The House by the Churchyard

by J. Sheridan le Fanu

  It was a reception as stately, but as sombre and as beggarly withal as that of the Master of Ravenswood, for there were but two chairs in the cedar–parlour,—one with but three legs, the other without a bottom; so they were fain to stand. But Mervyn could smile without bitterness and his desolation had not the sting of actual poverty, as he begged the rector to excuse his dreary welcome, and hoped that he would find things better the next time.

  Their little colloquy got on very easily, for Mervyn liked the rector, and felt a confidence in him which was comfortable and almost exhilarating. The doctor had a cheery, kindly, robust voice, and a good, honest emphasis in his talk; a guileless blue eye; a face furrowed, thoughtful, and benevolent; well formed too. He must have been a handsome curate in his day. Not uncourtly, but honest; the politeness of a gentle and tender heart; very courteous and popular among ladies, although he sometimes forgot that they knew no Latin.

  So Mervyn drew nigh to him in spirit, and liked him and talked to him rather more freely [though even that was enigmatically enough] than he had done to anybody else for a long time. It would seem that the young man had formed no very distinct plan of life. He appeared to have some thought of volunteering to serve in America, and some of entering into a foreign service; but his plans were, I suppose, in nubibus. All that was plain was that he was restless and eager for some change—any.

  It was not a very long visit, you may suppose; and just as Dr. Walsingham rode out of the avenue, Lord Castlemallard was riding leisurely by towards Chapelizod, followed by his groom.

  His lordship, though he had a drowsy way with him, was esteemed rather an active man of business, being really, I’m afraid, only what is termed a fidget: and the fact is, his business would have been better done if he had looked after it himself a good deal less.

  He was just going down to the town to see whether Dangerfield had arrived, and slackened his pace to allow the doctor to join him, for he could ride with him more comfortably than with parsons generally, the doctor being well descended, and having married, besides, into a good family. He stared, as he passed, at the old house listlessly and peevishly. He had heard of Mervyn’s doings there, and did not like them.

  'Yes, Sir, he’s a very pretty young, man, and very well dressed,' said his lordship, with manifest dissatisfaction: 'but I don’t like meeting him, you know. 'Tis not his fault; but one can’t help thinking of—of things! and I’d be glad his friends would advise him not to dress in velvets, you know—particularly black velvets you can understand. I could not help thinking, at the time, of a pall, somehow. I’m not—no—not pleasant near him. No—I—I can’t—his face is so pale—you don’t often, see so pale a face—no—it looks like a reflection from one that’s still paler—you understand—and in short, even in his perfumes there’s a taint of—of—you know—a taint of blood, Sir. Then there was a pause, during which he kept slapping his boot peevishly with his little riding–whip. 'One can’t, of course, but be kind,' he recommenced. 'I can’t do much—I can’t make him acceptable, you know—but I pity him, Dr. Walsingham, and I’ve tried to be kind to him, you know that; for ten years I had all the trouble, Sir, of a guardian without the authority of one. Yes, of course we’re kind; but body o' me! Sir, he’d be better any where else than here, and without occupation, you know, quite idle, and so conspicuous. I promise you there are more than I who think it. And he has commenced fitting up that vile old house—that vile house, Sir. It is ready to tumble down—upon my life they say so; Nutter says so, and Sturk—Dr. Sturk, of the Artillery here—an uncommon sensible man, you know, says so too. 'Tis a vile house, and ready to tumble down, and you know the trouble I was put to by that corporation fellow—a—what’s his name—about it; and he can’t let it—people’s servants won’t stay in it, you know, the people tell such stories about it, I’m told; and what business has he here, you know? It is all very fine for a week or so, but they’ll find him out, they will, Sir. He may call himself Mervyn, or Fitzgerald, or Thompson, Sir, or any other name, but it won’t do, Sir. No, Dr. Walsingham, it won’t do. The people down in this little village here, Sir, are plaguy sharp—they’re cunning; upon my life, I believe they are too hard for Nutter.'

  In fact, Sturk had been urging on his lordship the purchase of this little property, which, for many reasons ought to be had a bargain, and adjoined Lord Castlemallard’s, and had talked him into viewing it quite as an object. No wonder, then, he should look on Mervyn’s restorations and residence, in the light of an impertinence and an intrusion.

  CHAPTER XIV.

  RELATING HOW PUDDOCK PURGED O’FLAHERTY’S HEAD—A CHAPTER WHICH, IT IS HOPED, NO GENTEEL PERSON WILL READ.

  Rum disagreed with O’Flaherty confoundedly, but, being sanguine, and also of an obstinate courage not easily to be put down, and liking that fluid, and being young withal, he drank it defiantly and liberally whenever it came in his way. So this morning he announced to his friend Puddock that he was suffering under a headache 'that 'id burst a pot.' The gallant fellow’s stomach, too, was qualmish and disturbed. He heard of breakfast with loathing. Puddock rather imperiously insisted on his drinking some tea, which he abhorred, and of which, in very imperfect clothing and with deep groans and occasional imprecations on 'that bastely clar’t'—to which he chose to ascribe his indisposition—he drearily partook.

  'I tell you what, Thir,' said Puddock, finding his patient nothing better, and not relishing the notion of presenting his man in that seedy condition upon the field: 'I’ve got a remedy, a very thimple one; it used to do wondereth for my poor Uncle Neagle, who loved rum shrub, though it gave him the headache always, and sometimes the gout.'

  And Puddock had up Mrs. Hogg, his landlady, and ordered a pair of little muslin bags about the size of a pistol–cartridge each, which she promised to prepare in five minutes, and he himself tumbled over the leaves of his private manuscript quarto, a desultory and miscellaneous album, stuffed with sonnets on Celia’s eye—a lock of hair, or a pansy here or there pressed between the pages—birthday verses addressed to Sacharissa, receipts for 'puptons,' 'farces,' &c.; and several for toilet luxuries, 'Angelica water,' 'The Queen of Hungary’s' ditto, 'surfeit waters,' and finally, that he was in search of, to wit, 'My great Aunt Bell’s recipe for purging the head' (good against melancholy or the headache). You are not to suppose that the volume was slovenly or in anywise unworthy of a gentleman and officer of those days. It was bound in red and gold, had two handsome silver–gilt clasps and red edges, the writing being exquisitely straight and legible, and without a single blot.

  'I have them all except—two—three,' murmured the thoughtful Puddock when he had read over the list of ingredients. These, however, he got from Toole, close at hand, and with a little silver grater and a pretty little agate pocket pestle and mortar—an heirloom derived from poor Aunt Bell—he made a wonderful powder; 'nutmeg and ginger, cinnamon and cloves,' as the song says, and every other stinging product of nature and chemistry which the author of this famous family 'purge for the head' could bring to remembrance; and certainly it was potent. With this the cartridges were loaded, the ends tied up, and O’Flaherty, placed behind a table on which stood a basin, commenced the serious operation, under Puddock’s directions, by introducing a bag at each side of his mouth, which as a man of honour, he was bound to retain there until Puddock had had his morning’s tête–à–tête with the barber.

  Those who please to consult old domestic receipt–books of the last century, will find the whole process very exactly described therein.

  'Be the powers, Sorr, that was the stuff!' said O’Flaherty, discussing the composition afterwards, with an awful shake of his head; 'my chops wor blazing before you could count twenty.'

  It was martyrdom; but anything was better than the incapacity which threatened, and certainly, by the end of five minutes, his head was something better. In this satisfactory condition—Jerome being in the back garden brushing his regimentals, and preparing his other properties—he suddenly heard vo
ices close to the door, and gracious powers! one was certainly Magnolia’s.

  'That born devil, Juddy Carrol,' blazed forth. O’Flaherty, afterwards, 'pushed open the door; it served me right for not being in my bed–room, and the door locked—though who’d a thought there was such a cruel eediot on airth—bad luck to her—as to show a leedy into a gentleman, with scarcely the half of his clothes on, and undhergoin' a soart iv an operation, I may say.'

  Happily the table behind which he stood was one of those old–fashioned toilet affairs, with the back part, which was turned toward the door, sheeted over with wood, so that his ungartered stockings and rascally old slippers, were invisible. Even so, it was bad enough: he was arrayed in a shabby old silk roquelaire, and there was a towel upon his breast, pinned behind his neck. He had just a second to pop the basin under the table, and to whisk the towel violently from under his chin, drying that feature with merciless violence; when the officious Judy Carrol, Grand Chamberlain in Jerome’s absence, with the facetious grin of a good–natured lady about to make two people happy, introduced the bewitching Magnolia, and her meek little uncle, Major O’Neill.

  In they came, rejoicing, to ask the gallant fireworker (it was a different element just now), to make one of a party of pleasure to Leixlip. O’Flaherty could not so much as hand the young lady a chair; to emerge from behind the table, or even to attempt a retreat, was of course not to be thought of in the existing state of affairs. The action of Puddock’s recipe was such as to make his share in the little complimentary conversation that ensued very indistinct, and to oblige him, to his disgrace and despair, when the poor fellow tried a smile, actually to apply his towel hastily to his mouth.

  He saw that his visitors observed those symptoms with some perplexity: the major was looking steadfastly at O’Flaherty’s lips, and unconsciously making corresponding movements with his own, and the fair Magnolia was evidently full of pleasant surprise and curiosity. I really think, if O’Flaherty had had a pistol within reach, he would have been tempted to deliver himself summarily from that agonising situation.

  'I’m afraid, lieutenant, you’ve got the toothache,' said Miss Mag, with her usual agreeable simplicity.

  In his alacrity to assure her there was no such thing, he actually swallowed one of the bags. 'Twas no easy matter, and he grew very red, and stared frightfully, and swallowed a draught of water precipitately. His misery was indeed so great that at the conclusion of a polite little farewell speech of the major’s, he uttered an involuntary groan, and lively Miss Mag, with an odious titter, exclaimed—

  'The little creature’s teething, uncle, as sure as you’re not; either that, or he’s got a hot potato in his poor little mouzey–wouzey;' and poor O’Flaherty smiled a great silent moist smile at the well–bred pleasantry. The major, who did not choose to hear Mag’s banter, made a formal, but rather smiling salute. The lieutenant returned it, and down came the unlucky mortar and a china plate, on which Puddock had mingled the ingredients, with a shocking crash and jingle on the bare boards; a plate and mortar never made such a noise before, O’Flaherty thought, with a mental imprecation.

  'Nothing—hash—'appened—Shur,' said O’Flaherty, whose articulation was affected a good deal, in terror lest the major should arrest his departure.

  So the major and tall Miss Magnolia, with all her roses and lilies, and bold broad talk, and her wicked eyes, went down the stairs; and O’Flaherty, looking with lively emotion in the glass, at the unbecoming coup–d’oeil, heard that agreeable young lady laughing most riotously under the windows as she and the major marched away.

  It was well for Judy, that, being of the gentler sex, the wrath of the fireworker could not wreak itself upon her. The oftener he viewed himself in the pier–glass, trying in vain to think he did not look so very badly after all, the more bitter were his feelings. Oh, that villainous old silk morning gown! and his eyes so confoundedly red, and his hair all dishevelled—bad luck to that clar’t! the wig was all right, that was his only comfort;, and his mouth, 'och, look at it; twiste its natural size,' though that was no trifle.

  'Another week I’ll not stop in her lodgings,' cried poor O’Flaherty, grinning at himself in the glass, 'if she keeps that savage, Judy Carrol, here a day longer.'

  Then he stumbled to the stair–head to call her up for judgment; but changed his mind, and returned to the looking–glass, blowing the cooling air in short whistles through his peppered lips—and I’m sorry to say, blowing out also many an ejaculation and invective, as that sorry sight met his gaze in the oval mirror, which would have been much better not uttered.

  CHAPTER XV.

  ÆSCULAPIUS TO THE RESCUE.

  It was not until Puddock had returned, that the gallant fireworker recollected all on a sudden that he had swallowed one of the bags.

  'Thwallowed?—thwallowed it!' said Puddock, looking very blank and uncomfortable; 'why, Thir, I told you you were to be very careful.'

  'Why, why curse it, it’s not, 'tisn’t——'

  'There was a long pause, and O’Flaherty stared a very frightened and hideous stare at the proprietor of the red quarto.

  'Not what, Thir?' demanded Puddock, briskly, but plainly disconcerted.

  'Not anything—anything bad—or, or—there’s no use in purtendin', Puddock,' he resumed, turning quite yellow. 'I see, Sir, I see by your looks, it’s what you think, I’m poisoned!'

  'I—I—do not, Thir, think you’re poisoned,' he replied indignantly, but with some flurry; 'that is, there’s a great deal in it that could not pothibly do you harm—there’s only one ingredient, yes—or, or, yes, perhapth three, but thertainly no more, that I don’t quite know about, depend upon it, 'tis nothing—a—nothing—a—seriouthly—a—But why, my dear Thir, why on earth did you violate the thimple directions—why did you thwallow a particle of it?'

  'Och, why did I let it into my mouth at all—the divil go with it!' retorted poor O’Flaherty; 'an' wasn’t I the born eediot to put them devil’s dumplins inside my mouth? but I did not know what I was doin'—no more I didn’t.'

  'I hope your head’th better,' said Puddock, vindicating by that dignified enquiry the character of his recipe.

  'Auch! my head be smathered, what the puck do I care about it?' O’Flaherty broke out. 'Ah, why the devil, Puddock, do you keep them ould women’s charrums and devilments about you?—you’ll be the death of some one yet, so you will.'

  'It’s a recipe, Sir,' replied Puddock, with the same dignity 'from which my great uncle, General Neagle, derived frequent benefit.'

  'And here I am,' says O’Flaherty, vehemently; 'and you don’t know whether I’m poisoned or no!'

  At this moment he saw Dr. Sturk passing by, and drummed violently at the window. The doctor was impressed by the summons; for however queer the apparition, it was plain he was desperately in earnest.

  'Let’s see the recipe,' said Sturk, drily; 'you think you’re poisoned—I know you do;' poor O’Flaherty had shrunk from disclosing the extent of his apprehensions, and only beat about the bush; 'and if you be, I lay you fifty, I can’t save you, nor all the doctors in Dublin—show me the recipe.'

  Puddock put it before him, and Sturk looked at the back of the volume with a leisurely disdain, but finding no title there, returned to the recipe. They both stared on his face, without breathing, while he conned it over. When he came about half–way, he whistled; and when he arrived at the end, he frowned hard; and squeezed his lips together till the red disappeared altogether, and he looked again at the back of the book, and then turned it round, once more reading the last line over with a severe expression.

  'And so you actually swallowed this—this devil’s dose, Sir, did you?' demanded Sturk.

  'I—I believe he did, some of it; but I warned him, I did, upon my honour! Now, tell him, did I not warn you, my dear lieutenant, not to thwallow,' interposed little Puddock, who began to grow confoundedly agitated; but Sturk, who rather liked shocking and frightening people, and had a knack of making bad worse
, and an alacrity in waxing savage without adequate cause, silenced him with—

  'I p–pity you, Sir,' and 'pity' shot like a pellet from his lips. 'Why the deuce will you dabble in medicine, Sir? Do you think it’s a thing to be learnt in an afternoon out of the bottom of an old cookery–book?'

  'Cookery–book! excuse me, Dr. Sturk,' replied Puddock offended. 'I’m given to underthtand, Sir, it’s to be found in Culpepper.'

  'Culpepper!' said Sturk, viciously. 'Cull–poison—you have peppered him to a purpose, I promise you! How much of it, pray, Sir (to O’Flaherty,) have you got in your stomach?'

  'Tell him, Puddock,' said O’Flaherty, helplessly.

  'Only a trifle I assure you,' extenuated Puddock (I need not spell his lisp), 'in a little muslin bag, about the size of the top joint of a lady’s little finger.'

  'Top joint o' the devil!' roared O’Flaherty, bitterly, rousing himself; 'I tell you, Dr. Sturk, it was as big as my thumb, and a miracle it did not choke me.'

  'It may do that job for you yet, Sir,' sneered the doctor with a stern disgust. 'I dare say you feel pretty hot here?' jerking his finger into his stomach.

  'And—and—and—what is it?—is it—do you think it’s anything —anyways—dangerous?' faltered poor O’Flaherty.

  'Dangerous!' responded Sturk, with an angry chuckle—indeed, he was specially vindictive against lay intruders upon the mystery of his craft; 'why, yes—ha,—ha!—just maybe a little. It’s only poison, Sir, deadly, barefaced poison!' he began sardonically, with a grin, and ended with a black glare and a knock on the table, like an auctioneer’s 'gone!'

  'There are no less than two—three—five mortal poisons in it,' said the doctor with emphatic acerbity. 'You and Mr. Puddock will allow that’s rather strong.'

  O’Flaherty sat down and looked at Sturk, and wiping his damp face and forehead, he got up without appearing to know where he was going. Puddock stood with his hands in his breeches pockets, staring with his little round eyes on the doctor, I must confess, with a very foolish and rather guilty vacuity all over his plump face, rigid and speechless, for three or four seconds; then he put his hand, which did actually tremble, upon the doctor’s arm, and he said, very thickly—