“I ask for a thousand pounds,” replied the valet. “I must have the promise now, signor, and the money to-day. If you do not promise it here and at once, I will not ask again, and maybe you weel be sorry. I will take one thousand pounds. I want no more, and I accept no less. Signor, your answer.”
There was a cool, menacing insolence in the manner of the fellow which stung the pride of the young baronet to the quick.
“Scoundrel,” said he, “do you think I am to be bullied by your audacious threats? Do you dream that I am weak enough to suffer a wretch like you to practise his extortions upon me? By —— , you’ll find to your cost that you have no longer to deal with a master who is in your power. What care I for your utmost? Do your worst, miscreant — I defy you. I warn you only to beware of giving an undue license to your foul, lying tongue — for if I find that you have been spreading your libellous tales abroad, I’ll have you pilloried and whipped.”
“Well, you ‘av given me an answer,” replied the Italian coolly. “I weel ask no more; and now, signor, farewell — adieu. I think, perhaps, you will hear of me again. I will not return here any more after I go out; and so, for the last time,” he continued, approaching the cold form which lay upon the bed, “farewell to you, Sir Richard Ashwoode. While I am alive I will never see your face again — perhaps, if holy friars tell true, we may meet again. Till then — till then — farewell.”
With this strange speech the Neapolitan, having gazed for a brief space, with a strange expression, in which was a dash of something very nearly approaching to sorrow, upon the stern, moveless face before him, and then with an effort, and one long-drawn sigh, having turned away, deliberately withdrew from the room through the small door which led to his own apartment.
“The lazzarone will come to himself in a little,” muttered Ashwoode; “he will think twice before he leaves this place — he’ll cool — he’ll cool.”
Thus soliloquizing, the young man locked up the presses and desks which he had opened, bolted the door after the Italian, and hurried from the room; for, somehow or other, he felt uneasy and fearful alone in the chamber with the body.
CHAPTER XXX.
SKY-COPPER COURT.
Upon the evening of the same day, the Italian having collected together the few movables which he called his own, and left them ready for removal in the chamber which he had for so long exclusively occupied, might have been seen, emerging from the old manorhouse, and with a small parcel in his hand, wending his solitary, moonlit way across the broad wooded pasture-lands of Morley Court. Without turning to look back upon the familiar scene, which he was now for ever leaving — for all his faculties and feelings, such as they were, had busy occupation in the measures of revenge which he was keenly pursuing, he crossed the little stile which terminated the pathway he was following, and descended upon the public road — shaking from his hat and cloak the heavy drops, which in his progress the close underwood through which he brushed had shed upon him. With a quickened pace, and with a stern, almost a savage countenance, over which from time to time there flitted a still more ominous smile, and muttering between his teeth many a short and vehement apostrophe as he went, he held his way directly toward the city of Dublin; and once within the streets, he was not long in reaching the ancient, and by this time to the reader, familiar mansion, over whose portal swung the glittering sign of the “Cock and Anchor.”
“Now, then,” thought Parucci, “let us see whether I have not one card left, and that a trump. What, because I wear no sword myself, shall you escape unpunished? Fool — miscreant, I will this night conjure up such an avenger as will appal even you; I will send him with a thousand atrocious wrongs upon his head, frantic into your presence — you had better cope with an actual incarnate demon.”
Such were the exulting thoughts which lighted the features of Parucci with a fitful smile of singular grimness as he entered the inn yard, where meeting one of the waiters, he promptly inquired for O’Connor. To his dismay, however, he learnt that that gentleman had quitted the “Cock and Anchor” on the day before, and whither he had gone, none could inform him. As he stood, pondering in bitter disappointment what step was next to be taken, somebody tapped his shoulder smartly from behind. He turned, and beheld the square form and swarthy features of O’Hanlon, whose interview with O’Connor is recorded early in these pages. After a few brief questions and answers, in which, by a reference to the portly proprietor of the “Cock and Anchor,” who vouched for the accuracy of his representations, O’Hanlon satisfied the vindictive foreigner that he might safely communicate the subject of his intended communication to him, as to the sure friend of Mr. O’Connor. Both personages, Parucci and O’Hanlon — or, as he was there called, Dwyer — repaired to a private room, where they remained closeted for fully half an hour. That interview had its consequences — consequences of which sooner or later the reader shall fully hear, and which were perhaps somewhat unlike those calculated upon by honest Jacopo.
It is not necessary to detain the reader with a description of the ceremonial which conducted the mortal remains of Sir Henry Ashwoode to the grave. It is enough to say that if pomp and pageantry, lavished upon the fleeting tenement of clay which it has deserted, can delight the departed spirit, that of the deceased baronet was happy. The funeral was an aristocratic procession, well worthy of the rank and pretensions of the distinguished dead, and in numbers and éclat such as to satisfy even the exactions of Irish pride.
Carriages and four were there in abundance, and others of lesser note without number. Outriders, and footmen, and corpulent coachmen filled the court and avenue of the manor, and crowded its hall, where refreshments enough for a garrison were heaped together upon the tables. The funeral feasting and revelry finished, the enormous mob of coaches, horses, and lacqueys began to arrange itself, and assume something like order. The great velvet-covered coffin was carried out upon the shoulders of six footmen, staggering under the leaden load, and was laid in the hearse. The highborn company, dressed in the fantastic trappings of mourning, began to show themselves one by one, or in groups, at the hall-door, and took their places in their respective vehicles; and at length the enormous volume began to uncoil, and gradually passing down the great avenue, and winding along the road, to proceed toward the city, covering from the coffin to the last carriage a space of more than a mile in length.
The body was laid in the aisle of St. Audoen’s Church, and a comely monument, recording in eloquent periods the virtues of the deceased, was reared by the piety of his son. The aisle, however, in which it stood, is now a rootless ruin; and this, along with many a more curious relic, has crumbled into dust from its timeworn wall: so that there now remains, except in these idle pages, no record to tell posterity that so important a personage as Sir Richard Ashwoode ever existed at all.
Of all who donned “the customary suit of solemn black” upon the death of Sir Richard Ashwoode, but one human being felt a pang of sorrow. But there was one whose grief was real and poignant — one who mourned for him as though he had been all that was fond and tender — who forgot and forgave all his faults and failings, and remembered only that he had been her father and she his child, and companion, and gentle, patient nursetender through many an hour of pain and sickness. Mary wept for his death bitterly for many a day and night; for all that he had ever done or said to give her pain, her noble nature found entire forgiveness, and every look, and smile, and word, and tone that had ever borne the semblance of kindness, were all treasured in her memory, and all called up again in affectionate and sorrowful review. Seldom indeed had the hard nature of Sir Richard evinced even such transient indications of tenderness, and when they did appear they were still more rarely genuine. But Mary felt that an object of her kindly care and companionship was gone — a familiar face for ever hidden — one of the only two who were near to her in the ties of blood, departed to return no more, and with all the deep, strong yearnings of kindred, she wept and mourned after her father.
&nbs
p; Emily Copland had left Morley Court and was now residing with her gay relative, Lady Stukely, so that poor Mary was left almost entirely alone, and her brother, Sir Henry, was so immersed in business and papers that she scarcely saw him even for a moment except while he swallowed his hasty meals; and sooth to say, his thoughts were not much oftener with her than his person.
Though, as the reader is no doubt fully aware, Sir Henry’s grief for the loss of his parent was by no means of that violent kind which refuses to be comforted, yet he was too chary of the world’s opinion, as well as too punctilious an observer of etiquette, to make the cheerfulness of his resignation under this dispensation startlingly apparent by any overt act of levity or indifference. Sir Henry, however, must see Gordon Chancey; he must ascertain how much he owes him, and when it is all payable — facts of which he has, if any, the very dimmest and vaguest possible recollection. Therefore, upon the very day on which the funeral had taken place, as soon as the evening had closed, and darkness succeeded the twilight, the young baronet ordered his trusty servant to bring the horses to the door, and then muffling himself in his cloak, and drawing it about his face, so that even in the reflection of an accidental link he might not by possibility be recognized, he threw himself into the saddle, and telling his servant to follow him, rode rapidly through the dense obscurity towards the town.
When he had reached Whitefriar Street, he checked his pace to a walk, and calling his attendant to his side, directed him to await his return there; then dismounting, he threw him the bridle, and proceeded upon his way. Guided by the hazy starlight and by an occasional gleam from a shop-window or tavern-door, as well as by the dusky glimmer of the wretched street lamps, the young man directed his course for some way along the open street, and then turning to the right into a dark archway which opened from it, he found himself in a small, square court, surrounded by tall, dingy, half-ruinous houses which loomed darkly around, deepening the shadows of the night into impenetrable gloom. From some of these dilapidated tenements issued smothered sounds of quarrelling, indistinctly mingled with the crying of children and the shrill accents of angry females; from others the sounds of discordant singing and riotous carousal; while, as far as the eye could discern, few places could have been conceived with an aspect more dreary, forbidding, and cut-throat, and, in all respects, more depressing and suspicious.
“This is unquestionably the place,” exclaimed Ashwoode, as he stepped cautiously over the broken pavement; “there is scarcely another like it in this town or any other; but beshrew me if I remember which is the house.”
He entered one of them, the hall-door of which stood half open, and through the chinks of whose parlour-door were issuing faint streams of light and gruff sounds of talking. At one of these doors he knocked sharply with his whip-handle, and instantly the voices were hushed. After a silence of a minute or two, the parties inside resumed their conversation, and Ashwoode more impatiently repeated his summons.
“There is someone knocking — I tould you there was,” exclaimed a harsh voice from within. “Open the doore, Corny, and take a squint.”
The door opened cautiously; a great head, covered with shaggy elf-locks, was thrust through the aperture, and a singularly ill-looking face, as well as the imperfect light would allow Ashwoode to judge, was advanced towards his. The fellow just opened the door far enough to suffer the ray of the candle to fall upon the countenance of his visitant, and staring suspiciously into his face for some time, while he held the lock of the door in his hand, he asked, —
“Well, neighbour, did you rap at this doore?”
“Yes, I want to be directed to Mr. Chancey’s rooms.” replied Ashwoode.
“Misthur who?” repeated the man.
“Mr. Chancey — Chancey: he lives in this court, and, unless I am mistaken, in this house, or the next to it,” rejoined Ashwoode.
“Chancey: I don’t know him,” answered the man. “Do you know where Mr. Chancey lives, Garvey?”
“Not I, nor don’t care,” rejoined the person addressed, with a hoarse growl, and without taking the trouble to turn from the fire, over which he was cowering, with his back toward the door. “Slap the doore to, can’t you? and don’t keep gostherin’ there all night.”
“No, he won’t slap the doore,” exclaimed the shrill voice of a female. “I’ll see the gentleman myself. Well, sir,” she cried, presenting a tall, rawboned figure, arrayed in tawdry rags, at the door, and shoving the man with the unkempt locks aside, she eyed Ashwoode with a leer and a grin that were anything but inviting— “well, sir, is there anything I can do for you. The chaps here is not used to quality, an’ Pather has a mighty ignorant manner; but they are placible boys, an’ manes no offence. Who is it you’re lookin’ for, sir?”
“Mr. Gordon Chancey: he lives in one of these houses. Can you direct me to him?”
“No, we can’t,” said the fellow from the fire, in a savage tone. “I tould you before. Won’t you take your answer — won’t you? Slap that doore, Corny, or I’ll get up to him myself.”
“Hould your tongue, you gaol bird, won’t you?” rejoined the female, in accents of shrill displeasure. “Chancey! is not he the counsellor gentleman; he has a yallow face an’ a down look, and never has his hands out of his breeches’ pockets?”
“The very man,” replied Ashwoode.
“Well, sir, he does live in this court: he has the parlour next doore. The street doore stands open — it’s a lodging-house. One doore further on; you can’t miss him.”
“Thank you, thank you,” said Ashwoode. “Goodnight.” And as the door was closed upon him, he heard the voices of those within raised in hot debate.
He stumbled and groped his way into the hall of the house which the gracious nymph, to whom he had just bidden farewell, indicated, and knocked stoutly at the parlour-door. It was opened by a sluttish girl, with bare feet, and a black eye, which had reached the green and yellow stage of recovery. She had probably been interrupted in the midst of a spirited altercation with the barrister, for ill humour and excitement were unequivocally glowing in her face.
Ashwoode walked in, and found matters as we shall describe them in the next chapter.
CHAPTER XXXI.
THE USURER AND THE OAKEN BOX.
The room which Sir Henry Ashwoode entered was one of squalid disorder. It was a large apartment, originally handsomely wainscoted, but damp and vermin had made woeful havoc in the broad panels, and the ceiling was covered with green and black blotches of mildew. No carpet covered the bare boards, which were strewn with fragments of papers, rags, splinters of an old chest, which had been partially broken up to light the fire, and occasionally a potato-skin, a bone, or an old shoe. The furniture was scant, and no one piece matched the other. Little and bad as it was, its distribution about the room was more comfortless and wretched still. All was dreary disorder, dust, and dirt, and damp, and mildew, and rat-holes.
By a large grate, scarcely half filled with a pile of ashes and a few fragments of smouldering turf, sat Gordon Chancey, the master of this notable establishment; his arm rested upon a dirty deal table, and his fingers played listlessly with a dull and battered pewter goblet, which he had just replenished from a two-quart measure of strong beer which stood upon the table, and whose contents had dabbled that piece of furniture with sundry mimic lakes and rivers. Unrestrained by the ungenerous confinement of a fender, the cinders strayed over the cracked hearthstone, and even wandered to the boards beyond it. Mr. Gordon Chancey was himself, too, rather in deshabille. He had thrown off his shoes, and was in his stockings, which were unfortunately rather imperfect at the extremities. His waistcoat was unbuttoned, and his cravat lay upon the table, swimming in a sea of beer. As Ashwoode entered, with ill-suppressed disgust, this loathly den, the object of his visit languidly turned his head and his sleepy eyes over his shoulder, in the direction of the door, and without making the smallest effort to rise, contented himself with extending his hand along the sloppy table, palm upwards, for
Ashwoode to shake, at the same time exclaiming, with a drawl of gentle placidity, —
“Oh, dear — oh, dear me! Mr. Ashwoode, I declare to God I am very glad to see you. Won’t you sit down and have some beer? Eliza, bring a cup for my friend, Mr. Ashwoode. Will you take a pipe too? I have some elegant tobacco. Bring my pipe to Mr. Ashwoode, and the little canister that M’Quirk left here last night.”
“I am much obliged to you,” said Ashwoode, with difficulty swallowing his anger, and speaking with marked hauteur, “my visit, though an unseasonable one, is entirely one of business. I shall not give you the trouble of providing any refreshment for me; in a word, I have neither time nor appetite for it. I want to learn exactly how you and I stand: five minutes will show me the state of the account.”
“Oh, dear — oh, dear! and won’t you take any beer, then? it’s elegant beer, from Mr. M’Gin’s there, round the corner.”
Ashwoode bit his lips, and remained silent.
“Eliza, bring a chair for my friend, Sir Henry Ashwoode,” continued Chancey; “he must be very tired — indeed he must, after his long walk; and here, Eliza, take the key and open the press, and do you see, bring me the little oak box on the second shelf. She’s a very good little girl, Mr. Ashwoode, I assure you. Eliza is a very sensible, good little girl. Oh, dear! — oh, dear! but your father’s death was very sudden; but old chaps always goes off that way, on short notice. Oh, dear me! — I declare to —— , only I had a pain in my — (here he mentioned his lower stomach somewhat abruptly) — I’d have gone to the funeral this morning. There was a great lot of coaches, wasn’t there?”
“Pray, Mr. Chancey,” said Ashwoode, preserving his temper with an effort, “let us proceed at once to business. I am pressed for time, and I shall be glad, with as little delay as possible, to ascertain — what I suppose there can be no difficulty in learning — the exact state of our account.”
Delphi Complete Works of Sheridan Le Fanu Page 23