The House by the Churchyard

by J. Sheridan le Fanu

  And with another smile she accordingly shut up the window, and when his best bow was accomplished, she leaned back with a pale and stricken countenance, and a great sigh—such a one as caused Lady Macbeth’s physician, long ago, to whisper, 'What a sigh is there! the heart is sorely charged.' The footmen were standing by the open door, through which Aunt Becky was to come, and there were half a dozen carriages crowded side by side, the lackeys being congregated, with links lighted, about the same place of exit; and things being so, there came a small sharp tapping at the far window of the carriage, and with a start Gertrude saw the identical mantle, and the three–cocked–hat with the peculiar corners, which had caused certain observers so much speculation on another night, and drawing close to the window, whereat this apparition presented itself, she let it down.

  'I know, beloved Gertrude, what you would say,' he softly said; 'but be it frenzy or no, I cannot forbear; I am unalterable—be you the same.'

  A white, slender hand glided in and seized hers, not resisting.

  'Yes, Mordaunt, the same; but, oh! how miserable!' said Gertrude, and with just the slightest movement in the fingers of her small hand, hardly perceptible, and yet how fond a caress!

  'I’m like a man who has lost his way among the catacombs—among the dead,' whispered this muffled figure, close to the window, still fervently holding her hand, 'and sees at last the distant gleam that shows him that his wanderings are to end. Yes, Gertrude, my beloved—yes, Gertrude, idol of my solitary love—the mystery is about to end—I’ll end it. Be I what I may you know the worst, and have given me your love and troth—you are my affianced bride; rather than lose you, I would die; and I think, or I am walking in a dream, I’ve but to point my finger against two men, and all will be peace and light—light and peace—to me long strangers!'

  At this moment Aunt Becky’s voice was heard at the door, and the flash of the flambeaux glared on the window. He kissed the hand of the pale girl hurriedly, and the French cocked–hat and mantle vanished.

  In came Aunt Rebecca in a fuss, and it must be said in no very gracious mood, and rather taciturn and sarcastic; and so away they rumbled over the old bridge towards Belmont.

  CHAPTER LXI.

  IN WHICH THE GHOSTS OF A BY–GONE SIN KEEP TRYST.

  Devereux, wrapped in his cloak, strode into the park, through Parson’s–gate, up the steep hill, and turned towards Castleknock and the furze and hawthorn wood that interposes. The wide plain spread before him in solitude, with the thin vapours of night, lying over it like a film in the moonlight.

  Two or three thorn trees stood out from the rest, a pale and solitary group, stooping eastward with the prevailing sweep of a hundred years or more of westerly winds. To this the gipsy captain glided, in a straight military line, his eye searching the distance; and, after a while, from the skirts of the wood, there moved to meet him a lonely female figure, with her light clothing fluttering in the cold air. At first she came hurriedly, but as they drew near, she came more slowly.

  Devereux was angry, and, like an angry man, he broke out first with—

  'So, your servant, Mistress Nan! Pretty lies you’ve been telling of me—you and your shrew of a mother. You thought you might go to the rector and say what you pleased, and I hear nothing.'

  Nan Glynn was undefinably aware that he was very angry, and had hesitated and stood still before he began, and now she said imploringly—

  'Sure, Masther Richard, it wasn’t me.'

  'Come, my lady, don’t tell me. You and your mother—curse her!—went to the Elms in my absence—you and she—and said I had promised to marry you! There—yes or no. Didn’t you? And could you or could she have uttered a more utterly damnable lie?'

  ''Twas she, Master Richard—troth an' faith. I never knew she was going to say the like—no more I didn’t.'

  'A likely story, truly, Miss Nan!' said the young rake, bitterly.

  'Oh! Masther Richard! by this cross!—you won’t believe me—'tis as true as you’re standin' there—until she said it to Miss Lily—'

  'Hold your tongue!' cried Devereux, so fiercely, that she thought him half wild; 'do you think 'tis a pin’s point to me which of you first coined or uttered the lie? Listen to me; I’m a desperate man, and I’ll take a course with you both you’ll not like, unless you go to–morrow and see Dr. Walsingham yourself, and tell him the whole truth—yes, the truth—what the devil do I care?—speak that, and make the most of it. But tell him plainly that your story about my having promised to marry you—do you hear—was a lie, from first to last—a lie—a lie—without so much as a grain of truth mixed up in it. All a cursed—devil’s—woman’s invention. Now, mind ye, Miss Nan, if you don’t, I’ll bring you and your mother into court, or I’ll have the truth out of you.'

  'But there’s no need to threaten, sure, you know, Masther Richard, I’d do anything for you—I would. I’d beg, or I’d rob, or I’d die for you, Masther Richard; and whatever you bid me, your poor wild Nan 'ill do.'

  Devereux was touched, the tears were streaming down her pale cheeks, and she was shivering.

  'You’re cold, Nan; where’s your cloak and riding hood?' he said, gently.

  'I had to part them, Masther Richard.'

  'You want money, Nan,' he said, and his heart smote him.

  'I’m not cold when I’m near you, Masther Richard. I’d wait the whole night long for a chance of seeing you; but oh! ho—(she was crying as if her heart would break, looking in his face, and with her hands just a little stretched towards him), oh, Masther Richard, I’m nothing to you now—your poor wild Nan!'

  Poor thing! Her mother had not given her the best education. I believe she was a bit of a thief, and she could tell fibs with fluency and precision. The woman was a sinner; but her wild, strong affections were true, and her heart was not in pelf.

  'Now, don’t cry—where’s the good of crying—listen to me,' said Devereux.

  'Sure I heerd you were sick, last week, Masther Richard,' she went on, not heeding, and with her cold fingers just touching his arm timidly—and the moon glittered on the tears that streamed down her poor imploring cheeks—'an' I’d like to be caring you; an' I think you look bad, Masther Richard.'

  'No, Nan—I tell you, no—I’m very well, only poor, just now, Nan, or you should not want.'

  'Sure I know, Masther Richard: it is not that. I know you’d be good to me if you had it: and it does not trouble me.'

  'But see, Nan, you must speak to your friends, and say—'

  'Sorra a friend I have—sorra a friend, Masther Richard; and I did not spake to the priest this year or more, and I darn’t go near him,' said the poor Palmerstown lass that was once so merry.

  'Why won’t you listen to me, child? I won’t have you this way. You must have your cloak and hood. 'Tis very cold; and, by Heavens, Nan, you shall never want while I have a guinea. But you see I’m poor now, curse it—I’m poor—I’m sorry, Nan, and I have only this one about me.'

  'Oh, no, Masther Richard, keep it—maybe you’d want it yourself.'

  'No, child, don’t vex me—there—I’ll have money in a week or two, and I’ll send you some more, Nan—I’ll not forget you.' He said this in a sadder tone; 'and, Nan, I’m a changed man. All’s over, you know, and we’ll see one another no more. You’ll be happier, Nan, for the parting, so here, and now, Nan, we’ll say good–bye.'

  'Oh! no—no—no—not good–bye; you couldn’t—couldn’t—couldn’t—your poor wild Nan.'

  And she clung to his cloak, sobbing in wild supplication.

  'Yes, Nan, good–bye, it must be—no other word.'

  'An' oh, Masther Richard, is it in airnest? You wouldn’t, oh! sure you wouldn’t.'

  'Now, Nan, there’s a good girl; I must go. Remember your promise, and I’ll not forget you, Nan—on my soul, I won’t.'

  'Well, well, mayn’t I chance to see you, maybe? mayn’t I look at you marching, Masther Richard, at a distance only? I wouldn’t care so much, I think, if I could see you s
ometimes.'

  'Now, there, Nan, you must not cry; you know 'tis all past and gone more than a year ago. 'Twas all d——d folly—all my fault; I’m sorry, Nan—I’m sorry; and I’m a changed man, and I’ll lead a better life, and so do you, my poor girl.'

  'But mayn’t I see you? Not to spake to you, Masther Richard. Only sometimes to see you, far off, maybe.' Poor Nan was crying all the time she spoke.—'Well, well, I’ll go, I will, indeed, Masther Richard; only let me kiss your hand—an' oh! no, no, don’t say good–bye, an' I’ll go—I’m gone now, an' maybe—just maybe, you might some time chance to wish to see your poor, wild Nan again—only to see her, an' I’ll be thinking o' that.'

  The old feeling—if anything so coarse deserved the name—was gone; but he pitied her with all his heart; and that heart, such as it was—though she did not know it—was bleeding for her.

  He saw her, poor creature, hurrying away in her light clothing, through the sharp, moonlight chill, which, even in the wrapping of his thick cloak, he felt keenly enough. She looked over her shoulder—then stopped; perhaps, poor thing, she thought he was relenting, and then she began to hurry back again. They cling so desperately to the last chance. But that, you know, would never do. Another pleading—another parting—So he turned sharply and strode into the thickets of the close brushwood, among which the white mists of night were hanging. He thought, as he stepped resolutely and quickly on, with a stern face, and heavy heart, that he heard a wild sobbing cry in the distance, and that was poor Nan’s farewell.

  So Devereux glided on like a ghost, through the noiseless thicket, and scarcely knowing or caring where he went, emerged upon the broad open plateau, and skirting the Fifteen Acres, came, at last, to a halt upon the high ground overlooking the river—which ran, partly in long trains of silver sparkles, and partly in deep shadow beneath him. Here he stopped; and looked towards the village where he had passed many a pleasant hour—with a profound and remorseful foreboding that there were no more such pleasant hours for him; and his eye wandered among the scattered lights that still twinkled from the distant windows; and he fancied he knew, among them all, that which gleamed pale and dim through the distant elms—the star of his destiny; and he looked at it across the water—a greater gulf severed them—so near, and yet a star in distance—with a strange mixture of sadness and defiance, tenderness and fury.

  CHAPTER LXII.

  OF A SOLEMN RESOLUTION WHICH CAPTAIN DEVEREUX REGISTERED AMONG HIS HOUSEHOLD GODS, WITH A LIBATION.

  When Devereux entered his drawing–room, and lighted his candles, he was in a black and bitter mood. He stood at the window for a while, and drummed on the pane, looking in the direction of the barrack, where all the fun was going on, but thinking, in a chaotic way, of things very different, and all toned with that strange sense of self–reproach and foreboding which, of late, had grown habitual with him—and not without just cause.

  'This shall be the last. 'Twas dreadful, seeing that poor Nan; and I want it—I can swear, I really and honestly want it—only one glass to stay my heart. Everyone may drink in moderation—especially if he’s heart–sick, and has no other comfort—one glass and no more—curse it.'

  So one glass of brandy—I’m sorry to say, unmixed with water—the handsome misanthropist sipped and sipped, to the last drop; and then sat down before his fire, and struck, and poked, and stabbed at it in a bitter, personal sort of way, until here and there some blazes leaped up, and gave his eyes a dreamy sort of occupation; and he sat back, with his hands in his pockets, and his feet on the fender, gazing among the Plutonic peaks and caverns between the bars.

  'I’ve had my allowance for to–night; to–morrow night, none at all. 'Tis an accursed habit: and I’ll not allow it to creep upon me. No, I’ve never fought it fairly, as I mean to do now—'tis quite easy, if one has but the will to do it.'

  So he sat before his fire, chewing the cud of bitter fancy only; and he recollected he had not quite filled his glass, and up he got with a swagger, and says he—

  'We’ll drink fair, if you please—one glass—one only—but that, hang it—a bumper.'

  So he made a rough calculation.

  'We’ll say so much—here or there, 'tis no great matter. A thimble full won’t drown me. Pshaw! that’s too much. What am I to do with it?—hang it. Well, we can’t help it—'tis the last.'

  So whatever the quantity may have been, he drank it too, and grew more moody; and was suddenly called up from the black abyss by the entrance of little Puddock, rosy and triumphant, from the ball.

  'Ha! Puddock! Then, the fun’s over. I’m glad to see you. I’ve been tête–à–tête with my shadow—cursed bad company, Puddock. Where’s Cluffe?'

  'Gone home, I believe.'

  'So much the better. You know Cluffe better than I, and there’s a secret about him I never could find out. You have, maybe?'

  'What’s that?' lisped Puddock.

  'What the deuce Cluffe’s good for.'

  'Oh! tut! We all know Cluffe’s a very good fellow.'

  Devereux looked from under his finely pencilled brows with a sad sort of smile at good little Puddock.

  'Puddock,' says he, 'I’d like to have you write my epitaph.

  Puddock looked at him with his round eyes a little puzzled, and then he said—

  'You think, maybe, I’ve a turn for making verses; and you think also I like you, and there you’re quite right.'

  Devereux laughed, but kindly, and shook the fat little hand he proffered.

  'I wish I were like you, Puddock. We’ve the knowledge of good and evil between us. The knowledge of good is all yours: you see nothing but the good that men have; you see it—and, I dare say, truly—where I can’t. The darker knowledge is mine.'

  Puddock, who thought he thoroughly understood King John, Shylock, and Richard III., was a good deal taken aback by Devereux’s estimate of his penetration.

  'Well, I don’t think you know me, Devereux,' resumed he with a thoughtful lisp. 'I’m much mistaken, or I could sound the depths of a villain’s soul as well as most men.'

  'And if you did you’d find it full of noble qualities,' said Dick Devereux. 'What book is that?'

  'The tragical history of Doctor Faustus,' answered Puddock. 'I left it here more than a week ago. Have you read it?'

  'Faith, Puddock, I forgot it! Let’s see what 'tis like,' said Devereux. 'Hey day!' And he read—

  'Now, Faustus, let thine eyes with horror stare

  Into that vast perpetual torture–house;

  There are the furies tossing damned souls

  On burning forks; their bodies boil in lead;

  There are live quarters broiling on the coals

  That ne’er can die; this ever–burning chair

  Is for o’er–tortured souls to rest them in;

  These that are fed with sops of flaming fire

  Were gluttons, and loved only delicates,

  And laughed to see the poor starve at their gates.

  'Tailors! by Jupiter! Serve’em right, the rogues. Tailors lining upon ragou royal, Spanish olea, Puddock—fat livers, and green morels in the Phoenix, the scoundrels, and laughing to see poor gentlemen of the Royal Irish Artillery starving at their gates—hang 'em.'

  'Well! well! Listen to the Good Angel,' said Puddock, taking up the book and declaiming his best—

  'O thou hast lost celestial happiness,

  Pleasures unspeakable, bliss without end.

  Hadst thou affected sweet divinity,

  Hell or the devil had no power on thee—

  Hadst thou kept on that way. Faustus, behold

  In what resplendent glory thou hadst sat,

  On yonder throne, like those bright shining spirits,

  And triumphed over hell! That hast thou lost;

  And now, poor soul, must thy good angel leave thee;

  The jaws of hell are open to receive thee.'

  'Stop that; 'tis all cursed rant,' said Devereux. 'That is, the thing itself; you make the most it.'


  'Why, truly,' said Puddock, 'there are better speeches in it. But 'tis very late; and parade, you know—I shall go to bed. And you—'

  'No. I shall stay where I am.'

  'Well, I wish you good–night, dear Devereux.'

  'Good–night, Puddock'

  And the plump little fellow was heard skipping down stairs, and the hall–door shut behind him. Devereux took the play that Puddock had just laid down, and read for a while with a dreary kind of interest. Then he got up, and, I’m sorry to say, drank another glass of the same strong waters.

  'To–morrow I turn over a new leaf;' and he caught himself repeating Puddock’s snatch of Macbeth, 'To–morrow, and to–morrow, and to–morrow.'

  Devereux looked out, leaning on the window–sash. All was quiet now, as if the rattle of a carriage had never disturbed the serene cold night. The town had gone to bed, and you could hear the sigh of the river across the field. A sadder face the moon did not shine upon.

  'That’s a fine play, Faustus—Marlowe,' he said. Some of the lines he had read were booming funereally in his ear like a far–off bell. 'I wonder whether Marlowe had run a wild course, like some of us here—myself—and could not retrieve. That honest little mountebank, Puddock, does not understand a word of it. I wish I were like Puddock. Poor little fellow!'

  So, after awhile, Devereux returned to his chair before the fire, and on his way again drank of the waters of Lethe, and sat down, not forgetting, but remorseful, over the fire.

  'I’ll drink no more to–night—there—curse me if I do.'

  The fire was waxing low in the grate. 'To–morrow’s a new day. Why, I never made a resolution about it before. I can keep it. 'Tis easily kept. To–morrow I begin.'

  And with fists clenched in his pockets, he vowed his vow, with an oath into the fire; and ten minutes were not past and over when his eye wandered thirstily again to the flask on the middle of the table, and with a sardonic, flushed smile, he quoted the 'Good Angel’s' words:—

  'O, Faustus, lay that damned book aside,