Delphi Complete Works of Sheridan Le Fanu

by J. Sheridan le Fanu

  Puddock and he had not gone halfway down the short avenue, when Cluffe said, with a sheepish smile:

  ‘Miss Rebecca Chattesworth dropped something in her talk with you, Puddock, I see that plain enough, my dear fellow, which the general has no objection I should hear, and, hang it, I don’t see any myself. I say, I may as well hear it, eh? I venture to say there’s no great harm in it.’

  At first Puddock was reserved, but recollecting that he had been left quite free to tell whom he pleased, he made up his mind to unbosom; and suggested, for the sake of quiet and a longer conversation, that they should go round by the ferry.

  ‘No, I thank you, I’ve had enough of that; we can walk along as quietly as you like, and turn a little back again if need be.’

  So slowly, side by side, the brother-officers paced toward the bridge; and little Puddock, with a serious countenance and blushing cheeks, and looking straight before him, made his astounding disclosure.

  Puddock told things in a very simple and intelligible way, and Cluffe heard him in total silence; and just as he related the crowning fact, that he, the lieutenant, was about to marry Miss Rebecca Chattesworth, having reached the milestone by the footpath, Captain Cluffe raised his foot thereupon, without a word to Puddock, and began tugging at the strap of his legging, with a dismal red grin, and a few spluttering curses at the artificer of the article.

  ‘And the lady has had the condescension to say that she has liked me for at least two years.’

  ‘And she hating you like poison, to my certain knowledge,’ laughed Captain Cluffe, very angrily, and swallowing down his feelings. So they walked on a little way in silence, and Cluffe, who, with his face very red, and his mouth a good deal expanded, and down in the corners, was looking steadfastly forward, exclaimed suddenly, —

  ‘Well?’

  ‘I see, Cluffe,’ said Puddock; ‘you don’t think it prudent — you think we mayn’t be happy?’

  ‘Prudent,’ laughed Cluffe, with a variety of unpleasant meanings; and after a while— ‘And the general knows of it?’

  ‘And approves it most kindly,’ said Puddock.

  ‘What else can he do?’ sneered Cluffe; ‘’tis a precious fancy — they are such cheats! Why you might be almost her grand-son, my dear Puddock, ha, ha, ha. ’Tis preposterous; you’re sixteen years younger than I.’

  ‘If you can’t congratulate me, ‘twould be kinder not to say anything, Captain Cluffe; and nobody must speak in my presence of that lady but with proper respect; and I — I thought, Cluffe, you’d have wished me well, and shaken hands and said something — something— ‘

  ‘Oh, as for that,’ said Cluffe, swallowing down his emotions again, and shaking hands with Puddock rather clumsily, and trying to smile, ‘I wish you well, Heaven knows — everything good; why shouldn’t I, by George? You know, Puddock, ’twas I who brought you together. And — and — am I at liberty to mention it?’

  Puddock thought it better the news should be proclaimed from Belmont.

  ‘Well, so I think myself,’ said Cluffe, and relapsed into silence till they parted, at the corner of the broad street of Chapelizod and Cluffe walked at an astounding pace on to his lodgings.

  ‘Here’s Captain Cluffe,’ said Mrs. Mason, to a plump youth, who had just made the journey from London, and was standing with the driver of a low-backed car, and saluted the captain, who was stalking in without taking any notice.

  ‘Little bill, if you please, captain.’

  ‘What is it?’ demanded the captain, grimly.

  ‘Obediar’s come, Sir.’

  ‘Obediar!’ said the captain. ‘What the plague do you mean, Sir?’

  ‘Obediar, Sir, is the name we give him. The pelican, Sir, from Messrs. Hamburgh and Slighe.’

  And the young man threw back a piece of green baize, and disclosed Obediar, who blinked with a tranquil countenance upon the captain through the wires of a strong wooden cage. I doubt if the captain ever looked so angry before or since. He glared at the pelican, and ground his teeth, and actually shook his cane in his fist; and if he had been one bit less prudent than he was, I think Obediar would then and there have slept with his fathers.

  Cluffe whisked himself about, and plucked open the paper.

  ‘And what the devil is all this for, Sir? ten — twelve pounds ten shillings freightage and care on the way — and twenty-five, by George, Sir — not far from forty pounds, Sir,’ roared Cluffe.

  ‘Where’ll I bring him to, Sir?’ asked the driver.

  The captain bellowed an address we sha’n’t print here.

  ‘Curse him — curse the brute! forty pounds!’ and the captain swore hugely, ‘you scoundrel! Drive the whole concern out of that, Sir. Drive him away, Sir, or by Jove, I’ll break every bone in your body, Sir.’

  And the captain scaled the stairs, and sat down panting, and outside the window he heard the driver advising something about putting the captain’s bird to livery, ‘till sich time as he’d come to his sinses;’ and himself undertaking to wait opposite the door of his lodgings until his fare from Dublin was paid.

  Though Cluffe was occasionally swayed by the angry passions, he was, on the whole, in his own small way, a long-headed fellow. He hated law, especially when he had a bad case; and accordingly he went down again, rumpling the confounded bill in his hand, and told the man that he did not blame him for it — though the whole thing was an imposition; but that rather than have any words about it, he’d pay the account, and have done with it; and he stared again in the face of the pelican with an expression of rooted abhorrence and disgust, and the mild bird clapped its bill, perhaps expecting some refreshment, and looking upon the captain with a serene complacency very provoking under the circumstances.

  ‘How the devil people can like such misshapen, idiotic-looking, selfish, useless brutes; and, by George, it smells like a polecat — curse it! but some people have deuced queer fancies in more matters than one. The brute! on my soul, I’d like to shoot it.’

  However, with plenty of disputation over the items, and many oaths and vows, the gallant captain, with a heavy and wrathful heart, paid the bill; and although he had sworn in his drawingroom that he’d eat the pelican before Aunt Rebecca should have it, he thought better also upon this point too, and it arrived that evening at Belmont, with his respectful compliments.

  Cluffe was soon of opinion that he was in absolute possession of his own secret, and resolved to keep it effectually. He hinted that very evening at mess, and afterwards at the club, that he had been managing a very nice and delicate bit of diplomacy which not a soul of them suspected, at Belmont; and that by George, he thought they’d stare when they heard it. He had worked like a lord chancellor to bring it about; and he thought all was pretty well settled, now. And the Chapelizod folk, in general, and Puddock, as implicitly as any, and Aunt Rebecca, for that matter, also believed to their dying day that Cluffe had managed that match, and been a true friend to little Puddock.

  Cluffe never married, but grew confoundedly corpulent by degrees, and suffered plaguily from gout; but was always well dressed, and courageously buckled in, and, I dare say, two inches less in girth, thanks to the application of mechanics, than nature would have presented him.

  CHAPTER XCVIII.

  IN WHICH CHARLES ARCHER PUTS HIMSELF UPON THE COUNTRY.

  The excitement was high in Chapelizod when the news reached that a true bill was found against Charles Archer for the murder of Barnabas Sturk. Everywhere, indeed, the case was watched with uncommon interest; and when the decisive day arrived, and the old judge, furrowed, yellow, and cross, mounted the bench, and the jury were called over, and the challenges began, and the grim, gentlemanlike person with the white hair, and his right arm in a black silk sling, whispering to his attorney and now and again pencilling, with his left hand, a line to his counsel with that indescribable air of confidence and almost defiance, pleaded to the indictment ‘not guilty,’ and the dreadful business of the day began, the court was crowded as it sel
dom had been before.

  A short, clear, horrible statement unfolded the case for the crown. Then the dying deposition of Sturk was put in evidence; then Irons the clerk was put up, and told his tale doggedly and distinctly, and was not to be shaken. ‘No, it was not true that he had ever been confined in a mad house.’ ‘He had never had delirium tremens.’ ‘He had never heard that his wife thought him mad.’ ‘Yes, it was true he had pledged silver of his master’s at the Pied Horse at Newmarket’ ‘He knew it was a felony, but it was the prisoner who put it into his head and encouraged him to do it.’ ‘Yes, he would swear to that.’ ‘He had several times spoken to Lord Dunoran, when passing under the name of Mervyn, on the subject of his father being wronged.’ ‘He never had any promise from my lord, in case he should fix the guilt of that murder on some other than his father.’ Our friend, Captain Cluffe, was called, and delivered his evidence in a somewhat bluff and peremptory, but on the whole effective way.

  Charles Nutter, after some whispered consultation, was also called, and related what we have heard. ‘Yes, he had been arrested for the murder of Dr. Sturk, and now stood out on bail to answer that charge.’ Then followed some circumstances, one of which, the discovery of a piece of what was presumed to be the weapon with which the murder was perpetrated, I have already mentioned. Then came some evidence, curious but quite clear, to show that the Charles Archer who had died at Florence was not the Charles Archer who had murdered Beauclerc, but a gentleman who had served in the army, and had afterwards been for two years in Italy, in the employment of a London firm who dealt in works of art, and was actually resident in Italy at the time when the Newmarket murder occurred, and that the attempt to represent him as the person who had given evidence against the late Lord Dunoran was an elaborate and cunning contrivance of the prisoner at the bar. Then came the medical evidence.

  Pell was examined, and delivered only half a dozen learned sentences; Toole, more at length, made a damaging comparison of the fragment of iron already mentioned, and the outline of the fractures in the deceased man’s head; and Dillon was questioned generally, and was not cross-examined. Then came the defence.

  The points were, that Sturk was restored to speech by the determined interposition of the prisoner at the bar, an unlikely thing if he was ruining himself thereby! That Sturk’s brain had been shattered, and not cleared from hallucinations before he died; that having uttered the monstrous dream, in all its parts incredible, which was the sole foundation of the indictment against that every way respectable and eminent gentleman who stood there, the clerk, Irons, having heard something of it, had conceived the plan of swearing to the same story, for the manifest purpose of securing thereby the favour of the young Lord Dunoran, with whom he had been in conference upon this very subject without ever once having hinted a syllable against Mr. Paul Dangerfield until after Doctor Sturk’s dream had been divulged; and the idea of fixing the guilt of Beauclerc’s murder upon that gentleman of wealth, family, and station, occurred to his intriguing and unscrupulous mind.

  Mr. Dangerfield, in the dock nodded sometimes, or sneered or smirked with hollow cheeks, or shook his head in unison with the passing sentiment of the speaker, directing, through that hot atmosphere, now darkening into twilight, a quick glance from time to time upon the aspect of the jury, the weather-gauge of his fate, but altogether with a manly, sarcastic, and at times a somewhat offended air, as though he should say, ‘’Tis somewhat too good a jest that I, Paul Dangerfield, Esq., a man of fashion, with my known character, and worth nigh two hundred thousand pounds sterling, should stand here, charged with murdering a miserable Chapelizod doctor!’ The minutes had stolen away; the judge read his notes by candlelight, and charged, with dry and cranky emphasis, dead against that man of integrity, fashion, and guineas; and did not appear a bit disturbed at the idea of hanging him.

  When the jury went in he had some soup upon the bench, and sipped it with great noise. Mr. Dangerfield shook hands with his counsel, and smirked and whispered. Many people there felt queer, and grew pale in the suspense, and the general gaze was fixed upon the prisoner with a coarse curiosity, of which he seemed resolutely unconscious; and five minutes passed by and a minute or two more — it seemed a very long time — the minute-hands of the watches hardly got on at all — and then the door of the jury-room opened, and the gentlemen came stumbling in, taking off their hats, and silence was called. There was no need; and the foreman, with a very pale and frightened face, handed down the paper.

  And the simple message sounded through the court —

  ‘Guilty!’

  And Mr. Dangerfield bowed, and lifted up a white, smiling countenance, all over shining now with a slight moisture.

  Then there was some whispering among the conductors of the prosecution; and the leader stood up to say, that, in consequence of a communication from the law officers in England, where the prisoner was to be arraigned on a capital indictment, involving serious consequences to others — for the murder, he meant, of Mr. Beauclerc — the crown wished that he should stand over for judgment until certain steps in that case had been taken at the other side. Then the court enquired whether they had considered so and so; and the leader explained and satisfied his lordship, who made an order accordingly. And Mr. Dangerfield made a low bow, with a smirk, to his lordship, and a nod, with the same, to his counsel; and he turned, and the turnkey and darkness received him.

  Mr. Dangerfield, or shall we say the villain, Charles Archer, with characteristic promptitude and coolness, availed himself of the interval to try every influence he could once have set in motion, and as it were to gather his strength for a mighty tussle with the king of terrors, when his pale fingers should tap at his cell door. I have seen two of his letters, written with consummate plausibility and adroitness, and which have given me altogether a very high idea of his powers. But they were all received with a terrifying coldness or with absolute silence. There was no reasoning against an intuition. Every human being felt that the verdict was true, and that the judgment, when it came would be right: and recoiled from the smiling gentleman, over whose white head the hempen circle hung like a diabolical glory Dangerfield, who had something of the Napoleonic faculty of never ‘making pictures’ to himself, saw this fact in its literality, and acquiesced in it.

  He was a great favourite with the gaoler, whom, so long as he had the command of his money, he had treated with a frank and convivial magnificence, and who often sat up to one o’clock with him, and enjoyed his stories prodigiously, for the sarcastic man of the world lost none of his amusing qualities: and — the fatigues of his barren correspondence ended — slept, and eat, and drank, pretty much as usual.

  This Giant Despair, who carried the keys at his girdle, did not often get so swell a pilgrim into his castle, and was secretly flattered by his familiarity, and cheered by his devilish gaiety, and was quite willing to make rules bend a little, and the place as pleasant as possible to his distinguished guest, and give him in fact, all his heart could desire, except a chance of escape.

  ‘I’ve one move left — nothing very excellent — but sometimes, you know, a scurvy card enough will win the trick. Between you and me, my good friend, I have a thing to tell that ‘twill oblige my Lord Dunoran very much to hear. My Lord Townshend will want his vote. He means to prove his peerage immediately and he may give a poor devil a lift, you see — hey?

  So next day there came my Lord Dunoran and a magistrate, not Mr. Lowe — Mr. Dangerfield professed a contempt for him, and preferred any other. So it was Mr. Armstrong this time, and that is all I know of him.

  Lord Dunoran was more pale than usual; indeed he felt like to faint on coming into the presence of the man who had made his life so indescribably miserable, and throughout the interview he scarcely spoke six sentences, and not one word of reproach. The villain was down. It was enough.

  Mr. Dangerfield was, perhaps, a little excited. He talked more volubly than usual, and once or twice there came a little flush over his pallid fo
rehead and temples. But, on the whole, he was very much the same brisk, sardonic talker and polite gentleman whom Mr. Mervyn had so often discoursed with in Chapelizod. On this occasion, his narrative ran on uninterruptedly and easily, but full of horrors, like a satanic reverie.

  ‘Upon my honour, Sir,’ said Paul Dangerfield, with his head erect, ‘I bear Mr. Lowe no ill-will. He is, you’ll excuse me, a thief-catcher by nature. He can’t help it. He thinks he works from duty, public spirit, and other fine influences; I know it is simply from an irrepressible instinct. I do assure you, I never yet bore any man the least ill-will. I’ve had to remove two or three, not because I hated them — I did not care a button for any — but because their existence was incompatible with my safety, which, Sir, is the first thing to me, as yours is to you. Human laws we respect — ha, ha! — you and I, because they subserve our convenience, and just so long. When they tend to our destruction, ’tis, of course, another thing.’

  This, it must be allowed, was frank enough; there was no bargain here; and what ever Mr. Dangerfield’s plan might have been, it certainly did not involve making terms with Lord Dunoran beforehand, or palliating or disguising what he had done. So on he went.

  ‘I believe in luck, Sir, and there’s the sum of my creed. I was wrong in taking that money from Beauclerc when I did, ’twas in the midst of a dismal run of ill-fortune. There was nothing unfair in taking it, though. The man was a cheat. It was not really his, and no one could tell to whom it belonged; ’twas no more his because I had found it in his pocket than if I had found it in a barrel on the high seas. I killed him to prevent his killing me. Precisely the same motive, though in your case neither so reasonable nor so justifiable, as that on which, in the name of justice, which means only the collective selfishness of my fellow-creatures, you design in cool blood to put me publicly to death. ’Tis only that you, gentlemen, think it contributes to your safety. That’s the spirit of human laws. I applaud and I adopt it in my own case. Pray, Sir’ (to Mr. Armstrong), ‘do me the honour to try this snuff, ’tis real French rappee.