storm was up again, and drowning every other sound in its fury.
If Mr. Mervyn had been sufficiently frightened, he would have forthwith made good his retreat to his bed–room, or, if he had not been frightened at all, he would have kept his seat, and allowed his fancies to return to their old channel. But, in fact, he took a light in his hand, and opened a bit of the window–shutter. The snow, however, was spread over the panes in a white, sliding curtain, that returned the light of his candle, and hid all without. 'Twas idle trying to peer through it, but as he did, the palm of a hand was suddenly applied to the glass on the outside, and began briskly to rub off the snow, as if to open a peep–hole for distinct inspection.
It was to be more this time than the apparition of a hand—a human face was immediately presented close to the glass—not that of Nutter either—no—it was the face of Irons—pale, with glittering eyes and blue chin, and wet hair quivering against the glass in the storm.
He nodded wildly to Mervyn, brushing away the snow, beckoning towards the back–door, as he supported himself on one knee on the window–stone, and, with his lips close to the glass, cried, 'let me in;' but, in the uproar of the storm, it was by his gestures, imperfectly as they were seen, rather than by his words, that Mervyn comprehended his meaning.
Down went Mr. Mervyn, without a moment’s hesitation, leaving the candle standing on the passage table, drew the bolts, opened the door, and in rushed Irons, in a furious gust, his cloak whirling about his head amidst a bitter eddying of snow, and a distant clapping of doors throughout the house.
The door secured again, Mr. Irons stood in his beflaked and dripping mantle, storm–tossed, dishevelled, and alone once again in the shelter of the Tiled House, to explain the motive of his visit.
'Irons! I could hardly believe it,' and Mervyn made a pause, and then, filled with the one idea, he vehemently demanded, 'In Heaven’s name, have you come to tell me all you know?'
'Well, maybe—no,' answered the clerk: 'I don’t know; I’ll tell you something. I’m going, you see, and I came here on my way; and I’ll tell you more than last time, but not all—not all yet.'
'Going? and where?—what are your plans?'
'Plans?—I’ve no plans. Where am I going!—nowhere—anywhere. I’m going away, that’s all.'
'You’re leaving this place—eh, to return no more?'
'I’m leaving it to–night; I’ve the doctor’s leave, Parson Walsingham. What d’ye look at, Sir? d’ye think it’s what I murdered any one? not but if I stayed here I might though,' and Mr. Irons laughed a frightened, half maniacal sort of laugh. 'I’m going for a bit, a fortnight, or so, maybe, till things get quiet—(lead us not into temptation!)—to Mullingar, or anywhere; only I won’t stay longer at hell’s door, within stretch of that devil’s long arm.'
'Come to the parlour,' said Mervyn, perceiving that Irons was chilled and shivering.
There, with the door and window–shutters closed, a pair of candles on the table, and a couple of faggots of that pleasant bog–wood, which blazes so readily and fragrantly on the hearth, Irons shook off his cloak, and stood, lank and grim, and, as it seemed to Mervyn, horribly scared, but well in view, and trying, sullenly, to collect his thoughts.
'I’m going away, I tell you, for a little while; but I’m come to see you, Sir, to think what I may tell you now, and above all, to warn you again' saying to any living soul one word of what passed between us when I last was here; you’ve kept your word honourable as yet; if you break it I’ll not return,' and he clenched it with an oath, 'I daren’t return.'
'I’ll tell you the way it happened,' he resumed. ''Tis a good while now, ay twenty–two years; your noble father’s dead these twenty–two years and upwards. 'Twas a bad murdher, Sir: they wor both bad murdhers. I look on it, he’s a murdhered man.'
'He—who?' demanded the young man.
'Your father, Sir.'
'My father murdered?' said Mervyn.
'Well, I see no great differ; I see none at all. I’ll tell you how it was.'
And he looked over his shoulder again, and into the corners of the room, and then Mr. Irons began—
'I believe, Sir, there’s no devil like a vicious young man, with a hard heart and cool courage, in want of money. Of all the men I ever met with, or heard tell of, Charles Archer was the most dreadful. I used sometimes to think he was the devil. It wasn’t long–headed or cunning he was, but he knew your thoughts before you half knew them yourself. He knew what every one was thinking of. He made up his mind at a glance, and struck like a thunderbolt. As for pity or fear, he did not know what they were, and his cunning was so deep and sure there was no catching him.
'He came down to the Pied Horse Inn, where I was a drawer, at Newmarket, twice.'
Mervyn looked in his face, quickly, with a ghastly kind of a start.
'Ay, Sir, av coorse you know it; you read the trial; av coorse you did. Well, he came down there twice. 'Twas a good old house, Sir, lots of room, and a well–accustomed inn. An' I think there was but two bad men among all the servants of the house—myself and Glascock. He was an under hostler, and a bad boy. He chose us two out of the whole lot, with a look. He never made a mistake. He knew us some way like a crow knows carrion, and he used us cleverly.'
And Irons cursed him.
'He’s a hard master, like his own,' said Irons; 'his wages come to nothing, and his services is hell itself. He could sing, and talk, and drink, and keep things stirring, and the gentlemen liked him; and he was, 'twas said, a wonderful fine player at whist, and piquet, and ombre, and all sorts of card–playing. So you see he could afford to play fair. The first time he came down, he fought three duels about a tipsy quarrel over a pool of Pope Joan. There was no slur on his credit, though; 'twas just a bit of temper. He wounded all three; two but trifling; but one of them—Chapley, or Capley, I think, was his name—through the lungs, and he died, I heard, abroad. I saw him killed—'twasn’t the last; it was done while you’d count ten. Mr. Archer came up with a sort of a sneer, pale and angry, and 'twas a clash of the small swords—one, two, three, and a spring like a tiger—and all over. He was frightful strong; ten times as strong as he looked—all a deception.'
'Well, Sir, there was a Jew came down, offering wagers, not, you see, to gentlemen, Sir, but to poor fellows. And Mr. Archer put me and Glascock up to bite him, as he said; and he told us to back Strawberry, and we did. We had that opinion of his judgment and his knowledge—you see, we thought he had ways of finding out these things—that we had no doubt of winning,
so we made a wager of twelve pounds. But we had no money—not a crown between us—and we must stake gold with the host of the "Plume of Feathers;" and the long and the short of it was, I never could tell how he put it into our heads, to pledge some of the silver spoons and a gold chain of the master’s, intending to take them out when we won the money. Well, Strawberry lost, and we were left in the lurch. So we told Mr. Archer how it was; for he was an off–handed man when he had anything in view, and he told us, as we thought, he’d help us if we lost. "Help you," says he, with a sort of laugh he had, "I want help myself; I haven’t a guinea, and I’m afraid you’ll be hanged: and then," says he, "stay a bit, and I’ll find a way."
'I think he was in a bad plight just then himself; he was awful expensive with horses and—and—other things; and I think there was a writ, or maybe more, out against him, from other places, and he wanted a lump of money in his hand to levant with, and go abroad. Well, listen, and don’t be starting, or making a row, Sir,' and a sulky, lowering, hang–dog shadow, came over Irons. 'Your father, Lord Dunoran, played cards; his partner was Mr. Charles Archer. Whist it was—with a gentleman of the name of Beauclerc, and I forget the other—he wore a chocolate suit, and a black wig. 'Twas I carried them their wine. Well, Mr. Beauclerc won, and Mr. Archer stopped playing, for he had lost enough; and the gentleman in the chocolate—what was his name?—Edwards, I think—ay, 'twas—yes, Edwards, it was—was tired, and turned himself about to the fire, and took a pipe of tobacco; and my lord, your father, played piquet with Mr. Beauclerc; and he lost a power of money to him, Sir; and, by bad luck, he paid a great part of it, as they played, in rouleaus of gold, for he had won at the dice down stairs. Well, Mr. Beauclerc was a little hearty, and he grew tired, and was for going to bed. But my lord was angry, and being disguised with liquor too, he would not let him go till they played more; and play they did, and the luck still went the same way; and my lord grew fierce over it, and cursed and drank, and that did not mend his luck you may be sure; and at last Mr. Beauclerc swears he’d play no more; and both kept talking together, and neither heard well what t’other said; but there was some talk about settling the dispute in the morning.
'Well, Sir, in goes Mr. Beauclerc, staggering—his room was the Flower de luce—and down he throws himself, clothes an' all, on his bed; and then my lord turned on Mr. Edwards, I’m sure that was his name, and persuades him to play at piquet; and to it they went.
'As I was coming in with more wine, I meets Mr. Archer coming out, "Give them their wine," says he, in a whisper, "and follow me." An' so I did. "You know something of Glascock, and have a fast hold of him," says he, "and tell him quietly to bring up Mr. Beauclerc’s boots, and come back along with him; and bring me a small glass of rum." And back he goes into the room where the two were stuck in their cards, and talking and thinking of nothing else.'
CHAPTER LXXI.
IN WHICH MR. IRONS’S NARRATIVE REACHES MERTON MOOR.
'Well, 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 next instant. "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 before me, 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 I don’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—we knew 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."
The House by the Churchyard Page 41
