“What is it in that voice which is so hateful? What is it in that passion which sounds insincere? What gives to those sweet tones a latent discord, that creeps so coldly through my nerves?”
So thought David Arden, as, with one hand still upon the window-sash, he listened and turned toward the open door, with a frown akin to one of pain.
Spellbound, he listened till the song was over, and sighed and shook his ears with a sort of shudder when the music ceased.
“I don’t know why I stayed to listen. Face — voice — what is the agency about that fellow? I daresay I’m a fool, but I can’t help it, and I must bring the idea to the test.”
He descended the stairs slowly, crossed the hall, and walked thoughtfully down the passage leading to the housekeeper’s room. At this hour the old woman had it usually to herself. He knocked at the housekeeper’s door, and recognised the familiar voice that answered.
“How do you do, Martha?” said he, striding cheerily into the room.
“Ah! Master David? So it is, sure!”
“Ay, sure and sure, Martha,” said he, taking the old woman’s hand, with his kind smile. “And how are you, Martha? Tell me how you are.”
“I won’t say much. I’m not so canty as you’ll mind me. I’m an old wife now, Master David, and not much for this world, I’m thinking,” she answered dolorously.
“You may outlive much younger people, Martha; we are all in the hands of God,” said David, smiling. “It seems to me but yesterday that I and poor Harry used to run in here to you from our play in the grounds, and you had always a bit of something for us hungry fellows to eat, come when we might.”
“Ah, ha! Yes, ye were hungry fellows then — spirin’ up, fine tall lads. Reginald was never like ye; he was seven years older than you. And hungry? Yes! The cold turkey and ham, ye mind — by Jen! I have seen ye eat hearty; and pancakes — ye liked them best of all. And it went a’ into a good skin. I will say — you and Master Harry (God be wi’ him!) a fine, handsome pair o’ lads ye were. And you’re a handsome fellow still, Master David, and might have married well, no doubt; but man proposes and God disposes, and time and tide ‘ll wait for no man, and what’s one man’s meat’s another man’s poison. Who knows and all may be for the best? And that Mr. Longcluse is dining here to-day?” she added, not very coherently, and with a sudden gloom.
“Yes, Martha, that Mr. Longcluse is dining here to-day; and Master Dick tells me you did not fall in love with him at first sight, when they paid you a visit here. Is that true?”
“I don’t know. I don’t know what. The sight of him — or the sound of his voice, I don’t know which — gave me a turn,” said the old woman.
“Well, Martha, I don’t like his face, either. He gave me, also, what you call a turn. He’s very pale, and I felt as if I had been frightened by him when I was a child; and yet he must be some five and twenty years younger than I am, and I’m almost certain I never saw him before. So I say it must be something that’s no’ canny as you used to say. What do you think, Martha?”
“Ye may be funnin’, Master David. Ye were always a canty lad. But it’s o’er true. I can’t bring to mind what it is — I can’t tell — but something in that man’s face gev me a sten. I conceited I was just goin’ to swound; and he looked sa straight at me, like a ghost.”
“Master Richard says you looked very hard at Mr. Longcluse; you had both a good stare at each other,” said Uncle David. “He thought there was going to be a recognition.”
“Did I? Well, no: I don’t know him, I think. ’Tis all a jummlement, like. I couldn’t bring nout to mind.”
“I know, Martha, you liked poor Harry well,” said David Arden, not with a smile, but with a very sad countenance.
“That I did,” said Mrs. Tansey.
“And I think you like me, Martha?”
“Ye’re not far wrong there, Master David.”
“And for both our sakes — for mine and his, for the dead no less than the living — I am sure you won’t allow any thought of trouble, or nervousness, or fear of lawyers’ browbeating, or that sort of thing, to deter you from saying, wherever and whenever justice may require it, everything you know or suspect respecting that dreadful occurrence.”
“The death o’ Master Harry, ye mean!” exclaimed Mrs. Tansey sternly, drawing herself up on a sudden, with a pale frown, and looking full at him. “Me to hide or hold back aught that could bring the truth to light! Oh! Master David, do you know what ye’re sayin’?”
“Perfectly,” said he, with a melancholy smile; “and I am glad it vexes you, Martha, because I need no answer on that point more than your honest voice and face.”
“Keep back aught, man!” she repeated, striking her hand on the table. “Why, lad, I’d lose that old hand under the chopper for one gliff o’ the truth into that damned story. Why, lawk! where’s yer head, boy? Wasn’t I maist killed myself, for sake o’ him that night?”
“Ay, Martha, brave girl, I’m satisfied; and I ask your pardon for the question. But years bring alteration, you know; and I’m changed in mind myself in many ways I never could have believed. And everyone doesn’t see with me that it is our duty to explore a crime like that, to track the villain, if we can, and bring him to justice. You do, Martha; but there are many in whose veins poor Harry’s blood is running, who don’t feel like you. Master Richard said that the gentleman looked as if he did not know what to make of you; ‘and, by Jove!’ said he, ‘I didn’t either — Martha stared so.’”
“I couldn’t help. ’Twas scarce civil; but truly I couldn’t, Sir,” said Martha Tansey, who had by this time recovered her equanimity. “He did remind me of summat.”
“We will talk of that by-and-by, Martha; we will try to recall it. What I want you first to tell me is exactly your recollection of the lamentable occurrence of that night. I have a full note of it at home; but I have not looked at it for years, and I want my recollection confirmed tonight, that you and I may talk over some possibilities which I should like to examine with your help.”
“I can talk of it now,” said the old woman; “but for many a year after it happened I dare not. I could not sleep for many a night after I told it to anyone. But now I can bear it. So, Master David, you may ask what you please.”
“First let me hear your recollection of what happened,” said David Arden.
“Ay, Master David, that I will. Sit ye down, for my old bones won’t carry me standing no time now, and sit I must. Right well ye’re lookin’, and right glad am I to see it, Master David; and ye were always a handsome laddie. God bless ye, and God be wi’ the old times! And poor Master Harry — poor laddie! — I liked him well. You two looked beautiful, walkin’ up to t’ house together — two conny, handsome boys ye were.”
CHAPTER XX.
MRS. TANSEY’S STORY.
“The sun don’t touch these windows till nigh nightfall. In the short days o’ winter, the last sunbeam at the settin’ just glints along the wall, and touches a sprig or two o’ them scarlet geraniums on the windastone. ’Tis a cold room, Master David. In summer evenins, like this, ye have just a chilly flush o’ the sun settin’, and, before it’s well on the windas, the bats and beetles is abroad, and the moth is flittin’, and the gloamin’ fa’s,” said the old woman. “The windas looks to the west, but also a bit to the north, ye’ll mind, and that’s the cause o’t. I don’t complain. I ha’ suffered it these thirty years and more, and ‘tain’t worth while, for the few years that’s left, makin’ a blub and a blither about it. I’m an old wife now, Master David, and there can’t be many more years for me left aboon the grass, sa I e’en let be and taks the world easy, ye see; and that’s the reason I aye keep a bit o’ wood burnin’ on the hearth — it keeps the life in my old bones — and I hope it ain’t too warm for you, Master David?”
“Not a bit, Martha. This side of the house is cool. I remember that our room, when we were boys, looked out from it, high up, you recollect, and it never was hot.”
&
nbsp; “That’s it, ye were in the top o’ the house; and poor Harry, wi’ his picturs o’ horses and dogs hangin’ up on the wa’s. Lawk! it seems but last week. How the years flits! I often thinks of him. See what a moon there is tonight. ’Twas just such a moon that night, only frostier, ye see — the same clear sky and bright moon; ‘twould make ye wink to look at. Ye’re not too hot wi’ that bit o’ wood lightin’ in the grate?”
“I like the fire, Martha, and I like the moon, and I like your company best of all.”
The truth was, he did like the flicker of the wood fire. The flame was cheery, and took off something of the dismal shadow that stole over everything whenever he applied his affectionate mind to the horrors of the dreadful night on which he was now ruminating. One of the window-shutters was open, and the chill brilliancy of the moon, and the deep blue sky, were serenely visible over the black foreground of trees. The wavering of the redder light of the fire, as its reflection spread and faded upon the wainscot, was warm and pleasant; and, had their talk been of less ghastly things, would have brightened their thoughts with a sense of comfort.
“I have not very long to stay, Martha,” said David Arden, looking at his watch, “so tell me your recollection as accurately as you can. Let me hear that first; and then I want to ask you for some particular information, which I am sure you can give me.”
“Why not? Who should I give it sooner to? Will ye take a cup o’ coffee? No. Well, a glass o’ curaçoa? No. And what will ye take?”
“You forget that I have taken everything, and come to you with all my wants supplied. So now, dear Martha, let me hear it all.”
“I’ll tell ye all about it. I was younger and stronger, mind, than I am now, by twenty years and more. ’Tis a short time to look back on, but a good while passing, and leaves many a gap and change, and many a scar and wrinkle.”
There was a palpable tremble always in Mrs. Tansey’s voice, in the thin hand she extended towards him, and in the head from which her old eyes glittered glassily on him.
“The road is very lonely by night — the loneliest road in all England. When it passes ten o’clock, you might listen till cockcrow for a footfall. Well, I, and Thomas Ridley, and Anne Haslett, was all the people at Mortlake just then, the family being in the North, except Master Harry. He went to a race across country, that was run that day; and he told me, laughing, he would not ask me to throw an old shoe after him, as he stood sure to win two thousand pounds. And away he went, little thinking, him and me, how our next meetin’ would be. At that time old Tom Clinton — ye’ll mind Clinton?”
“To be sure I do,” acquiesced David Arden.
“Well, Tom was in the gatehouse then; after he died, his daughter’s husband got it, ye know. And when he had outstayed his time by two hours — for he was going northwards in the morning, and told me he’d be surely back before ten — I began to grow frightened, and I put on my bonnet and cloak, and down I runs to the gatehouse, and knocks up Tom Clinton. It was nigh twelve o’clock then. When Tom came to the door, having dressed in haste, I said, ‘Tom, which way will Master Harry return? he’s not been since.’ And says Tom, ‘If he’s comin’ straight from the course, he’ll come down from the country; but if he’s dinin’ instead in London, he’ll come up the Islington way.’ ‘Well,’ said I, ‘go you, Tom, to the turn o’ the road, and look and listen for sight or sound, and bring me word.’ I don’t know what was frightenin’ me. He was often later, and I never minded; but something that night was on my mind, like a warning, for I couldn’t get the fear out o’ my heart. Well, who comes ridin’ back but Dick Wallock, the groom, that had drove away with him in the gig in the mornin’; and glad I was to see his face at the gate. It was bright moonlight, and says I, ‘Dick, how is Master Harry? Is all well with him?’ So he tells me, ay, all was well, and he goin’ to drive the gig out himself from town. He was at a place — you’ll mind the name of it — where it turned out they played cards and dice, and won and lost like — like fools, or worse, as some o’ them no doubt was. ‘Well,’ says I, ‘go you up, as he told you, with the horse, and I’ll stay here till he comes back, if it wasn’t till daybreak.’ For all the time, ye see, my heart misgave me that there was summat bad to happen; and when Tom Clinton came back, says I, ‘Tom, you go in, and get to your room, and let me sit down in your kitchen; and I’ll let him in when he comes, for I can’t go up to the house, nor close an eye, till he comes.’ Well, it was a full hour after, and I was sittin’ in the kitchen window that looks out on the road, starin’ wide awake, and lookin’, now one way and now another, up and down, when I hears the clink of a footfall on the stones, and a tall, ill-favoured man walks slowly by, and turns his face toward the window as he passed.”
“You saw him distinctly, then?” said David.
“As plain as ever I saw you. An ill-favoured fellow in a light drab great coat wi’ a cape to it. He looked white wi’ fear, and wild big eyes, and a high hooked nose — a tall chap wi’ his hands in his pockets, and a low-crowned hat on. He went on slow, till a whistle sounded, and then he ran down the road a bit toward the signal.”
“That was toward the Islington side?”
“Ay, Sir, and I grew more uneasy. I was scared wi’ the sight o’ such a man at that time o’ night, in that lonesome place, and the whistlin’ and runnin’.”
“Did you see the same man again that night?” asked David.
“Yes, ’twas the same I saw afterwards — Lord ha’ mercy on us! I saw him again, at his murderin’ work. Oh, Master David! it makes my brain wild, and my skin creep, to think o’ that sight.”
“I did wrong to interrupt you; tell it your own way, Martha, and I can afterwards ask you the questions that lie near my heart,” said Mr. Arden.
“’Tis easy told, Sir; the candle was burnt down almost in the socket, and I went to look out another — but before I could find one, it went out. ’Twas but a stump I found and lighted, after I saw that fellow in the light drab surtout go by. I wished to let them know, if they had any ill design, there was folks awake in the lodge. But he was gone by before I found the matches, and now that he was comin’ again, the candle went out — things goes so cross. It was to be, ye see. Well, while I was rummagin’ about, looking for a candle, I heard the sound of a horse trotting hard, and wheels rollin’ along; so says I, ‘Thank God!’ for then I was sure it must be Harry, poor lad. So I claps on my bonnet, and out wi’ me, wi’ t’ key. I thought I heard voices, as the hoofs and wheels came clinkin’ up to the gate; but I could not be quite sure. I was huffed wi’ Master Harry for the long wait he gev me, and the fright, and I took my time comin’ round the corner of the gatehouse. And thinks I to myself, he’ll be offerin’ me a seat in the gig up to the house, but I won’t take it. God forgi’e me for them angry thoughts to the poor laddie that I was never to have a word wi’ more! When I came to the gate there was never a call, and nothing but voices talking and gaspin’ like, under their breath a’most, and a queer scufflin’ sound, that I could not make head nor tail on. So I unlocked the wicket, and out wi’ me, and, Lord ha’ mercy on us, what a sight for me! The gig was there, with its shafts on the ground, and its back cocked up, and the iron-grey flat on his side, lashin’ and scramblin’, poor brute, and two villains in the gig, both pullin’ at poor Master Harry, one robbin’, and t’other murderin’ him. I took one o’ them — a short, thick fellow — by the skirt o’ his coat, to drag him out, and I screamed for Tom Clinton to come out. The short fellow turned, and struck at me wi’ somethin’; but, lucky for me, ‘appen, the lashin’ horse that minute took me on the foot, and brought me down. But up I scrambles wi’ a stone in my hand, and I shied it, the best I could, at the head o’ the villain that was killin’ Master Harry. But what can a woman do? It did not go nigh him, I’m thinkin’. I was, all the time, calling on Tom to come, and cryin’ ‘Murder!’ that you’d think my throat’d split. That bloody wretch in the gig had got poor Master Harry’s head back over the edge of it, and his knee to his chest, a-str
ivin’ to break his neck across the back-rails; and poor dear lad, Master Harry, he just scritched, ‘Yelland Mace! for God’s sake!’ They were the last words I ever heard from him, and I’ll never forget that horrid scritch, nor the face of the villain that was over him, like a beast over its prey. He was tuggin’ at his throat, like you’d be tryin’ to tear up a tree by the roots — you never see such a face. His teeth was set, and the froth comin’ through, and his black eyebrows screwed together, you’d think they’d crack the thin hooked nose of him between them, and he pantin’ like a wild beast. He looked like a madman, I tell you; ’twas bright moonlight, and the trees bare, and the shadows of the branches was switchin’ across his face.”
“You saw that face distinctly?” asked David Arden.
“As clear as yours this minute.”
“Now tell me — and think first — was he a bit like that Mr. Longcluse whose appearance startled you the other evening?” asked Mr. Arden, in a very low tone, with his eyes fixed on her intensely.
“No, no, no! not a bit. He had a small mouth and white teeth, and a great beak of a nose. No, no, no! not he. I saw him strike somethin’ that shone — a knife or a dagger — into the poor lad’s throat, and he struck it down at my head, as you know, and I mind nothin’ after that. I’ll carry the scar o’ that murderer’s blow to my grave. There’s the whole story, and God forgi’e ye for asking me, for it gi’es me t’ creepins for a week after; and I didn’t conceit ‘twould ‘a’ made me sa excited, Sir, or I would not ‘a’ bargained to tell it tonight — not that I blame ye, Master David, for I thought, myself, that I could bear it better — and I do believe, as I have gone so far in it, ’tis better to make one job of it, and a finish. So ye’ll ask me any question ye like, and I’ll make the best answer I can; only, Master David, ye’ll not be o’er long about it?”
Complete Works of Sheridan Le Fanu (Illustrated) Page 531
